The Billionaire's Obsession: He Won't Let Her Marry His Uncle

"Charisse, think it over again. We're talking five million just for one night with Mr. Grant."

Charisse Walton stayed silent. After a long pause, she finally reached for the sheer black dress—the one with barely-there straps, a neckline that plunged like a dare, and a hem that flirted with scandal.

Every inch of fabric a reminder of how much she needed to be noticed. It wasn't her style.

But tonight, she had no choice but to wear it.

It wasn't about pride or shame—her dad's medical bills couldn't wait.

The hotel manager saw her reaction and immediately smiled, whispering, "Don't worry, I'll keep everything under wraps. Owen won't find out."

Charisse let out a hollow laugh and shook her head. "We're done.I'll break up with him."

Selling her body for money—it tore through every boundary of right and wrong she'd ever known.

And yet, the worst part wasn't what she had to do—it was knowing she'd never look Owen Carter in the eye the same way again.

She changed into the dress, sent Owen a breakup message, and stepped into the private elevator.

The penthouse was cold, sleek, and unapologetically extravagant—glass, marble, chrome. But she didn't spare it a glance.

Not even at the man seated with his back to her, staring out the towering floor-to-ceiling windows.

He said nothing.

Eyes lowered, voice flat, Charisse asked,

"So... are we getting straight to it, or do we shower first?"

A long pause.

Then the faint rustle of movement.

He stood.

Calm, unhurried footsteps echoed across the marble floor. As he neared, a subtle scent of cedar reached her—clean, sharp, cold.

Suddenly, his hand caught her chin, tilting it up with rough precision.

Her breath caught.

Their eyes met.

And everything stopped.

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

"Why is it you?!" she gasped, the words barely more than a whisper—but heavy like a scream.

A rush of memories flashed through her mind, racing back nineteen years, when she was six.

The nanny returning from her hometown had brought along an eight-year-old boy, saying with gratitude, "Thank you, sir and ma'am, for giving Elliot the chance to study in the city. I truly don't know how I'll ever be able to repay you.."

Then she brought the boy to stand in front of her, saying, "Elliot, this is Miss Charisse I told you about. Be respectful, and help her when she needs it."

The two kids looked at each other—Charisse with entitled pride, Elliot with a hint of nervous curiosity.

Now, the tables had turned. The power she once held was gone. He stood above her now—calm, controlled, and in complete command.

Hold on—wasn't he Elliot Davis? What the hell is this Mr. Grant thing?

Compared to her shock, Elliot Grant looked coldly composed.

He stared down at her with no expression, voice dripping with mockery. "Wow, Miss Walton, I almost didn't recognize you. So this is what falling from grace looks like?"

She fired back without missing a beat. "And what about the guy hiring prostitutes? Real role model material, huh?"

Elliot's hand slid from her chin to the back of her neck. With one swift push, he pulled them closer, so close their noses nearly brushed.

His eyes were icy, and his presence felt suffocating. "Miss Walton, when you dumped me like I was disposable, did it ever cross your mind we'd be standing here like this?"

Charisse's lips pressed into a tight line. "That was years ago. I barely remember anymore."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I had an accident at seventeen. Lost almost a year's worth of memories. Still haven't gotten them back."

Elliot let out a laugh, sharp and humorless. "And that's the best excuse you've come up with after all this time?"

He leaned in, laughter vanishing, his tone suddenly freezing. "Or did you just think I'd still be dumb enough to believe you, like before?"

"I never lied to you."

"You think just 'cause you don't remember it, that means it didn't happen?"

Elliot would never forget the icy words Charisse had thrown at him when they broke up. Not in this life.

Even when he was hanging by a thread after the accident—unconscious, hooked up to machines, fighting for his life—she didn't show. Not once.

He was barely breathing, still calling her name in his sleep.

And her?

She didn't even pick up the phone.

She sent a bank card through someone else with a one-line message: "Cover the bills."

Then she vanished—off to some island with her friends, drinking champagne by the ocean while he lay half-dead under hospital lights.

She never asked if he made it out alive.

To her, he was just another problem that could be solved with money—and forgotten before the next cocktail arrived.

So now she acts like none of it matters? Like her coldness back then didn't leave a mark?

He suddenly let go of her wrist, walked over and slumped onto the sofa. His eyes had gone stone-cold. "Since you don't remember, let's just pretend this is our first time meeting."

Charisse lifted her chin, calm and composed. "That's fair."

He was riding high; she'd hit rock bottom. If they were talking history, she'd be the one reaching up.

"Alright then, let's start. I hope Miss Walton lives up to the price I'm paying."

She didn't even flinch at the jab. "You're being so generous, Mr. Grant. I'll make sure you get your money's worth."

Charisse had figured it out—he'd known who she was all along. He called her here on purpose.

A setup.

All to humiliate her.

All to make her pay.

She moved closer, settling beside him, taking a steadying breath as she leaned in.

But just as their lips were about to meet, Elliot turned his head—only slightly, but enough.

She froze.

No words were needed. The message hit like a glass of cold water.

She'd seen it before. Some men don't kiss girls they pay.

Kissing, to them, is too personal—too intimate.

And girls like her?

They don't get intimacy.

They get instructions.

Charisse pressed her lips together, bitterness rising in her throat.

Right now, in his eyes, she was no different from those women working the hotel floors.

Dirty. Disposable.

A soft clink broke the silence—she'd unfastened his belt.

Elliot sat still, face unreadable. But when her hand reached for him, his jaw tightened, sharp enough to cut.

"With your mouth," he said, voice deep and low.

Charisse paused, then nodded. "Okay."

She sank slowly to her knees, the delicate fabric of her sheer dress pooling around her as it slipped from her shoulders, baring the elegant line of her smooth back.

With a tentative hand, she traced the protrusion through his black underwear. Beneath her fingertips, it stirred and grew, its form defined and urgent. A deep breath filled her lungs—a silent preparation for a sacrificial offering.

Her hesitation and clumsiness made his demand seem cruel, even vulgar. But back then, when he'd laid his whole heart out for her and she stomped all over it, did she ever stop to think she'd gone too far?

Elliot towered over Charisse, his gaze engulfing her. Though hatred scalded his heart, a more complex feeling began to rise.

Suddenly, Charisse stood back up and sprang at him, lips crashing into his.

It wasn't a kiss—it was more like a bite, wild and a little unhinged.

And when she pulled away, she stared him dead in the eye, that smile twisted and defiant. "If you're gonna make me sick, I might as well gross you out first."