Contract Marriage With The Devil Billionaire 📥

She stayed. She held a cold cloth to his head, made him drink ginger tea, and read aloud from the ridiculous romance novel she’d hidden in her nightstand. He complained the entire time. But when she tried to leave for water, his hand—hot and weak—caught her wrist.

“I know.” He kissed her again. “I’m a terrible contract lawyer.”

The sixth month, he got sick. A flu that felled the devil himself, leaving him shivering under five blankets, too proud to call his private doctor. Lena found him on the bathroom floor at 2:00 AM, his forehead burning, his silver eyes glassy. contract marriage with the devil billionaire

It was not romantic. It was raining. They were arguing about something stupid—his refusal to eat breakfast, her habit of leaving wet towels on the floor—and suddenly neither of them was arguing anymore. His hands were in her hair, her back was against the cold glass of the window, and the city sparkled below them like a fallen galaxy.

Until the rules were nothing but confetti at their feet. She stayed

Lena stared at him. “Why?”

Lena picked up the twenty-three pages. She held his gaze—those impossible silver eyes that had seen her at her worst and stayed anyway—and slowly, deliberately, she tore the contract in half. But when she tried to leave for water,

“Don’t,” he said. Just that.