Seattle’s Most Ruthless Don Locked Me in His Penthouse—Until I Read Page 14 of Our Marriage License!

The memory of the clinic cut off as the penthouse bedroom snapped back into focus.

Aiden stood frozen beneath the recessed amber lights, his chest rising and falling beneath his tailored silk shirt.

His hands remained curled at his sides, trembling just enough to catch the edge of his diamond cufflinks.

"I don't expect you to understand," Aiden said, his baritone slicing through the patter of the rain outside. "And I don't expect you to pretend this is normal."

"Aiden," I said, dropping my hand from the silver zipper of my gown. "You bought my sister’s hospital debt."

"I settled an invoice," he corrected flatly. "There's a difference."

"Two million dollars isn't an invoice."

"To Chambers Holdings, it’s petty cash."

He took half a step backward, putting even more space between us, as if the floorboards between my boots and his loafers were wired with explosives.

"You have your own suite down the hall," he said, nodding toward the heavy walnut door. "Master keycard is on the dresser. The lock engages only from the inside."

"Why did you marry me?" I asked, taking one step forward.

His entire body locked up instantly, the exact reaction I had seen in room six four months ago.

"Stop moving, Tessa."

I halted on the white carpet.

"You need protection," he whispered, his gray eyes darkening. "And I need an heir on paper to satisfy the syndicate board by midnight on the first."

"On paper?"

"Strictly administrative."

He reached into his breast pocket and drew out an encrypted black tablet, setting it flat on the glass side table without breaking the six-foot perimeter.

"Your mother received the deed to the Mercer Island house an hour ago," Aiden said. "Lily’s specialist was flown in from Johns Hopkins at four this afternoon. Your family is secure."

"And what happens to me?"

"You stay alive," he replied, turning toward the double glass balcony doors. "Which is becoming increasingly difficult as of twenty minutes ago."

Before I could ask what he meant, the heavy steel security lock on the penthouse entry foyer gave a sharp, mechanical clack.

A red strobe flashed along the crown molding, followed by the dull, rhythmic chime of a priority perimeter breach.

Aiden didn't flinch, but his hand hovered inches above his concealed hip holster.

"Stay behind me," he ordered, his voice dropping into absolute ice.

The reinforced double doors swung open, but it wasn't a hit squad.

Standing on the Italian marble threshold was Marcus Vance—Aiden’s chief legal counsel and head of the Chambers syndicate trustee committee—clutching a crimson-sealed federal binder.

"Boss," Marcus said, ignoring my bridal veil entirely. "We have an emergency injunction from the Ninth Circuit."