1 My best friend Serena blew up her own romantic life so spectacularly that her ex threatened to throw himself off the Brooklyn Bridge if she didn’t marry him.

Terrified of a subpoena—and emotional accountability—she caught a midnight flight to SaintTropez.

Before wheeling her luggage through TSA, she grabbed my shoulders and thrust a spare keycard into my palm. "I’m leaving my canary with you.

Take care of him." To be honest, I wanted to say no. Not because I was engaged. But because Serena’s taste in men had historically resided in the absolute gutter.

Yet twenty minutes later, when I unlocked the heavy double doors of her Tribeca penthouse, I didn't find some peroxidebleached aspiring DJ sprawled across the velvet sectional.

Instead, standing by the floortoceiling glass, was a man in a bespoke threepiece charcoal suit.

Broad shoulders, sharp jawline, and dark, hooded eyes that felt heavy with an almost predatory gravity. I froze.

Since when had Serena’s aesthetic graduated from dumpster fire to the cover of Architectural Digest?

Hearing the click of the lock, the man barely lifted his chin, his expression cool and unbothered. "Summer Ellis?" "Did she... talk to you before she left?" I asked, my voice hesitant.

He gave a slow, measured nod. Good. That meant Serena had already briefed him on the handoff. That saved us both an awkward conversation. "Great.

Pack your things," I said briskly. "You’re coming with me.

As of tonight, I’m your new benefactor." A dark brow arched. "Excuse me?" I paused, letting my gaze drift over the immaculate cut of his Tom Ford blazer and the understated Patek Philippe resting on his left wrist.

Then I looked down at my own twentydollar vintage tee and faded jeans. Right.

He was worried I didn't have the liquidity to maintain his lifestyle. "Relax," I added reassuringly. "Whatever allowance she was wiring you each month, I’ll match to the cent.

At the end of the day, this is purely transactional for you.

Money is money, regardless of whose account it comes from." A low, incredulous laugh broke from his throat. "Let me get this straight. You think I’m a kept man on her payroll?

And that I’m being passed around on a rotation?" "Aren't you?" "Miss Ellis, you have clearly made a severe mistake." I rolled my eyes.

I gave him credit for the aristocratic aloofness—it was a charming bit of roleplay.

But the living room was littered with framed photos of him and Serena in intimate proximity, alongside a handful of leather accessories and novelty silk ties scattered near the bar cart.

I was exhausted. Suddenly, Serena’s parting words rang in my ears: He’s terribly spoiled. If you want him to behave, you have to be firm. Take the upper hand.

Trust me, he likes it rough. Right. If he wanted a dominant dynamic, I could play along.

I stepped back to the doorway and waved in the two private security guards I’d hired for the move.

Within three minutes, we had him subdued, bundled into my SUV, and hauled up to my highrise apartment. By midnight, he was stripped down and securely cuffed to my brass headboard.

Under the dim amber glow of the bedside lamp, his physique was breathtaking—sculpted, lean, and undeniably firmer than Grant Sinclair’s.

Just thinking about Grant made my chest tighten with a sharp, familiar burn. Grant had been the one to pursue me first.

When he caught wind of my parents setting me up on blind dates, he had stormed into our family home, dropping to one knee before our dinner guests to propose an alliance between our two families.

Everyone in Manhattan's upper crust murmured that a man as notoriously composed and stoic as Grant Sinclair wouldn't drop to his knees unless he was profoundly, helplessly in love.

I believed them. Until the night I finally let down my walls and climbed into his lap, only for him to shove me away with ice in his veins.

He looked at me with open disdain and told me his heart belonged to someone else.

The marriage was purely commercial; I was never to mistake it for love. 2 The memory tasted like ash.

Wanting to erase it, I leaned down and pressed my lips against the man’s warm, bare chest, kissing the hard line of his collarbone. He smelled like vetiver and sandalwood.

His jaw clenched hard. The effortless composure he’d worn in Tribeca was entirely gone, replaced by a dark, simmering fury. "Summer Ellis.

Release these restraints right now." "Or what?" I murmured against his skin. "I am going to say this one last time," he growled, the steel in his voice vibrating against my cheek. "I am not a paid escort.

I am Harrison Rhodes. Serena’s older brother." He paused, letting the silence hang. "Have you lost your mind?" Harrison Rhodes. I jerked my head back, staring at him.

The Harrison Rhodes? The ruthless titan of Rhodes Capital? The single most formidable predator Grant Sinclair had spent the last three years battling on Wall Street?

I had heard horror stories about him from both Serena and Grant. A corporate executioner who left wreckage in his wake.

Serena—a menace in her own right—walked on eggshells whenever he was in the room. Except there was one glaring flaw in his story.

Serena had explicitly told me her older brother was horribly asymmetrical, with a face so aggressively terrifying it could ward off evil spirits if hung over a doorway.

This man was an absolute work of art. Ah. He was leaning heavily into the roleplay. His acting was frankly Oscarworthy. I almost bought it.

Playing along, I brought my palm down across his flank with a sharp smack. The muscle beneath was dense and responsive. "Harrison Rhodes, hm? Perfect.

You're exactly who I wanted." "What did you say?" "I’ve had my eye on you for a while," I whispered, trailing my fingertips up his ribs. "Grant might fear you, but Summer Ellis doesn't." A dark flush crept up his neck. "You are completely out of your—" I pinched his jaw between my thumb and forefinger, cutting him off. "Beg nicely, and maybe I’ll let you loose." His teeth ground together. "Not in this lifetime." Eventually, after a relentless barrage of teasing touches and deliberate torment, he broke just enough to mutter a strained concession.

But I didn't untie him. My hand drifted lower. Above me, his voice dropped to a lethal frequency. "Ellis. Consider the consequences.

Whatever you think you're doing, your family cannot afford the fallout. Let me go now, and for the sake of your friendship with Serena, I won't ruin you.

This is your only warning." His gaze was suffocatingly intense. For a fraction of a second, an icy chill skittered down my spine. The sheer gravity of his presence was terrifying.

Could an amateur really fake an aura that commanding? What if he actually was Harrison Rhodes? Then I remembered the family lore Serena had drunkenly shared over martinis.

Harrison Rhodes didn't care for women.

Back in prep school, he had supposedly been inseparable from a close male confidant—so close their grandfather caught them in an unmistakable position in the boathouse and tore them apart.

Ever since, Harrison had sealed his heart in stone. I leaned my weight over him, capturing his lips in a deep, uncompromising kiss.

Beneath me, the sudden, fierce rigidity of his body betrayed his purely physical reaction. I smiled against his mouth. Caught you. He was bluffing.

I pulled back slightly, breath mingling with his, quoting straight from the pulp romance novels stacked on my nightstand. "Mr.

Rhodes, the second I brought you here, I stopped caring about consequences.

As long as I have you under me, whatever price I have to pay is worth it." I tapped his cheek lightly. "Besides, chained up like this, you aren't in much of a position to threaten anyone.

If I were you, I’d cooperate." Before he could unleash another string of threats, I silenced him again.

He went rigid with fury, his fists clenching around the brass bars, powerless against the cuffs.

I have to admit—spoiled though this canary was, the thrill of having total control was intoxicating. It was nearly dawn when I finally rolled off him, sated and exhausted.

If forced passion felt this good, I should have stopped being a saint years ago. 3 Over the next several weeks, I kept the routine ruthlessly consistent.

To maintain the fantasy, I confiscated his phone, restricted his movements to the penthouse, and posted roundtheclock security at the elevators.

Every evening was an elaborate exercise in wearing down his stubborn defiance until his gaze went glazed and dark. Two months slipped by in a blur of silk sheets and quiet mornings.

I had no idea how Serena was faring abroad, or whether her suicidal suitor had finally moved on. She had burner accounts for everything and rarely stayed reachable.

Then, out of nowhere, my phone lit up with an international FaceTime call. "Darling!" Serena’s voice crackled through the speaker. "I'm coming home next week." "Is the drama resolved?" "Hardly," she whispered conspiratorially. "I'm only coming back because my brother vanished into thin air.

The Rhodes board is on the verge of a coup, and my father ordered me back to New York on penalty of disinheritance." I blinked, surprised. "Harrison Rhodes is missing?

Was he kidnapped?" "Most likely. God help whoever took him, though. My brother is a sociopathic machine.

If the kidnappers have any survival instincts, they'd better kill him now, because if he walks out of there alive, he will systematically erase their bloodlines from the earth." I swallowed dryly. "...Is he really that terrifying?" "Worse!" Serena said fervently. "Anyway, how's my little canary doing?" I glanced toward the halfopen bedroom door, where the broad silhouette of my companion was peacefully asleep under the linen duvet. "Your advice worked like a charm.

He's thoroughly domesticated now.

Passed out from exhaustion twenty minutes ago." I sighed softly into the receiver. "I had no idea having a pet could be this... satisfying." Serena sounded puzzled. "A bird gives you that much satisfaction?" "A bird?

Honestly, one is more than enough to drain my energy." "Wait, what?" Serena paused, sensing a strange disconnect, but brushed it off. "Whatever works for you, babe.

Let’s catch up over cocktails next week." After hanging up, I stared at the skyline, feeling a ripple of pity for the poor soul who had crossed Harrison Rhodes.

Thank goodness I had always stayed far away from that man.

Behind all my bravado, I was really quite fragile. 4 By Saturday afternoon, Grant Sinclair arrived at my apartment with the finalized prenuptial agreement.

When our arrangement first began, the cold reality of a loveless marriage had gutted me.

But when my father’s logistics firm faced a catastrophic liquidity crunch last winter, Grant had stepped in, deploying his capital to steady the ship.

That was the day I realized that romantic idealism was a luxury. Going bankrupt was far more terrifying than marrying a man who didn't love me.

I picked up the Montblanc pen, scrawled my signature across the dotted line, and slid the leather folder back across the marble coffee table. "Your turn." Grant didn't sign immediately.

His gaze drifted to my collarbone, lingering on a faint bruise peeking out from my silk blouse. His throat bobbed.

Dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, he exuded his usual cool, untouchable aura.

He flicked through the pages, surprised. "You're signing without having your legal counsel review the terms?" "There's no need," I said evenly. "You wouldn't shortchange me financially.

You're too pragmatic for that." A flicker of something complicated crossed his eyes, swiftly masked by his standard detachment. "I'm glad you've come to your senses." Just then, a distinct metallic click echoed from the master bedroom.

Grant’s hand froze over the documents. His gaze snapped toward the closed door, his brow furrowing. "You have company?" "Not company," I corrected lightly. "My kept man.

If I recall correctly, you explicitly stated that our personal lives would remain independent after the wedding." Grant didn't speak.

He stared at me, the sharp angle of his jaw tightening until the muscle twitched.

Then, as if realizing how ridiculous the notion was, he gave a faint, mocking shake of his head. "Is Serena crashing here?" "Serena is in Europe." "Summer, you don't have to fabricate a lover to get a reaction out of me," he said, his tone dripping with patronizing patience. "Frankly, I hope you do find someone.

It would save us both the trouble of your misplaced expectations." I looked down at the table. Around Grant, my confidence had always eroded into dust.

Ever since our engagement became public, the social circuit had whispered that a plain girl like me was punching far above her weight.

Hear it enough times, and you start to believe it. A sudden, sharp anger flared in my chest. I looked him dead in the eye. "It’s not Serena. It’s her brother.

Harrison Rhodes." Grant froze.

A beat of pure shock hit his face, instantly followed by cold derision. "Impossible." He appraised me from head to toe with insulting precision. "With all due respect, Summer... you are not his type." Right.

I wasn't striking enough. Just quiet, ordinary, unremarkable.

When Grant had offered the alliance, my parents didn't even ask for my consent; they treated it like winning the genetic lottery.

Before I could reply, Grant gathered his papers and stood to leave. At that exact moment, the bedroom doorknob turned. 5 We both stared at the doorway.

The air in the foyer instantly turned thin. Then Grant’s phone shrieked in his pocket.

He pulled it out, glanced at the caller ID, and his expression darkened significantly. "There's an emergency at the office.

We'll finish this later." He practically bolted toward the entryway. Just as the bedroom door swung open an inch, the front door slammed shut with a heavy thud.

I let out a long, ragged breath. Good. If Grant had seen the man inside, he would have instantly recognized that it wasn't Harrison Rhodes and mocked me mercilessly for the lie.

Still, watching Grant hurry out was odd. Even during market crashes, Grant maintained an unnerving calm. The only person who had ever thrown him off balance was Harrison Rhodes.

But Harrison was supposedly missing. Who else could be giving Grant such a massive headache? "Who was that?" A deep, gravelly voice broke my train of thought. I turned around.

Standing against the doorframe was my houseguest, a charcoal robe loosely knotted at his waist, revealing the sharp, defined planes of his torso. A very tempting view.

But I was too mentally drained to appreciate it. I collapsed onto the sofa. "My fiancé.

He just left." The man froze, his dark eyes instantly turning frigid. "You have a fiancé?" "I do," I said simply. There was no reason to hide it.

Grant didn't care, and since this man was being paid, it shouldn't matter to him either.

Instead, his expression darkened into thunderous rage. "You're engaged, and you've been keeping me here?

What the hell do you take me for?" "My canary." Wasn't that obvious? "You made me your side piece?" His hands clenched into whiteknuckled fists, pure fury radiating from him. "No one has ever dared treat me like this.

Summer Ellis, you are out of your mind." I blinked. His commitment to this dominant, highhanded billionaire persona was truly extraordinary.

Even after two months, the sheer force of his presence could still make my pulse jump. "Don't be dramatic," I sighed. "If he hadn't left in a hurry, I was going to introduce you two so things wouldn't be awkward down the road." "You were going to introduce me to your fiancé?" He sounded genuinely appalled. "Do you think this is something to be proud of?" "Why are you making it sound so scandalous?" I countered defensively. "When wealthy men keep someone on the side, society calls it a perk of success.

When a woman does it, suddenly it's a crime?" I leaned forward. "Besides, Grant and I are strictly business. No feelings involved.

But with you—it’s purely about passion." He let out a harsh, incredulous breath. "So I’m supposed to thank you for reducing me to an illicit affair?" I stood up, walked over, and patted his broad shoulder soothingly. "Look on the bright side.

The man with the ring doesn't mind, so why should the man in my bed be upset?" That did it. His composure shattered completely. "Upset? You think I'm upset?" "Fine.

Are you jealous?" "A Rhodes does not get jealous," he snarled, stepping into my space. "You think I give a damn about your pathetic domestic arrangements?

You flatter yourself." I spread my hands innocently. "See? Problem solved." 6 My stomach gave a loud, unglamorous rumble. I was starving.

Ignoring his simmering glare, I stepped around him toward the dining table, picked up my fork, and sat down.

Behind me, the master bedroom door slammed shut with enough force to rattle the glass sconces. And he claims he isn't upset?

As the benefactor in this arrangement, I didn't owe him emotional coddling.

I finished my lunch, spent the afternoon getting a manicure with a friend, and lingered over iced lattes trading Upper East Side gossip.

Predictably, when I returned home that evening, he gave me the absolute cold shoulder. I tried to coax him, but the softer I spoke, the colder he became.

When I reached out to touch his arm, he knocked my hand aside. "I'm not in the mood. Go find your fiancé." I sighed. A pampered pet really couldn't be given too much leeway.

I straddled his lap, catching his sharp chin in my hand, and reached beneath the pillow to produce the slender leather riding crop I’d stashed there weeks ago. "Don't make me use force again." He went entirely still.

For a moment, I thought my authority had prevailed. Then, in a blur of motion, his hands locked around my waist and flipped me beneath him.

The breath left my lungs as my back hit the mattress.

Looking up into eyes blazing with raw, predatory dominance, a genuine shiver rippled through me. "What are you doing?" I whispered. "You," he said darkly.

His mouth crashed down on mine, rough, possessive, and entirely unyielding, his large hand anchoring the back of my neck with iron strength. The sensory overload was staggering.

Three hours later, however, the thrill had completely evaporated into sheer exhaustion. He was relentless.

I was convinced this was his calculated form of retribution. "Maybe..." I gasped, my fingers digging into his sweatsheened shoulders, "maybe you should conserve your stamina?" "If you want me to stop, Ellis, ask properly." "I'm not asking you to stop," I wheezed, burying my face in the pillows. "I'm just worried you'll collapse." He didn't stop.

At the height of it, his fingers gripped my hips with bruising intensity.

In the shadowed room, his voice sounded ragged and dangerous. "Do you love him?" When faced with an impossible question, the best defense is a distraction.

I pulled him down and kissed him. It didn't work. It only made him more punishing. 7 The next morning, I didn't wake up until past two in the afternoon.

The subsequent days blurred into the same exhausting rhythm. He seemed obsessed with proving a point I couldn't decipher.

When he brought up Grant again, I deflected casually. "Arranged marriages are stronger without love. Real romance makes business messy.

Besides, Grant has zero interest in me—which is the only reason you're here." "So the person I should be thanking for this arrangement isn't you, but your fiancé?" I pressed my lips together.

He was exceptionally argumentative for someone on an allowance. Yet, irritatingly, I found it somewhat endearing. Grant had always been generous with material things.

Before our engagement, the designer bags and jewelry arrived without pause. Afterward, he set up a monthly deposit that dwarfed my father's allowances.

Aside from his absolute lack of affection, he was an ideal partner on paper. I wondered how his office crisis was going. I hoped it wouldn't disrupt my direct deposits.

According to Grant’s personal assistant, the situation was brutal—an invisible corporate heavyweight was systematically dismantling their supply chain, forcing Grant to pull eightyhour weeks.

Feeling a pang of practical concern, I typed out a polite checkin text to Grant.

Sensing my distraction, the man beside me leaned down, his lips brushing the curve of my throat. "What are you thinking about?" I sighed softly. "My fiancé." The next second, sharp teeth bit into the soft skin of my neck.

I barely survived the night. The following morning, a relentless pounding at the front door shattered my sleep. My phone on the nightstand was buzzing incessantly.

Groggily, I answered. Serena’s voice boomed through the speaker. "Summer! Open the damn door! I just landed and I’m standing in your hallway!" My eyes snapped open.

Carefully lifting the heavy arm draped across my waist, I threw on a silk robe and sprinted to the entryway. 8 "You're finally back!" I cried, throwing my arms around her neck the second I opened the door. "I thought you abandoned me in New York!" Serena crossed her arms, narrowing her eyes. "If you missed me so much, why did you ignore six phone calls?

What were you doing in there?" "Don't be mad," I groaned, leaning against the doorframe. "Your canary wore me out.

My legs feel like lead." Serena looked baffled. "Taking care of a bird wore you out that much?" "You know how much stamina he has.

Come in, don't stand out here." Stepping inside, Serena immediately froze at the sight of two bulky security guards standing post near the hallway. "Did you get involved with a cartel while I was gone?" "I had to keep your pet contained," I explained. "What if he tried to escape?" Serena stared at me, bewildered. "Summer, that's absurd.

He has a cage. You just lock the latch." A cage? I paused, picturing the man inside. "I mean... ordering a custom iron cage of that size felt a little extreme." "Custom?

You buy a standard birdcage at Petco! If you don't cage it, it flies around shitting on the upholstery!" A cold, creeping sensation prickled at the base of my neck.

Before I could process the surreal nature of the sentence, Serena caught sight of the dark purple marks scattered across my collarbone. Her eyes narrowed playfully. "Well, well.

Did Grant Sinclair finally lose his composure?" "It wasn't Grant.

You know he doesn't touch me." "Then who?" "Your canary." Serena’s expression instantly morphed from amused to deeply concerned.

She grabbed my shoulders, her voice dead serious. "Summer.

I told you Grant wasn't the only man on earth, but I didn't think you'd completely lose your mind..." She trailed off, rubbing her temples. "Forget it.

How's the situation with my brother? Has anyone found him?" "Still missing," I said. "Serena, if he doesn't turn up soon, the board is going to find out.

But let's not dwell on that. Come see your canary." "Fine." We walked down the hall and pushed open the master suite door.

Inside, the morning light spilled across the unmade bed, illuminating the broadshouldered, disheveled man sitting upright, silver restraints gleaming around his wrists where they anchored him to the headboard.

Serena’s jaw dropped so hard I thought it might hit the hardwood. "Why the fuck is my brother in your bed?!"