I thought his car would be a used Toyota, or a goddamn Uber.

But parked at the back entrance of the hotel was a blacked-out, custom-built SUV with no logos. The windows were abnormally thick, like they were bulletproof.

The man—he still hadn't told me his name—opened the door for me like a gentleman.

The interior was filled with the faint scent of cedar and leather, mixed with the smell of expensive tobacco. This was not the scent of a waiter.

“Where to?” he asked, getting into the driver's seat. He rested one hand on the steering wheel, unbuttoned his tight black vest, and tossed it into the back. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing strong forearms and a faint scar.

“Anywhere,” I said, leaning back against the leather seat, all my strength drained. “As long as it’s not Long Island, anywhere is fine.”

He glanced at me in the rearview mirror but didn’t ask any more questions. He just stepped on the gas.

The engine let out a low, powerful roar, and the car shot into the Manhattan night like an arrow.

Half an hour later, the car stopped in front of a discreet jazz bar in Tribeca. It looked more like a private club. There was no sign, just a low-key copper door.

He got out and opened my door. “It’s quiet here. Good for talking business.”

We walked inside. Under the dim lights, the bartender saw him and was about to greet him, but he was silenced with a single look.

We sat in a corner booth. He ordered a whiskey for himself and hot milk for me.

“Drink something warm,” he said, pushing the milk toward me. “Your hands are shaking.”

I held the warm cup, looking at his impossibly handsome face. “Who are you? A normal waiter can’t afford a bulletproof car.”

“Rhys Foster,” he said, his voice low and magnetic as he sipped his drink. “I moonlight as a server. My main gig… you could say I live off rich women. The car belongs to my boss.”

He was lying. But I didn't care.

“Rhys,” I said, taking a deep breath. I pulled a crumpled piece of paper from my purse—a copy of my mother’s will. “I want to make a deal with you.”

Rhys raised an eyebrow, his long fingers tapping lightly on the table. “You mean that ten-thousand-dollar tip? That’s already mine, baby.”

“No, a bigger deal,” I said, staring into his eyes. “I want to hire you to be my husband.”

Rhys’s fingers stopped tapping. He looked at me as if he’d just heard the funniest joke in the world. “Miss Williamson, I might need money, but I haven't resorted to selling my body.”

“Not a real marriage!” I explained hastily. “A contract marriage. According to my mother's will, I can only get my trust fund if I'm married. That's my only way to get back on my feet. Once I have the money, I can leave the Williamson family and start my own career.”

“You need money, right? We divorce after a year, and I’ll give you a five-hundred-thousand-dollar settlement. During that time, we pretend to be a loving couple. Other than that, I won’t interfere in your private life.”

Half a million dollars. For a waiter, that should be a fortune.

But Rhys didn't look ecstatic. Instead, he leaned back in his seat, his eyes unreadable.

“And what if I say no?”

“Then I’ll just have to find someone else,” I said, biting my lip. “Even if I have to pull a homeless man off the street.”

“A homeless man won’t pass the Williamson family’s background check, baby,” Rhys chuckled. “And they’re not as handsome as me. You can’t piss off that ex of yours with a bum, can you?”

I was speechless.

But he was right. He had a natural air of nobility; even in a plain white shirt, he commanded the room.

“Besides,” Rhys leaned forward, his powerful masculine presence enveloping me and making my heart race, “I don’t need fifty thousand, Aria.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I need… a shield,” he said, his gaze fixed on my lips, his voice husky. “The old folks in my family are trying to force me into an arranged marriage. Marrying a disgraced, down-and-out heiress would be the perfect way to piss them off royally. Sounds like fun.”

He held out his hand, his palm broad and warm. “Deal. City Hall, next Monday. Don’t stand me up, future Mrs. Foster.”

Looking into his eyes, which felt like they could pull my soul right out of my body, I took his hand.

In that moment, I had no idea that I had just signed a pact with Manhattan’s most dangerous predator.