e of New York's most ruthless billionaires. The heavy silence in the Soho loft hung like a noose, until Emilee let out a shaky breath that felt

and shadow. Allison perched on a marble kitchen stool, a steaming cup of black coffee in her hands, her laptop screen glowing li

y looked bruised. She'd pulled an all-nighter hacking into her PR firm's restricted databases, and exhaustion clung t

press photos taken from a distance, his face always partially obscured. "No trail, no leverage," she muttered,

a redacted blind item from a top-secret financial gossip blog. "Wall Street's whispering. Severe mysophobia-refuses to be touched by women. Fires assistants

lashed to the airport-his warm, firm grip on her waist, his thumb pressing into her coat, the heat of his

he can't even stand physical intimacy." A beat passed, then she grabbed Allison's wrist. "Thi

ips. "Exactly. An impotent, touch-averse billionaire is the perfect sham husband. No messy expectations, no s

the counter. "Kip Downs-his right-hand man. They're having coffee at a members-only ca

he guest room-slate-grey Dior pantsuit, tailored to perfection, hair pulled back in a sleek chignon, e

R favor to bypass the hostile hostess, and they slid into a back booth, hidden behind tall wooden partitions that

as she rehearsed her pitch-mutual benefit, PR stability, no strings attached. Emilee

final contract terms to Emilee, her voice low and determined. She didn't notice the faint shift on the other side o

riage? In