The CEO's Forbidden Agreement (eBook)

Alisson Bento (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2025 | 1. Auflage
180 Seiten
Publishdrive (Verlag)
978-0-00-111150-9 (ISBN)

Infos

In the glittering high-stakes world of Chicago's elite, Mackenzie 'Mack' Carter is a survivor. After her ex-boyfriend stole her startup and left her with nothing but debt and a bruised heart, she has rebuilt her life brick by brick as a PR strategist for LuxeVerve. She is done with risks. She is done with trusting charming men.

Until a champagne-fueled mistake after her best friend's wedding changes everything.

Stumbling into the wrong penthouse at The Ainsworth, Mack finds herself face-to-face with Nate Callahan-a man with storm-gray eyes, a scar on his ribs, and a presence that commands the room. What starts as a misunderstanding turns into a night of unbridled passion that neither can forget. Mack leaves before dawn, leaving behind only her grandmother's silver locket and a fake name.

She thinks she'll never see him again. She is wrong.

Walking into a high-stakes meeting at her new job the next week, Mack is horrified to discover that LuxeVerve has been acquired by Callahan Global. Her one-night stand isn't just a stranger; he is Nate Callahan, the ruthless billionaire CEO, and her new boss.

But Nate is fighting battles of his own. Plague by internal sabotage, a plummeting stock price, and a reputation for being too cold and ruthless, his board is on the verge of ousting him. He needs a miracle. He needs a humanizing narrative. He needs a girlfriend.

The Proposal: Nate offers Mack a contract. $250,000. Ninety days. She pretends to be his girlfriend to stabilize the company's image. He pays off her debts and guarantees her career safety. The Rules: Public appearances, curated dates, and absolute discretion. The Clause: Section 7-'Private Engagement.' Two nights a week spent in his penthouse to make the lie look real.

As they navigate galas, paparazzi, and the cutthroat corporate world, the lines between business and pleasure blur. Nate's protective jealousy flares, Mack's walls begin to crumble, and the intimacy they share behind closed doors feels dangerously real. But when a vindictive brother, corporate espionage, and leaked secrets threaten to tear them apart, Mack must decide: Is she just a paid asset in Nate's portfolio, or is this the love of a lifetime?

Textauszug

Chapter 1 – One Wrong Turn

Chicago glittered under the full moon like a shattered mirror, reflecting fragments of lives Mack Carter would never touch. The city lights blurred through the Uber's rain-streaked window, a kaleidoscope of neon reds and golds that mocked her champagne-fueled haze.

Mack—Mackenzie to her mother, but Mack to anyone who actually knew her—slumped in the backseat, her navy bridesmaid dress clinging to her sweat-damp skin like a bad memory. The silk was ruined, stained with bubbly spills and the faint scent of Priya's signature jasmine perfume from their tearful hug at the reception.

Her heels dangled from one hand, the straps biting into her palm, while the other clutched a crumpled slip of paper: the Airbnb address Priya had scribbled in haste.

"Here we are, miss," the driver said, his voice a disinterested rumble as the car pulled up to the sleek high-rise on Michigan Avenue.

The Ainsworth loomed like a monolith, all glass and steel, indifferent to the humid July night pressing down on the city. Mack fumbled for her dead phone—useless brick—and dug into her tiny clutch for cash. A crumpled twenty emerged, and she shoved it through the partition.

"Keep the change," she mumbled, her words slurring just enough to make her cringe inwardly. The driver arched a brow but said nothing, probably accustomed to post-wedding wreckage like her.

Stepping out, the humid air hit her like a wet towel, thick with the scent of lake water and distant exhaust. She squinted up at the building, its penthouse lights winking like distant stars.

Priya had insisted on this "treat"—a luxurious Airbnb with a view to cap off her maid-of-honor duties. Mack had protested; her Logan Square walk-up was fine, thank you very much. But Priya, glowing in her bridal lehenga, had waved her off. "You deserve something nice, Mack. After Ryan... just take it."

Ryan. The name twisted in her gut like a knife. Her ex, the charming thief who'd stolen her startup idea for Verde Beauty and sold it for six figures, leaving her with debt and distrust. Tonight's open bar had dulled the edge, but not erased it.

Hiccupping softly, Mack swiped at her smudged mascara and marched into the lobby, heels clicking unevenly on the marble floor. She didn't belong here—not in this Gold Coast palace of old money and polished pretense. But the doorman barely glanced at her, just nodded as she punched the code—8421—into the private elevator panel.

The doors whispered shut, and she leaned against the cool metal wall, closing her eyes. The wedding replayed in flashes: Priya and Dev exchanging vows under fairy lights in Millennium Park, the crowd's applause like thunder. Mack's maid-of-honor speech—tearful, tipsy, laced with jabs at "men who wear cufflinks unironically"—had drawn laughs, but inside, it felt like a confession. Love? Loyalty? She'd believed in them once. Now, they were just words, fragile as champagne bubbles.

The elevator dinged. Floor 42.

The doors parted to a dimly lit foyer: cool marble underfoot, a single abstract painting on the wall like a slash of midnight, and beyond—floor-to-ceiling windows framing Lake Michigan's inky expanse. The city glow spilled in, casting long shadows that danced like ghosts.

"Holy hell," Mack breathed, the words echoing in the vast space. This wasn't "nice." This was obscene—minimalist furniture in sleek leather and chrome, a grand piano lurking in the corner like a silent sentinel, a kitchen island gleaming with quartz and stainless steel. The air smelled faintly of polished wood and something richer, like aged bourbon lingering from a previous occupant.

"Hello?" she called, her voice bouncing off the high ceilings. "Airbnb host? Anyone?"

Silence answered, broken only by the distant hum of the city below.

Good. She didn't need company. Just a shower to wash away the night's regrets, a bed to collapse into, and eight hours of oblivion before her train back to reality.

Kicking off her heels—blissful relief as her toes flexed against the cold floor—she wandered toward what looked like the master bedroom. The navy silk dress whispered against her thighs, the zipper already half-undone for breathability. The bed was enormous, a sea of white linen and plush pillows that promised escape.

She face-planted onto it, the mattress yielding like a cloud, the faint scent of clean cotton enveloping her. For a moment, she floated, the world's weight lifting.

Then—footsteps.

Slow, deliberate, echoing from the hallway like a predator's approach.

Mack froze, heart slamming against her ribs. Adrenaline cut through the fog of alcohol. She snapped her head up, eyes wide in the dim light.

And there he was.

Tall—over six feet, easily—broad-shouldered, barefoot in tailored black slacks and an unbuttoned white dress shirt that hung open, revealing a sculpted chest dusted with dark hair. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, exposing veined forearms that spoke of controlled strength. Dark hair tousled as if fingers had run through it in frustration. A jaw sharp enough to carve stone, shadowed with stubble.

And his eyes—storm-gray, piercing, locked on her.

He watched her, his gaze sharp. He'd expected someone matching her description from the LuxeVerve pitch deck, but not this... disheveled, defiant beauty. The test had begun.

"You're early," he said, his voice a low rumble, gravel wrapped in velvet, sending an unwelcome shiver down her spine.

Mack blinked, scrambling to sit up, clutching the loose neckline of her dress. "Excuse me?"

He stepped closer, arms crossing over his chest, the scent of sandalwood cologne and faint bourbon wafting toward her like a drug. "My assistant said midnight. It's barely eleven-thirty." He was lying. There was no midnight appointment. He wanted to see if she'd play along, if she'd take the bait.

Her brain short-circuited. "I—I don't know what you're talking about," she stammered, heat flooding her cheeks. "I'm Mack Carter. I booked this place on Airbnb. Priya's wedding—"

Airbnb? That was unexpected. His team had arranged the "mix-up", but he hadn't anticipated that specific excuse. It was a good cover. He let a dry laugh escape, devoid of humor, his eyes raking over her—the wrinkled dress, the smudged makeup, the wild curls escaping her updo. His gaze lingered on the bare skin above her collarbone, where the dress had slipped, igniting a spark she refused to acknowledge.

"This isn't an Airbnb. This is my private residence."

Her stomach plummeted, the room tilting. "What?"

"The Ainsworth doesn't do short-term rentals. Ever." He studied her intently, deciding to press her, to see if she'd crack. "Let me guess. Vanessa sent you. Said I needed to 'unwind' after the Tokyo merger."

The implication hit like a slap. Escort? Her cheeks burned with humiliation. "I'm not—I'm not an escort!"

But even as the words left her lips, she saw how it looked: a drunk woman in a fancy dress, invading a billionaire's penthouse at midnight. Ryan's betrayal flashed in her mind—how he'd made her feel used, disposable. He watched her flush, a flicker of... respect? She wasn't folding. She wasn't the opportunist he'd been briefed to expect.

He arched a dark brow. "Then what are you doing in my bed?" His tone was hard, but his curiosity was piqued. This was not the test he'd planned.

"I thought it was mine!" She scrambled off the mattress, feet hitting the floor with a thud, clutching her dress tighter. "The address matched! The code worked! I swear, I didn't mean—"

He held up a hand, cutting her off, his expression unreadable. He believed her. The test was flawed—or maybe, she had passed in a way he didn't expect. She wasn't a corporate spy or an escort. She was... authentic. Messy, but authentic.

He turned toward the sleek wet bar in the corner, needing a drink to recalibrate. He poured two fingers of amber liquid into a crystal tumbler and downed it in one swift motion. Then he poured another. "Look. I don't care if you're lost or lying. But you're here now. And I've had a hell of a week."

Mack's pulse raced, a mix of fear and something treacherous—intrigue. He wasn't calling security. He wasn't angry. He was... watching her, those gray eyes stormy with exhaustion and unspoken need.

"You're not calling security," she said slowly, testing the waters.

"No." He set the glass down with a clink, his gaze tracing her form again, lingering on the curve of her hips. "Not yet."

The silence stretched, electric, thick with possibility. The city lights cast shadows across his face, highlighting the faint scar along his ribs, visible through the open shirt.

Mack's mind screamed to run—to grab her shoes and flee this mistake. But her body betrayed her, a traitorous heat pooling low in her belly. Ryan had left her guarded, but tonight, in this stranger's gaze, she felt seen. Wanted. Not for her ideas or her loyalty, but for the raw, messy woman she was.

Impulsively, she walked toward the bar, her bare feet silent on the rug. "Got anything besides bourbon?"

He watched her approach like a wolf tracking prey, his lips twitching into a ghost of a smirk. "Champagne?"

"After tonight? Absolutely."

He pulled a chilled bottle from the mini-fridge, popped the cork with effortless precision—the sound sharp like a gunshot—and poured two flutes. Bubbles fizzed, golden and inviting. He handed her one, their fingers brushing. Electric sparks shot up her arm, her skin tingling where they touched.

"You really weren't expecting me," she said, taking a long sip, the crisp bubbles bursting...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 24.11.2025
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Romane / Erzählungen
• ISBN-10: 0-00-111150-7 / 0001111507
• ISBN-13: 978-0-00-111150-9 / 9780001111509