In the dim glow of a high-rise penthouse, Elena Harper stood before the man who could save her—or ruin her forever. Damian Blackwood's eyes, sharp as midnight sapphires, traced her form with a hunger that made her skin prickle. "Sign it," he murmured, his voice a silken command, sliding the contract across the polished desk. Desperation clawed at her; debts loomed like shadows, threatening to swallow her whole. The terms were clear: her body, her time, in exchange for salvation. But buried in the fine print, Clause 13 whispered a darker promise—one of no escape, where desire twisted into eternity. As her pen met paper, a shiver raced down her spine. What had she unleashed? In his bed, contracts didn't expire—they ignited.