Page 3 of Her Naughty Billionaire

"What are you suggesting?" I ask, both hopeful and hesitant.

He straightens up, towering over me. "Marry me."

The words land like a ton of bricks, rendering me momentarily speechless.

"In exchange," he continues, "the debt will be wiped clean. I'll also ensure no other creditors darken your doorstep. You maintain the façade of the Carter legacy, and I..." he leans in, his lips brushing against my ear, his breath warm, "...get you."

The room feels like it's pulsing, shrinking and expanding in time with my heart. The idea is audacious. Scandalous. Yet, I can't deny the appeal of his proposition—or the allure of the man himself.

"Why?" The word leaves my lips, not louder than a whisper, yet it fills the silence between us.

Victor's face remains unreadable, a mask of cool indifference. But as he speaks, a glimmer of something—desire? longing?—flickers across his eyes. "The Carter name still holds weight in this town, regardless of your father’s financial missteps. It's a symbol of old money, class, and prestige." He pauses, looking at me intently. "And having a Carter by my side would solidify my position in society. It's a game, and I intend to win."

The thought of being reduced to a pawn in Victor's game of societal chess makes me recoil. But the walls of Carter Manor loom large in my mind, a testament to generations of pride, history, and resilience. Could I sacrifice my happiness to ensure its survival?

His gaze remains steady, watching my every move, every reaction, drinking in my turmoil. "I’ll give you twenty-four hours to decide.”

“And if I say no?” I ask.

"Think about the alternative," he continues, leaning in close. "The collection process can be quite unpleasant, especially in Larkspur’s high society." His tone drops, the threat barely concealed, sending a shiver of unease down my spine.

As he turns on his heel, making his way to the door, I'm left with a whirlwind of emotions. The ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall reverberates through the room, each second pressing down on me, reminding me of the impossible choice ahead.

Chapter 2

Victor

Theconferenceroombuzzeswith intensity, and I thrive on it. Sitting at the head of the table, I watch and listen as the team hammers out the details, throwing out numbers and forecasts. Some are hesitant, others bold, but all know the stakes. Business is what I do best, and there's a certain satisfaction in navigating these challenges.

"Thorn," challenges a gray-haired executive from across the table, "your strategy might be too aggressive. The risk is unprecedented."

I lock eyes with him, my fingers drumming the table in thought. These men and women, most of them born with silver spoons, still find it difficult to trust a man who forged his own path.

A younger exec, Jeffrey Brown from the illustrious Boston Browns, proposes a safer approach. The room seems to sigh in relief, nodding in agreement, as if his lineage alone qualifies his opinion over mine.

With a deep breath, I lean forward, feeling the weight of my journey, from the streets where I learned my grit to this polished boardroom where every decision echoes with millions at stake. Yet, even with my demonstrated success, the battle for their genuine respect is ongoing.

"Your caution is commendable," I acknowledge Jeffrey, "but fortune favors the brave. Remember, the greater the risk, the grander the reward."

Whispers fill the room, but I drown them out with my own thoughts. If I could align myself with a name that commands instant respect, it would all be different.

Which is why, when Mr. Carter found himself on the brink of a financial abyss and came to me, I offered the loan not out of kindness but as a shrewd investment. A chance to have a titan like Carter in my pocket. His unexpected death could have upended everything, yet even in tragedy, opportunities arise.

Sophia Carter.

The heir to a dynasty, a defiant force in her own right, and now, a potential partner. She’s my ticket. The key to the validation I've been seeking. And nothing, absolutely nothing, will stand in my way.

The meeting concludes with a mixture of handshakes and mumbled agreements. I gather my papers and make my way out. As I head toward my private office, my receptionist, Claire, stands from her desk with an uneasy look.

"Mr. Thorn," she starts, her voice laced with hesitation, "there's someone here to see you. She's quite insistent you're expecting her, but there's no scheduled appointment."

I pause, trying to think who would have the audacity to show up unannounced. But then it dawns on me.

Without another word, I stride toward my office. The door is slightly ajar, and as I push it open, there she is—Sophia Carter. She stands by the window, her curvy silhouette beautifully framed by the cityscape behind her. She turns as I enter, her expression unreadable.

Dressed in a tailored business suit, she embodies every bit of the Carter legacy—elegant, powerful, and demanding respect. Yet, there's an undeniable allure about her. A spark that sets her apart from every other socialite I've met.

"Well, Ms. Carter," I begin, "to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"

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