The Billionaire's Dare: My Secret Husband

The burn of the third tequila shot did nothing to warm the ice in Calla's veins. It sat in her stomach, a pool of liquid courage that felt more like poison. The music in the private VIP box at the Omnia was deafening, a bass that rattled her ribcage, but it wasn't loud enough to drown out the voice in her head telling her she was making a mistake.

She stared across the velvet-roped enclosure. In the corner, shadowed and still, sat Christ Carlson.

He was a tear in the fabric of the party. While everyone else was a blur of sequins and sweat, he was static. A monolith in a black bespoke suit that probably cost more than the tuition Francis paid for her art school. He held a tumbler of amber liquid, his fingers long and pale against the glass. He wasn't drinking it. He was just holding it, watching the chaos with eyes that looked like they had seen the end of the world and found it boring.

"I bet you won't," Gemma shouted over the drop of the beat. Her breath smelled like peppermint and vodka. "Go on, Calla. You've been complaining about how suffocating the manor is for months. Poke the bear."

Calla looked at Gemma, then back at Christ. The "bear." The machine. The man who signed the checks that kept the Carlson empire-and Calla's comfortable, caged life-afloat. He was technically Francis's uncle, though only ten years older than his nephew. To Calla, he had always been the looming shadow in the hallway, the figure who barely acknowledged her existence unless she made a noise he didn't like.

The alcohol surged. It hit her brain with a dizzying wave of rebellion.

"Watch me," Calla slurred.

She stood up. The room tilted. She steadied herself on the back of the sofa, took a breath that tasted of recycled air and expensive perfume, and walked toward him.

A bodyguard stepped forward, a wall of muscle in a cheap suit. Christ didn't even look up, but his index finger lifted off the glass. One inch. The bodyguard froze and stepped back into the shadows.

Calla stumbled the last few steps. She didn't stop until her knees bumped against his. She leaned down, planting her hands on his thighs to keep from falling. The muscle beneath the expensive wool was rock hard.

He looked up.

His eyes were dark, devoid of light, like looking into a well. There was no surprise in them. No annoyance. Just a terrifying, hollow focus.

Calla leaned closer. Her hair fell forward, brushing against his lapel. "Uncle," she whispered, the word heavy and clumsy on her tongue. "Do you dare to marry me? Right now?"

The air around them seemed to vacuum out of the room. The music faded into a dull thrumming in her ears.

Christ set his glass down on the table. The clink of crystal against marble was the loudest sound in Vegas.

He looked at her hands on his legs. Then he looked at her mouth.

"I dare," he said.

His voice was a low rumble, a tectonic shift deep underground.

Before Calla's alcohol-slowed brain could process the answer, Christ stood up. The movement was fluid, predatory. He towered over her, blocking out the strobe lights.

His hand shot out and clamped around her wrist. His grip was iron. It wasn't a hold meant to guide; it was a shackle.

"Wait," Calla blinked, her buzz flickering with a sudden shot of adrenaline. "I was just..."

He didn't listen. He turned and walked out of the VIP box, dragging her behind him like a doll. Gemma's jaw dropped in the background, but she didn't move. No one moved when Christ Carlson decided to leave.

They bypassed the elevator and took the service stairs. His stride was long; Calla had to half-run to keep up, her heels clicking frantically on the concrete.

"Christ, you're hurting me," she gasped.

He didn't loosen his grip. He shoved open the heavy fire door and the desert heat hit them instantly. A black Rolls Royce was idling at the curb, the engine purring.

He threw the back door open and practically tossed her inside. The partition was already up. He slid in next to her, filling the space with the scent of sandalwood and cold, sharp air.

"Drive," he said to the intercom. "The Chapel. You know the one."

Calla slumped against the leather seat, the adrenaline fading back into a hazy confusion. She let out a giggle. It sounded hysterical.

"You're crazy," she mumbled, her head lolling against the window. "We can't get married. Francis would..."

"Francis isn't here." Christ's voice was right next to her ear.

The car stopped ten minutes later under a pink neon sign that buzzed like a dying insect. A Little White Wedding Chapel.

Christ pulled her out. The pastor looked tired, his suit rumpled, but when Christ produced a black Amex card, the man's spine straightened as if he'd been electrocuted.

Everything happened in a blur of technicolor absurdity. Calla stood at the altar, swaying slightly. Christ stood next to her, a dark pillar of stability.

He produced a ring. It wasn't a simple band. It was a diamond solitaire, far too big, far too expensive to have been bought at a chapel gift shop.

He took her left hand. His skin was dry and cool. He didn't slide the ring on gently. He pushed it past her knuckle with a force that scraped her skin. It was tight. Too tight.

"Do you, Calla..." the pastor droned.

"I do!" Calla chirped, feeling like she was in a sitcom. This was the best prank ever. Francis was going to have a heart attack.

"And do you, Christ..."

Christ turned to her. He wasn't smiling. He wasn't laughing at the joke. He was staring at her with that same intensity he used when he was acquiring a competitor company.

"I do."

The words were final. They were the sound of a cage door slamming shut.

He guided her hand to the paper. She signed her name with a flourish, the pen slipping in her sweaty fingers. He signed his below hers. Sharp, angular strokes. Christ Carlson.

He took the certificate, folded it once, and placed it inside his jacket pocket, right over his heart.

They walked back out into the night. The desert wind had picked up, drying the sweat on Calla's neck. A shiver racked her body. The alcohol was starting to wear off, leaving behind a headache and a creeping sense of dread.

She looked down at her hand. The diamond caught the neon light, flashing red. She tugged at it. It didn't budge.

"Okay," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "Fun's over. That was... wild. Let's get this off and go back to the hotel."

She pulled harder at the ring. It was stuck fast.

A hand covered hers. Christ's hand. He pressed her fingers down, stopping her struggle.

"Stop," he commanded.

Calla looked up at him. The neon sign reflected in his eyes, making them look like burning coals.

"Wear it," he whispered, leaning down until his lips brushed the shell of her ear. The heat of his breath made her knees buckle. "The game is over, Mrs. Carlson."