Reborn Heiress: Escaping My Contract Marriage with the Cold CEO

ANNABETH SAINT

The door clicked shut behind Devon, and the silence that followed was deafening.

I sat there, my fingers still tingling from his touch. If I marry you, it’s forever. The words echoed in my mind. Foreverr. That was a promise I wanted him to keep.

I exhaled, slow and shaky, pressing my palms flat against the bed to steady myself.

Forever.

I had just asked Devon Thorne to marry me. And he’d said yes.

A laugh bubbled up in my throat—half disbelief, half exhilaration.

I stood, pacing the length of the room, my bare feet sinking into the plush carpet. The penthouse was too quiet, too still. Devon had left in a rush, his body coiled tight with tension. A situation, he’d called it.

I stopped at the floor-to-ceiling window, pressing my fingertips against the cool glass. The city sprawled below, glittering under the night sky.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

I pulled it out, expecting a message from Devon—some clipped update, maybe, or a reassurance that he’d be back soon.