Contract Marriage With My Billionaire Boss (Venus and Aaron) novel Chapter 12

**The Long Didn’t Say by Mark Twain**
**Chapter 12**

**AARON**

Connor, that incessant chatterbox, had finally made his exit after devouring every morsel of food within reach. But not before he theatrically plopped a file labeled “Venus Astor” right onto my desk. Typical Connor—always needing to add a touch of drama to the mundane.

Of course, I was eager to delve into the contents of that file. I wasn’t born yesterday; I needed to uncover every nuance, every shadow she might be hiding behind. There was no room for gaps in my knowledge, especially not after the lengths I had gone to get here. Not when there were still those out there who believed they could come out on top. Not after everything they had done to me, to my mother. They didn’t get to walk away unscathed this time.

As I flipped open the folder, I was met with a meticulously organized dossier—Connor’s handiwork, no doubt. He could be incredibly thorough when he chose to be. Inside were her records: every school she had attended, from high school through college, and a comprehensive list of every job she had ever held. A waitress at one point; that didn’t surprise me in the least. That fire blazing in her eyes? It certainly wasn’t born from a life of ease.

Next came the family details. Her father—a classic drunkard and gambler. No shocker there. It seemed I wasn’t the only one grappling with paternal issues. Her mother? Terminally ill with cancer. That explained her willingness to accept my offer. Desperation often leads to choices that logic would never endorse. It looked like whatever grand plan she had before had crumbled. What had she initially intended? To plead for help? To resort to theft? Or perhaps something even more perilous?

She was an only child with a best friend named Gianna Geoffrey, described as fiercely loyal in Connor’s notes. Yet, there was a glaring absence in her profile that gnawed at me: her birth details. No record of her birthplace, no birth certificate, no hospital documentation, not even a trace of a fake ID. She simply materialized in the system at the age of five. That was more than a little suspicious. I’d need Connor to dig deeper. If there was anything concealed, he would unearth it—he was adept at that.

I was halfway through examining the accompanying photographs—some of her in school, others lifted from social media, and a few candid shots that screamed surveillance—when the door swung open with an aggressive bang. No knock, no polite introduction. Just an explosion of noise, hostility, and an inflated sense of self-importance.

Richard Sinclair.

My biological father.

I didn’t even flinch. Instead, I calmly tucked the folder away into my drawer and closed it with a deliberate slowness, as if savoring the moment.

“Is it true?!” he bellowed, his voice echoing off the walls.

I lifted my gaze, feigning as much boredom as I could muster. “Depends on what you’re accusing me of.”

“You kissed your PA in the lobby?!” he shouted, his face turning a remarkable shade of crimson.

“Guilty,” I replied, allowing a lazy smirk to spread across my face as I leaned back in my chair, thoroughly enjoying his outrage.

His expression twisted into one of fury. “I specifically told you to stop screwing around with your assistants! That’s why I personally hired this one. And now you’ve gone and messed it up again. You’re dragging the Sinclair name through the mud.”

I tilted my head, relishing the confrontation. “First of all, it’s my company now, not yours. Secondly, who do you think you are, barging in here like a poorly written plot twist? And third… disappointed in your precious hire, are you?”

That last jab landed squarely. I could see the tension in his clenched fists, and for a fleeting moment, I thought he might leap at me. It wouldn’t be the first time we had danced that dangerous dance.

He sneered, “The company isn’t yours yet. Don’t forget the will.”

Ah, the will. That damned clause that forced me into this elaborate charade. Three long years of proving I could be a man in love—a man married—to inherit what I had painstakingly built alongside my grandfather while he lounged on someone else’s yacht, sipping champagne.

“And I am still your father,” he added, puffing out his chest as if that declaration carried any weight.

“Some father,” I muttered, brushing off imaginary lint from my lapel, dismissing him with a wave of my hand. “Now, unless you’re here to offer something remotely useful, I have work to do.”

“Get your act together, Aaron, or you’ll regret it.”

“No one else gets access to that file. No one.”

“Cross my heart, boss man. I’ll be in touch.”

The call ended, and I leaned back in my chair, staring blankly at the ceiling.

Venus Astor. Mysterious. Desperate. Beautiful. And now, thanks to that little stunt in the lobby, officially under the scrutinizing gaze of Richard Sinclair. That shifted everything.

If he thought I was playing a game, he was gravely mistaken. I was engaged in a war.

Connor had suggested a public outing tomorrow—a date to solidify our narrative. He was right. With Richard sniffing around, we needed to make our relationship appear genuine. We had to sell it like the performance of a lifetime.

The amusing part? I already knew so much about her. I could tell you the brand of shampoo she used, how she liked her coffee, the rhythm of her laughter when she wasn’t guarded. But she knew nothing of me. Not truly.

And I preferred it that way.

Because the truth about Aaron Sinclair was not just messy—it was a weapon.

And you don’t hand your weapons to someone you barely trust to keep your secrets.

Not unless you’re prepared to bleed.