Blackmailed Into The Ruthless Tycoon's Bed

Adaline Poole pushes open the heavy oak door of her Marylebone apartment.

The cold London wind slips in behind her, but inside, the silence is what hits her first. It is a suffocating, empty silence. She drops her keys onto the marble console table. The metal clatters loudly, echoing in the vast, high-ceilinged hallway.

Usually, a flash of orange fur greets her before she even takes off her coat.

"Monty?" Adaline calls out.

Her voice sounds thin in the empty space. She kicks off her Prada loafers. The leather shoes hit the hardwood floor with a dull thud. She frowns. The apartment is too quiet.

She walks into the living room, carrying a paper bag filled with expensive organic cat food. She drops the bag onto the Persian rug. It tips over. Tins of wet food roll out, clinking against each other, but Adaline does not care.

She bends down and lifts the edge of the cashmere throw blanket draped over the velvet sofa. It is Monty's favorite hiding spot.

Nothing.

Her breathing speeds up. A cold knot forms in the pit of her stomach.

She turns and runs into the kitchen. Her bare feet slap against the cold tiles. She yanks open the bottom pantry door. The hinges squeak.

The shelf is completely bare. The fifty-pound bag of dry kibble is gone. The litter box in the corner is gone. The ceramic water bowls are gone.

Her pupils dilate. The knot in her stomach twists into a sharp, physical pain.

Her hands start to shake. She reaches into the pocket of her Burberry trench coat and pulls out her iPhone. Her fingers are trembling so badly she almost drops the device onto the tile floor.

She unlocks the screen. Her thumb hovers over her contacts. She presses the name of the housekeeper back at her family's estate in Long Island, New York.

The phone rings. Each long beep feels like a needle scraping against her eardrums.

Finally, the line connects.

"Miss Adaline?" Mrs. Gable's voice is hesitant, thick with guilt.

"Who touched my apartment passcode?" Adaline demands. Her chest heaves. She does not ask how the housekeeper is doing. In the world of the New York elite, pleasantries are discarded the moment property is violated. "Where is my cat?"

"I... I am so sorry, Miss. Your father ordered it."

Adaline's jaw clenches so hard her teeth ache. Her fingernails dig into the soft flesh of her palms, leaving deep crescent-moon indentations. Her eyes burn with sudden, hot tears.

Green Poole. Her father. The man who runs his family like he runs his corporate acquisitions-with ruthless, cold-blooded efficiency.

She hangs up on the housekeeper without another word.

She scrolls down her contact list and presses the number saved as 'Green Poole (Dictator)'.

He answers on the first ring.

"Bring him back," Adaline yells the second the line opens. Her voice bounces off the pristine white walls of her kitchen. "Bring my cat back right now!"

A low, humorless chuckle comes through the speaker.

"You are wasting your time in London, Adaline," Green says. His voice is smooth, arrogant, and entirely unbothered by her panic. "Playing house with a stray animal while ignoring your responsibilities."

"My responsibilities?" Adaline laughs. It is a harsh, broken sound. "You mean my responsibility to be sold off to the highest bidder? Your reach is too long, Green. You have no right to touch my things."

"I have every right. I pay for that apartment. And as for the stray," Green pauses, letting the silence stretch to maximize her anxiety. "He has been relocated to a shelter. One much more suited for a street cat."

All the blood drains from Adaline's face.

The kitchen spins. She stumbles backward and her spine hits the edge of the granite kitchen island. She slides down until she hits the floor.

"What do you want?" Her voice shakes. The fight drains out of her, replaced by raw, physiological terror.

"I sent you a contact card on WhatsApp," Green says slowly, dictating terms like a CEO closing a hostile takeover. "A man named Barron Cooke. You will send him a friend request. Immediately."

Adaline's nose wrinkles in disgust. Her stomach churns with actual nausea.

Barron Cooke. She knows the name. Everyone in their social circle knows the Cooke family, but the heir, Barron Cooke, is notoriously elusive. He never appears in society magazines, and no one knows what he actually looks like, only that his corporate ruthlessness is legendary. They are old money, aggressive investors. And her father wants her to marry into their wealth to secure his own company's future.

"No," Adaline spits out. She pushes herself off the floor and begins to pace the length of the kitchen. "I am not doing this. I am not participating in your twisted, archaic matchmaking."

"That is your choice," Green says coldly. "But you should know, the shelter I chose is quite overcrowded. They euthanize unclaimed animals after twenty-four hours. Tomorrow morning, to be exact."

Adaline gasps. The air is sucked from her lungs. She stops pacing. Her feet feel glued to the floor.

"You are a monster," she whispers. A single tear escapes and tracks down her cheek, hot and humiliating. "You are a cold-blooded sociopath."

"You have five minutes to send the request," Green says, completely ignoring her tears. In his world, emotions are just leverage. "Or the cat dies."

The line goes dead.

The dial tone buzzes in her ear. Adaline screams. She pulls her arm back and hurls the iPhone across the room. It hits the leather sofa, bounces off the cushions, and lands face-up on the rug.

She drops to her knees. She grabs her hair with both hands, pulling hard enough to hurt. Her mind flashes with images of Monty-the scrawny, terrified orange tabby she rescued from the freezing London rain three months ago-locked in a metal cage, waiting for a lethal injection.

Her chest tightens. She cannot breathe. The panic attack is a physical weight crushing her ribs.

She snaps her head up. Her tear-filled eyes lock onto the glowing screen of her phone on the rug.

The despair morphs into a cold, hard resolution. She crawls across the Persian rug. Her knees burn against the fabric. Her fingers are stiff and clumsy as she grabs the phone.

She opens WhatsApp. The screen is blank. It feels like staring at a death warrant.

The phone vibrates in her hand. A new text message from Green pops up.

It is a photo.

Adaline clicks on it. Her heart stops beating for a full second.

It is Monty. He is crammed into a tiny, rusted wire cage. His ears are flattened against his head. His eyes are wide, reflecting pure, unadulterated terror.

The sight of the photo feels like a physical punch to her gut. Fresh tears spill over her eyelashes and splash onto the glass screen, distorting the image of the terrified cat.

She bites down on her lower lip. She bites so hard she tastes the metallic tang of copper blood. She forces herself to wipe the screen with the sleeve of her trench coat.

She opens the contact card her father sent.

She stares at the screen, her fingernails digging so hard into her palm that the skin nearly breaks. Every breath she takes burns with the hot sting of humiliation. This is not a surrender; it is a temporary ceasefire. She swears to herself, in the silent emptiness of her kitchen, that Green Poole will one day pay dearly for this extortion.

She taps the 'Add Contact' button.

The profile loads. The name reads 'Barron Cooke'. There is no status. There is no bio. The profile picture is just a solid, pitch-black square. It looks like a void.

She stares at the name. Pure, concentrated hatred burns in her chest, heating her blood.

She takes a deep, shuddering breath. She closes her eyes.

Her thumb presses down hard on the 'Send Request' button. It feels like pressing the detonator on her own life.

The screen flashes: Request Sent.

Adaline slumps against the base of the sofa. Her energy is completely depleted. She stares at the black square on her screen, her breathing ragged.

"I hate you," she whispers to the empty room, her voice dripping with venom.