Adaline sits on the floor next to the sofa.

She pushes herself up. Her muscles ache from the tension. She walks over to the floor-to-ceiling windows of her apartment. The London streets below are slick with rain. She presses her hot forehead against the cold glass, trying to force her heart rate to slow down.

A sharp ping echoes from her phone.

Adaline flinches. She spins around, her eyes darting to the device on the sofa.

She walks over and snatches the phone. The notification on the screen makes her stomach drop.

Barron Cooke has accepted your request.

She unlocks the phone and opens the chat. The cursor blinks on the empty text field. She types out the first words that come to her mind: I hope you and my father are happy with your little hostage situation.

Before she can hit send, the screen shifts. An incoming FaceTime call takes over the display.

The caller ID reads: Green Poole (Dictator).

Adaline takes a sharp breath. She swipes the green button to accept the call.

"Show me the cat," Adaline demands instantly. Her voice is ice-cold. She does not offer a greeting.

Green chuckles. The sound grates against her nerves. "You sent the request. Good girl. As long as you cooperate, the animal will be returned to your apartment tomorrow."

"I do not trust a single word that comes out of your mouth," Adaline snaps. Her fingers grip the edges of the phone so tightly her knuckles turn white. "Show me the cat right now, or I block Barron Cooke, book the next flight to JFK, and smash every window in your corporate headquarters."

Green is silent for two seconds. He knows his daughter is impulsive enough to do exactly that.

"Fine," Green says.

The camera feed flips.

Adaline recognizes the background immediately. It is the mahogany-paneled study in their Long Island estate. Standing near the massive fireplace is Mrs. Gable, the housekeeper. In her arms, wrapped in a familiar blanket, is Monty.

The cat looks terrified, but he is alive.

Adaline's shoulders drop. The crushing weight on her chest lifts slightly. She exhales a shaky breath. "Monty," she whispers to the screen.

The camera flips back to Green's face. His expression is stern. "You will maintain daily contact with Barron. No tantrums. No ignoring his messages."

Adaline rolls her eyes. She opens her mouth to tell him to go to hell.

Before she can speak, a sound cuts through the audio of the video call.

It is the sharp, rhythmic click-clack of expensive leather dress shoes stepping onto the hardwood floor of the study. The footsteps are slow, deliberate, and approaching her father.

Adaline narrows her eyes. She instinctively pulls the phone closer to her face.

"Green," a voice says.

The voice does not belong to her father. It is a man's voice. It is incredibly deep, carrying a magnetic, gravelly texture, yet it is completely devoid of warmth. It is the voice of someone who is entirely used to giving orders and having them obeyed without question.

"Regarding the Omni Corp acquisition..." the voice continues.

The sound sends a strange, involuntary shiver down Adaline's spine. The hairs on her arms stand up.

On the screen, Green's arrogant expression vanishes instantly. His posture straightens. His face twists into a sickeningly polite, almost sycophantic smile.

"Barron," Green says, his tone dripping with deference. "You are here. Please, have a seat."

Adaline's breath catches in her throat.

Barron.

Her eyes widen. She stares intensely at the edge of her phone screen, trying to catch a glimpse of the man.

The camera shakes as Green hastily adjusts his phone. For a fraction of a second, a figure enters the frame.

Adaline does not see a face. She only sees a section of an arm resting on the edge of her father's desk. The sleeve belongs to a dark, immaculately tailored suit. The fabric looks impossibly expensive. Peeking out from the crisp white cuff of the shirt is a Patek Philippe watch.

"Are you dealing with family matters?" Barron asks. His tone is flat, completely unbothered. "Do you need me to step out?"

Adaline's mind races.

Her father is the CEO of a massive corporation. He bows to no one. Yet, this Barron Cooke speaks to her father as an equal-no, as a superior. The realization makes her stomach twist. If this man has that much power over her father, he must be ancient. A wealthy, old tycoon using his capital to buy a young bride.

"No, no, not at all," Green says quickly. He fumbles with the phone, turning the camera so the screen faces the room. "This is my daughter, Adaline."

Adaline is suddenly thrust into the view of the man in the room.

She is completely unprepared. Her eyes are red and swollen from crying. Her blonde hair is a tangled mess around her shoulders. Her mascara is slightly smudged beneath her lower lashes.

She gasps and instinctively raises her free hand to cover the phone's camera lens.

Through the audio, she hears a faint sound.

"Hmm."

It is a single, dismissive syllable from Barron. There is no interest in his voice. There is no surprise. It is the sound a person makes when looking at a blank wall.

The absolute indifference hits Adaline like a physical blow.

Her humiliation instantly transforms into a burning, aggressive pride. She drops her hand from the lens. She glares into the camera, her eyes flashing with defiance.

"Say hello to Barron, Adaline," Green commands. His voice is tight with forced cheerfulness. He is begging her to behave.

Adaline grinds her back teeth together. She forces the corners of her mouth up into a wide, entirely fake, and deeply sarcastic smile.

"Not interested," Adaline says. Her voice is sharp and clear. "Goodbye."

She presses the red end-call button.

The screen goes black. The oppressive presence of that deep voice is severed.

Adaline tosses the phone onto the sofa. Her chest rises and falls rapidly. Her heart is hammering against her ribs. She cannot get the sound of that voice out of her head. Or the sight of that cold, calculated suit sleeve.

She walks over to the kitchen island. She grabs a glass, shoves it under the refrigerator dispenser, and fills it with ice water. She drinks it in three huge gulps. The freezing water chills her throat, but it does nothing to cool the anger boiling in her veins.

She sets the glass down with a loud clack.

The phone on the sofa lights up.

Adaline freezes. She walks back slowly, as if the device is a live explosive.

She picks it up. A new WhatsApp message from the black void profile.

She opens the chat.

Barron Cooke: My people will deliver the cat to your apartment tomorrow at 2:00 PM.

Adaline stares at the text. Her brow furrows in deep confusion.

He didn't ask her father to do it. He bypassed Green entirely and took control of the situation.

Adaline stands in the middle of her living room, her eyes locked on the glowing screen.

My people will deliver the cat to your apartment tomorrow at 2:00 PM.

The sheer arrogance of the statement makes her blood boil. He is not asking. He is informing her. He has effortlessly inserted himself into her life, taking control of the one thing she cares about.

She drops onto the sofa, her thumbs hovering over the keyboard. She refuses to let him dictate the terms.

She types rapidly: Do not bother. My father will send him.

She hits send.

Less than three seconds later, the text typing... appears at the top of the screen.

Adaline's heart skips a beat. She holds her breath, staring at the small gray letters.

Barron Cooke: Your father's efficiency is lacking. My personnel are already en route.

The absolute certainty in his words feels like a physical wall closing in on her. He is shutting down her resistance with zero effort.

Adaline's fingers fly across the glass. Do you always enjoy meddling in other people's business, Mr. Cooke?

She hits send. Her chest heaves. She wants to pierce that impenetrable armor of his. She wants him to get angry.

To add insult to injury, she opens her sticker menu and sends a highly pixelated, sarcastic smiley face.

She waits.

One minute passes. Then five. Then ten.

The screen remains dark. Barron Cooke has read her message and chosen to completely ignore it.

The silence is worse than an insult. It is a dismissal. Adaline groans in frustration, throwing her head back against the sofa cushions. She feels like she just threw a pebble at a battleship.

She glances at the digital clock on her microwave. It is 1:15 AM in London.

The adrenaline crash hits her hard. Her eyelids feel like they are made of lead. Her muscles ache from the stress of the past hour. She tosses the phone onto the coffee table and pulls the cashmere throw over her legs, deciding to sleep right there on the sofa.

She closes her eyes. The darkness is a relief.

BZZZ. BZZZ. BZZZ.

The harsh vibration of her phone against the glass coffee table shatters the quiet.

Adaline jolts awake. Her heart hammers in her throat. She grabs the phone.

It is Green.

She swipes to answer, pressing the phone to her ear.

"What did you say to Barron? !" Green roars. His voice is so loud it physically hurts her eardrum.

Adaline pulls the phone an inch away from her face. "I just declined his 'help'. Is that a crime?"

"He just put tomorrow morning's preliminary investment meeting on indefinite hold!" Green shouts. The panic in her father's voice is palpable. "He had his assistant call my office and state that the terms need immediate re-evaluation because he is entirely displeased with our current dynamic. You insulted him!"

Adaline rolls her eyes, though her stomach tightens. "His schedule has nothing to do with me. Stop using your business to hold me hostage."

"Listen to me very carefully, Adaline," Green hisses, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "If you do not fix this tonight, if you do not make him happy, that cat will be thrown into the River Thames before sunrise."

The threat punches the air out of her lungs.

"You are insane!" Adaline screams. Her fingernails dig into the leather of the sofa, scratching the expensive material.

Green hangs up.

Adaline sits in the dark, panting. Her vision blurs with hot, angry tears. She hates her father. She hates the Cooke family. She hates the entire corrupt system of the New York elite that treats her like a bargaining chip.

But she loves Monty.

She wipes her eyes violently with the back of her hand. She picks up the phone and opens WhatsApp.

She stares at the black profile picture. It feels like she is bowing down to an executioner.

She forces her stiff fingers to type: I apologize for my attitude earlier.

She hits send. It tastes like ash in her mouth.

To appease her father's demand to 'make him happy', she begrudgingly opens her GIF keyboard. She searches for 'cute cat' and sends an animated image of a kitten waving its paw.

It is humiliating.

She watches the screen. The clock ticks to 2:00 AM.

Nothing.

She tosses and turns on the sofa. The fabric feels too hot. The room feels too small. She curses Barron Cooke in her head. She pictures him as a wrinkled, sadistic old man, sitting in a leather chair, laughing at her desperation.

At 2:30 AM, the phone vibrates.

Adaline lunges for it.

Barron Cooke: Noted.

Adaline stares at the single word. Noted.

The heat in her blood spikes to a boiling point. She sacrificed her pride, she apologized, and all he gives her is a corporate, dismissive noted?

She loses all self-control.

She types furiously: What is that supposed to mean? What do you want from me? Are you just sitting there trying to act deep in the middle of the night to torture me?

She presses send.

A second later, panic sets in. She remembers her father's threat about the river. She presses her finger against the message, trying to find the 'Delete for Everyone' option.

Before she can delete it, his reply appears.

Barron Cooke: It is 2:30 AM in London. It is 9:30 PM in New York. I am working.

Adaline freezes.

The time difference.

She had been so consumed by her own panic and anger that she completely forgot New York is five hours behind. He isn't staying up late to torture her. He is just at work.

A hot flush of intense embarrassment creeps up her neck and covers her cheeks. She feels incredibly stupid.

Before she can formulate an excuse, another message pops up.

Barron Cooke: Since you are clearly awake and energetic, we will use this time to establish some fundamental ground rules regarding our arrangement.

Adaline swallows hard. The words have a conversation look threatening on the screen. She feels the distinct sensation of being a mouse cornered by a very patient snake.

She bites her lower lip and types: What do you want to talk about? I don't understand anything about your boring corporate mergers.

The typing indicator flashes for a few seconds.

Barron Cooke: Then let's talk about how you plan to prove to me that you are worth the patience of a man my age.

Adaline gasps. Her eyes widen to the size of saucers. The phone slips from her hand and lands softly on her lap.

A man my age.

The words echo in her head, heavy and suffocating.

Adaline stares at the screen resting on her lap. the patience of a man my age.

The sentence feels like a physical slap across the face. It is a stark, unapologetic reminder of the power dynamic. He knows exactly what this is. He knows he is older, wealthier, and holding all the cards. And he is mocking her for it.

She grabs the phone. Her thumbs hit the screen with aggressive force.

Who do you think you are? she types. Do not speak to me with that condescending tone!

She hits send, throws the phone to the end of the sofa, and pulls the blanket over her head. She squeezes her eyes shut, determined to ignore the arrogant old man.

The next morning, London is draped in a thick, gray drizzle.

Adaline wakes up to the harsh blare of her alarm. She groans, pushing the blanket off. Her head throbs with a dull ache behind her temples. She slept terribly.

She drags herself into the marble-tiled bathroom and turns on the cold tap. She splashes the freezing water onto her face, gasping at the shock. She looks in the mirror. Dark circles bruise the skin under her eyes.

She dries her face and picks up her phone from the vanity.

She opens WhatsApp. Barron never replied to her angry text from last night. He simply let her have the last word, which somehow feels even more insulting. Like a parent ignoring a toddler's tantrum.

However, she has three new voice messages from her mother, Joette.

Adaline sighs. Her chest feels tight. She taps the play button on the first message.

"Adaline, darling," Joette's voice flows from the speaker, elegant but dripping with calculation. "Your father told me you were quite rude last night. You must understand, securing a connection with Barron Cooke was not easy."

Adaline grabs her toothbrush and aggressively applies toothpaste. She rolls her eyes.

She taps the second message.

"You are not a child anymore," Joette continues. "Stop dreaming about those penniless college boys. Barron might be older than you, but he provides absolute, unbreakable class security. That is what matters."

Adaline's hand freezes mid-brush.

Barron might be older than you.

The toothbrush bristles scrape painfully against her gums. The confirmation from her own mother solidifies the nightmare. He really is an old man.

She spits the foam into the sink and taps the final message.

"Be a good girl. Initiate a conversation with him today. Do not ruin this for us. Mommy loves you."

Adaline slams the phone down onto the marble counter. The loud smack echoes in the bathroom.

She feels suffocated. Her own parents are actively packaging her up to be sold.

She storms out of the bathroom, pulls on her Burberry trench coat, and grabs her leather tote bag. She needs to get to University College London for her morning lecture. She needs cold air.

Walking to the underground station, the damp London chill seeps through her coat.

She refuses to be a victim. If her parents want her to talk to him, she will talk to him. She will make herself so utterly repulsive and annoying that Barron Cooke will cancel the arrangement himself.

She steps onto the crowded Tube carriage and grabs a metal pole. She pulls out her phone and opens Barron's chat.

A malicious smirk curves her lips. She decides to play the role of the shallow, brainless Gen-Z bimbo.

Morning~ Old man! she types, deliberately using a tilde. Did you sleep well? Is your back aching today? She adds a winking emoji with its tongue sticking out.

She hits send. She imagines a gray-haired man in a tweed suit adjusting his reading glasses, utterly disgusted by her text. The thought brings a tiny spark of satisfaction to her dark morning.

To her shock, his reply comes through in less than ten seconds.

Barron Cooke: Good morning. I do not suffer from back pain. My daily ten-kilometer morning run is sufficient to maintain my core strength.

Adaline chokes on her own saliva.

She stares at the text. Ten kilometers? Core strength?

She feels a flush of embarrassment, but she doubles down. She refuses to lose.

Wow, ten kilometers! she replies. You must really care about your health. Do you need me to buy you some hair-loss serum from London? I hear it is very popular for men your age~

A few seconds pass.

A photo arrives in the chat.

Adaline taps to open it. It is a breathtaking photograph taken from the top floor of a skyscraper, looking out over the Manhattan skyline at dawn. The sky is painted in hues of deep purple and gold.

But that is not what catches her eye.

Reflected in the thick pane of the floor-to-ceiling window is the silhouette of the photographer.

Adaline's breath hitches. She zooms in on the reflection.

The glass heavily distorts the details, blurring his features completely into a dark shadow. However, the outline is undeniably tall and imposing, with broad shoulders that block out the city lights. There is no visible sign of a hunch or frailty, just a solid, static shape.

Adaline's heart performs a strange, rapid flutter against her ribs. She swallows hard, her throat suddenly dry.

He could be wearing padded clothing, or it has to be his bodyguard holding the phone, she tells herself frantically. Or he photoshopped the entire image to look intimidating.

Another message pops up beneath the photo.

Barron Cooke: Thank you for your concern. My hairline is perfectly intact. Also, you are going to be late for class.

Adaline's head snaps up. She looks at the digital clock glowing above the Tube doors.

8:52 AM.

Her eyes widen in horror. She is going to be late.

She looks back at her phone, her fingers trembling slightly as she types: How do you know I am going to be late? Are you having me followed? !

Barron Cooke: When you were throwing your tantrum last night, you sent a screenshot of your schedule to prove you were busy. Your Logic 101 lecture begins in exactly eight minutes.

Adaline slaps her free hand against her forehead. A groan escapes her lips.

She did send that screenshot.

The train screeches to a halt at her station. The doors slide open. Adaline sprints out of the carriage, her tote bag bouncing against her hip.

As she runs up the escalator, her lungs burning, she feels a terrifying sense of dread. Barron Cooke is not just an old tycoon. He is observant. He is calculating. And he is effortlessly crushing her from three thousand miles away.