Eloise walked blindly down the Manhattan sidewalks. The cold wind whipped her hair across her wet face. She didn't know how far she walked before the black Lincoln Navigator pulled up beside her. The driver got out, gently but firmly guiding her into the back seat.

The car drove straight to the Upper East Side. It pulled through the iron gates of the Brandt family mansion.

Eloise pushed open the heavy mahogany double doors of her father's study. The room smelled of stale cigar smoke and old paper. The air was thick and hard to breathe.

Her father, Marcus, sat slumped in his leather executive chair. He looked like he had aged ten years in a single week. His skin was gray. The massive oak desk in front of him was covered in letters stamped with red PAST DUE warnings.

Genevieve sat on the velvet sofa, her face buried in her hands, sobbing loudly. When she heard the door click shut, her head snapped up. She rushed across the room and grabbed Eloise by the shoulders.

"Why did you provoke him?" Genevieve screamed, her fingers digging into Eloise's skin. "Are you that selfish? Do you want to see us die?"

Eloise felt completely numb. She shoved her mother's hands away and walked over to the desk. She stared at the bank notices.

Marcus slowly lifted his head. His eyes were cloudy and unfocused. "The company accounts were frozen an hour ago, Ellie," he said. His voice was a weak, rattling sound.

He reached into his top drawer. His hand shook violently as he pulled out a white folder. He slid it across the desk toward her.

Eloise picked it up. It was a medical report from Mount Sinai Hospital. She scanned the bold black text. Severe congestive heart failure. Immediate surgical intervention required. Below that was an estimated cost that made her head spin.

"If we lose the company," Marcus whispered, forcing a bitter smile, "we lose the premium insurance. The trust funds are already drained. I can't pay for the surgery next month."

A massive wave of guilt crashed into Eloise's chest, knocking the breath out of her. Her knees went weak. She stumbled backward. Her shoulder hit the tall brass floor lamp standing near the bookshelf.

The lamp tipped over and crashed onto the Persian rug with a loud thud. The glass shade shattered into dozens of pieces. The sound echoed in the quiet room, sounding like the final breaking point of their family.

Genevieve dropped to her knees right in the middle of the broken glass. She wrapped her arms around Eloise's legs. The proud, untouchable society woman was gone.

"Please, Ellie," Genevieve sobbed, burying her face against Eloise's knees. "Please save us. We will be on the street. We will be a joke. Please."

Eloise looked down at her mother crying on the floor. She looked at her father, who looked like a ghost waiting to die. The walls of the study felt like they were shrinking, crushing her ribs.

She closed her eyes. Two hot tears slid down her cheeks, dropping onto her mother's hair.

"What do you need me to do?" Eloise asked. Her voice was completely dead.

Marcus reached across the desk. He held out a thick, black business card with gold foil lettering. It only had a name and a private phone number. Christian Clarke.

"His assistant called the house just after you left the restaurant," Marcus said, his voice trembling. "He said Mr. Clarke is unsatisfied with tonight's negotiation. However, he is willing to give you an opportunity to privately discuss an alternative. This is his private number. Whether you call or not is entirely your choice."

Eloise reached out. She took the black card. The edge of the thick paper was sharp. It sliced a tiny cut into the pad of her index finger. A drop of blood welled up, but she didn't feel the pain.

She didn't say another word. She turned around and walked out of the study, moving like a machine whose power had been cut.

She climbed the grand spiral staircase to the second floor. She walked into her bedroom and shut the door, locking it behind her.

She didn't turn on the lights. She walked straight to her vanity and stared at the mirror. The moonlight coming through the floor-to-ceiling windows illuminated her pale face and hollow eyes.

In the corner of the room, sitting on a velvet chair, was her script for The Mist. It was covered in her handwritten notes and yellow highlighters.

Eloise walked over and dropped to her knees. She picked up the script and hugged it tightly against her chest. She squeezed her eyes shut. The tears came fast and hard now, soaking the thick paper. She thought about the late nights in acting classes, the rejections, the tiny spark of hope she had felt just hours ago.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. The screen lit up the dark room. It was a text from Sloane: Don't forget, 9 AM sharp tomorrow! You're going to kill it!

Eloise stared at the glowing words. Christian's voice echoed in her head. One phone call.

She let out a broken, wet laugh. There was no way out. She slowly stood up. She walked over to her nightstand, opened the bottom drawer, and shoved the script inside. She pushed the drawer shut, burying her dream in the dark.

She picked up her phone. Her thumb hovered over the keypad. Her hand shook so badly she almost dropped the device. She typed in the number from the black card.

Her heart pounded against her ribs, fast and painful. She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed the green call button. She lifted the phone to her ear.

It rang exactly one time.

"I'm listening," Christian's deep, cold voice answered.

The bass from the speakers vibrated through the floorboards of the exclusive underground lounge in Lower Manhattan.

Christian sat on a curved leather sofa in the darkest corner of the VIP section. He stared blankly at the crowd of people grinding against each other on the dance floor.

He held a crystal glass of Macallan neat. The ice cube clinked softly against the sides as he slowly swirled the amber liquid. His eyes were colder than the ice in his glass.

He pulled out his phone and stared at the screen. A completed call to Eloise's number. Forty-seven seconds. He had hung up first, right after she whispered "Yes." That single word had been burning in his skull for the past hour.

Jett Stevenson, his oldest friend, dropped onto the sofa next to him. Jett held a martini and looked at Christian with a raised eyebrow.

"You look like you're about to murder someone," Jett yelled over the loud music. "Relax, man. You won. She called, didn't she? That's what you wanted."

Christian didn't answer. He took a long swallow of whiskey. He had wanted her to call. He had set the trap. But now that she had walked into it, he felt nothing but a sick, twisting rage. Not at her. At himself. Because ten years of telling himself she was just another gold-digger had just been proven right. And it didn't feel like winning.

A group of young Wall Street traders pushed their way into the VIP section. They were flushed with alcohol and arrogance. They crowded around the table, raising their glasses toward Christian.

"Congratulations on the Brandt acquisition, Clarke," one of them slurred, leaning heavily on the table. "Heard you're stripping them down to the studs."

Christian didn't look at him. He kept his eyes on his drink.

Another trader, a guy with slicked-back hair, let out a dirty laugh. "Yeah, I bet old Marcus is desperate enough to put his daughter on the negotiating table to sweeten the deal. That actress girl. The Brandt princess is a hot potato right now. I wonder if she'll be forced to sell herself to the highest bidder before the week is out?"

Christian's hand stopped moving. The muscles in his forearm bunched up. Not because the traders were saying anything new—but because they were right. And hearing it made his blood run cold.

He stood up. He set his glass down with deliberate control—no shatter. He grabbed his suit jacket from the back of the sofa and walked away without a word.

"Christian! Wait!" Jett yelled, chasing after him. "You've been drinking!"

Christian ignored him. He pushed through the heavy metal doors and stepped out into the freezing Manhattan night.

He looked at his phone again. Then he walked over to his dark grey Aston Martin parked at the curb. He yanked the door open, slid into the driver's seat, and hit the ignition.

The tires screeched loudly as the Aston Martin violently pulled up to the curb outside the massive iron gates of the Brandt family mansion on the Upper East Side.

Christian threw the car door open and stepped out. He looked up at the sprawling stone facade. Only one window in the east wing on the second floor had a dim light on.

He bypassed the main gates, striding toward the heavy oak side-door. He raised his fist and knocked—three sharp, controlled raps.

A minute passed. Then, the heavy deadbolt clicked.

The door opened just a few inches. Eloise stood in the narrow gap, wearing a thin silk nightgown. Her face was completely drained of color. She looked up at the massive shadow looming on her porch.

The smell of alcohol and sharp cologne hit her nose. Her eyes widened in panic. She immediately tried to slam the door shut.

Christian's hand shot out. He planted his palm flat against the wood. The door stopped moving instantly. His eyes were cold, clear, and sober.

The bass from the speakers vibrated through the floorboards of the exclusive underground lounge in Lower Manhattan.

Christian sat on a curved leather sofa in the darkest corner of the VIP section. He stared blankly at the crowd of people grinding against each other on the dance floor.

He held a crystal glass of Macallan neat. The ice cube clinked softly against the sides as he slowly swirled the amber liquid. His eyes were colder than the ice in his glass.

Jett Stevenson, his oldest friend, dropped onto the sofa next to him. Jett held a martini and looked at Christian with a raised eyebrow.

"You look like you're about to murder someone," Jett yelled over the loud music. "Relax, man. You won."

A group of young Wall Street traders pushed their way into the VIP section. They were flushed with alcohol and arrogance. They crowded around the table, raising their glasses toward Christian.

"Congratulations on the Brandt acquisition, Clarke," one of them slurred, leaning heavily on the table. "Heard you're stripping them down to the studs."

Christian didn't look at him. He kept his eyes on his drink.

Another trader, a guy with slicked-back hair, let out a dirty laugh. "Yeah, I bet old Marcus is desperate enough to put his daughter on the negotiating table to sweeten the deal. That actress girl. The Brandt princess is a hot potato right now. I wonder if she'll be forced to sell herself to the highest bidder before the week is out?"

Christian's hand stopped moving. The muscles in his forearm bunched up. The veins on the back of his hand popped against his skin. A dark, violent rage exploded in his chest, burning his lungs.

He set his whiskey glass down onto the marble surface with controlled force. It didn't shatter. He grabbed his suit jacket from the back of the sofa and walked away, his long strides eating up the distance to the exit.

"Christian! Wait!" Jett yelled, chasing after him. "You've been drinking!"

Christian ignored him. He pushed through the heavy metal doors of the club and stepped out into the freezing Manhattan night.

He pulled his phone from his pocket. The screen lit up with a completed call. It was Eloise's number. He had hung up first. He stared at the screen. Ten years of suppressed jealousy, anger, and a sick, twisted need for her clawed at his throat. He hated that she was willing to sell herself. He hated that the traders were right.

He walked over to his dark grey Aston Martin parked at the curb. He yanked the door open, slid into the driver's seat, and hit the ignition. The engine roared to life like an angry beast. He slammed his foot on the gas, tearing into the empty streets.

The tires screeched loudly as the Aston Martin violently pulled up to the curb outside the massive iron gates of the Brandt family mansion on the Upper East Side.

Christian threw the car door open and stepped out. He looked up at the sprawling stone facade. Only one window in the east wing on the second floor had a dim light on.

He bypassed the main gates, striding toward the heavy oak side-door used by the family for private entry. He didn't bother looking for the doorbell. He balled his hand into a fist and pounded on the solid wood. The loud, aggressive thuds echoed down the quiet estate grounds.

A minute passed. Then, the heavy deadbolt clicked.

The door opened just a few inches. Eloise stood in the narrow gap, wearing a thin silk nightgown. Her face was completely drained of color. She looked up at the massive shadow looming on her porch.

The smell of alcohol and sharp cologne hit her nose. Her eyes widened in panic. She immediately tried to slam the door shut.

Christian's hand shot out. He planted his palm flat against the wood. The door stopped moving instantly. His grip was like iron. His eyes were wild, dark, and predatory.

He shoved the door forward. The force pushed Eloise backward. Christian stepped into the narrow entryway and reached behind him, slamming the door shut. He turned the deadbolt, locking them inside.

The entryway was tiny. Eloise stumbled backward until her spine hit the cold plaster wall. There was nowhere left to run.

Christian stepped into her space. He placed both hands flat on the wall on either side of her head, caging her in. He leaned down, his face inches from hers.

"What was that phone call?" Christian demanded. His voice was rough, scraping against his throat. "Is that how it works? You'll sell anything for the right price?"

Eloise turned her face away, trying to escape his heavy, hot breath. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. She bit her bottom lip, refusing to answer.

Her silence felt like a confession to him. The rage inside him boiled over.

He grabbed her chin with his large hand, his fingers digging into her jaw. He forced her head back around so she had to look at him. His eyes were full of a agonizing mix of hatred and desperate hunger.

Before she could speak, he crashed his mouth down onto hers.

It wasn't a kiss. It was a punishment. It was brutal and demanding. Eloise let out a muffled gasp of shock. She raised her hands and pushed hard against his solid chest, trying to shove him away.

Christian caught both of her wrists in one hand. He pinned her arms behind her back, pressing his heavy body flush against hers, trapping her completely against the wall.

His teeth scraped against her bottom lip. A sharp pain flared, followed by the metallic taste of blood spreading in her mouth.

Eloise couldn't breathe. The panic seized her lungs. She stopped fighting. Her body went limp against the wall. A single, hot tear escaped her eye and slid down her cheek. It dropped right onto the back of Christian's hand holding her jaw.

The heat of that single tear burned Christian's skin like acid.

His entire body jerked. He ripped his mouth away from hers and dropped her wrists. He took a massive step backward, his chest heaving as he dragged air into his lungs. He stared at his hand, then up at her face.

Eloise's knees gave out. She slid down the wall until she hit the hardwood floor. She sat there, pulling her knees to her chest, gasping for breath. She lifted a shaking hand and wiped the blood from her swollen bottom lip. Her eyes looked up at him, filled with absolute terror and defense.

The narrow entryway was dead silent. Only the sound of their ragged breathing filled the space.

Christian looked down at her. The violent storm in his eyes slowly receded, replaced by a thick, impenetrable wall of ice. He forced his posture straight, pulling the cold, calculating billionaire persona back over his fractured soul.

"Stand up," he ordered. His voice was completely devoid of emotion.

Eloise didn't move. She just stared at him.

Christian looked down at her, his jaw tight. "You want fifty million dollars to save your father. Here is my offer. You spend tonight with me. Tomorrow morning, you sign a marriage contract. You do that, and the money hits the Brandt accounts by noon."

Eloise's head snapped up. Her eyes widened in pure shock. "Marriage?" she whispered, her voice cracking. "Why? If you want to ruin my life, taking the company is enough."

Christian let out a short, cruel laugh. He leaned down, grabbing her chin again, but this time his touch was clinical. "Don't flatter yourself. A wife is a useful tax shield and a good PR move for the board. It's a business contract. Nothing more."

He let go of her face and stood up straight. He pulled back his cuff and looked at his expensive watch.

"You have sixty seconds to decide," he said coldly. "If you say no, I walk out that door, and your father loses his hospital bed."

The ticking of the vintage clock on the wall sounded like a hammer hitting an anvil. Eloise stared at the floor. Her father's pale face flashed in her mind. The medical bills. The tears on her mother's face.

The seconds bled away. Her stomach twisted so hard she felt physically sick.

At the fifty-ninth second, Eloise closed her eyes. "Yes," she whispered. The word barely made a sound.

Christian's pupils dilated. A fresh wave of anger hit him-anger that she would sell herself so easily, proving every lie he believed about her.

He didn't say a word. He bent down, wrapped one arm behind her knees and the other around her back, and lifted her off the floor.

Eloise gasped at the sudden weightlessness. Her hands instinctively flew up, gripping his broad shoulders to keep from falling.

Christian carried her up the spiraling back staircase. He didn't bother turning on the lights. He kicked open the door to her bedroom.

He walked over to the bed and dropped her onto the mattress. Eloise sank into the soft blankets. Before she could push herself up, Christian was over her. His heavy frame pressed her down into the mattress, caging her in.

He reached up with one hand and yanked his tie loose, tossing it onto the rug. His eyes were pitch black in the dark room, fixed entirely on her face.

Eloise turned her head away. She squeezed her eyes shut. Hot, humiliating tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, soaking into her pillow. Her hands gripped the bedsheets so tightly her knuckles ached.

Christian saw the tears. His hands stopped moving. He reached out, his rough thumb brushing against her cheek, wiping the wetness away. The touch was surprisingly gentle, completely at odds with his harsh words.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a low whisper. "If you're going to treat this like a job, then do it properly."

Eloise gritted her teeth. She forced her head to turn. She opened her eyes and met his intense gaze. Her eyes were full of broken pride and stubborn defiance.

Christian lowered his head. This time, his mouth didn't punish her. His lips brushed against hers with a suffocating, heavy heat. It was demanding, completely taking over her senses.

His large, warm hand slid under the edge of her silk nightgown. His fingers brushed against her bare stomach. The contrast of his hot skin against her cold flesh made her entire body shiver violently.

Eloise closed her eyes again. She let go of the bedsheets. She stopped fighting. She let herself sink into the dark, terrifying reality of what she had just agreed to.

Outside the window, the neon lights of Manhattan filtered through the gap in the curtains, casting long shadows across the bed. In the quiet darkness, Christian took the woman he had wanted for ten years, using the only method he thought she understood. And Eloise surrendered her life to the man she believed hated her most.