Blackmailed Into The Ruthless Tycoon's Bed

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.