Blackmailed Into The Ruthless Tycoon's Bed

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.