Blackmailed Into The Ruthless Tycoon's Bed

Adaline bursts through the heavy double doors of the UCL lecture hall. She is panting, her chest heaving as she tries to suck in oxygen. The professor is already at the podium, droning on about syllogisms. Adaline ducks her head and slips into an empty seat in the very back row. She pulls her MacBook out of her tote bag. Her hands are still shaking slightly from the run, and from the lingering humiliation of Barron's last text. She opens the laptop. She cannot take this anymore. She refuses to fight a ghost. She needs facts. She needs to know exactly who this man is so she can find his weakness and force him to break the engagement. She opens Google Chrome. Her fingers fly across the keyboard: Barron Cooke Omni Corp. She hits enter. Millions of results populate the screen. She clicks on the first link, a lengthy feature from the Wall Street Journal. She scrolls rapidly. The article praises the Cooke family's aggressive expansion and Barron's ruthless efficiency in acquiring tech startups. But there are no photos. Every image is of the corporate headquarters or the company logo. "Pretentious," Adaline mutters under her breath. She opens a new tab and navigates to LinkedIn. She types his name into the search bar. A profile appears. It has the same pitch-black void for a profile picture. The account is set to private, hiding his work history and connections. However, the education section is visible. Adaline's eyes lock onto a single line of text. Yale University, Class of '13. The cursor blinks on the screen. Adaline stops breathing. Her brain, trained in elite prep schools, automatically does the math. Class of 2013. If he graduated university in 2013... assuming he entered at eighteen and graduated at twenty-two... Her fingers tremble as she opens the calculator app on her Mac. She types in the current year. She subtracts 2013. She adds 22. The number 33 flashes on the screen. "Thirty-three? !" Adaline gasps aloud. The sound is too loud for the quiet lecture hall. Several students in the rows ahead turn around and glare at her. The professor pauses his lecture, shooting her a stern look over his glasses. Adaline shrinks down in her seat, lifting her notebook to hide her face. Her cheeks burn with embarrassment, but beneath the flush, her skin is ice cold. When the students turn back around, Adaline stares at the number on her screen. Her stomach violently churns. A wave of actual, physiological nausea washes over her. Acid burns the back of her throat. Thirty-three years old. He is twelve years older than her. To a twenty-one-year-old college student, a man in his mid-thirties feels like a completely different generation. The silhouette in the window reflection flashes in her mind. She aggressively shakes her head. Fake, she tells herself. It has to be fake. Men that age pay for good PR and fake photos. She imagines a balding, middle-aged man with a paunch, using his immense wealth to buy a twenty-one-year-old girl. Tears of pure, unadulterated despair prick her eyes. She feels like a piece of meat on a butcher's block. Her own family sold her to a man old enough to be her father. She grabs her phone. She opens her messages and finds her brother, Jason. Did you know? she types, her thumbs hitting the glass so hard it makes tapping sounds. Did you know Barron Cooke is a thirty-three-year-old fossil? ! Jason's reply comes a minute later. Jason: Fossil? What the hell are you talking about, Addie? Barron is... Adaline does not let him finish. She is blinded by betrayal. Shut up! she replies. You are all complicit! You sold me to an old man for a corporate merger! I hate you! She immediately goes to Jason's contact settings and hits 'Mute Notifications'. She cannot bear to read his lies or his excuses. When the lecture ends, Adaline walks out of the building like a zombie. The London rain has turned into a steady downpour. She doesn't open her umbrella. She lets the cold water soak into her coat, hoping it will numb the pain in her chest. When she finally unlocks the door to her apartment, she hears a faint meow. Adaline drops her bag. She runs into the living room. Sitting in the middle of the rug is a brand new, luxurious cat carrier. Inside, Monty is curled up on a plush blanket. Adaline falls to her knees. She unzips the carrier and pulls the orange tabby into her arms. She buries her face in his soft fur. The dam breaks. She sobs. Deep, wracking sobs that tear at her throat. She cries for her lost autonomy, for her cruel parents, and for the terrifying future tied to an old man. She cries until her eyes are swollen shut and her head pounds. When the tears finally stop, a cold, hard numbness settles over her. Her phone buzzes on the floor. Barron Cooke: Did you receive the cat? Adaline stares at the name. The image of a forty-four-year-old man makes her skin crawl. She does not argue. She does not throw a tantrum. She simply types: Received. Then, she swipes left on his chat and hits 'Archive'. She mutes his notifications. For the next three days, Adaline Poole disappears. She posts nothing on Instagram. She sends no messages. She executes a strategy of absolute cold treatment. If she ignores the old man, maybe he will lose interest. On the fourth night, Adaline is sitting on the floor of the UCL library. It is 11:00 PM. She is surrounded by crumpled papers and empty coffee cups. Her marketing proposal for a furniture brand called 'Human Liberty' is completely stalled. Her brain is fried. Her laptop chimes. A new email notification slides into the top right corner of her screen. She glances at it, expecting a university newsletter. The sender name reads: Barron Cooke. The subject line reads: Regarding your stalled marketing proposal. Adaline's heart stops. Her eyes widen in absolute horror.