Blackmailed Into The Ruthless Tycoon's Bed

Adaline throws her phone face-down onto the marble kitchen counter. The sharp clack echoes in the quiet apartment. She begins to pace. Her bare feet slap against the hardwood floor. Her arms are crossed tightly over her chest, her fingernails digging into the fabric of her sweater. How did he know? The question loops in her brain like a broken record. How did Barron Cooke know she was stuck on the 'Human Liberty' proposal? How did he know she won the Team Leader position the exact minute the class ended? He is a CEO in New York. He is not God. He does not have surveillance cameras in UCL. Adaline stops pacing. Her eyes narrow. Information leak. Someone is feeding him information. She lunges for her phone and flips it over. She opens Instagram. She taps on her own profile and goes straight to her recent stories. Three days ago, during her 'cold treatment' phase, she posted a photo at 2:00 AM. It was a picture of her triple-shot espresso. But in the blurred background, the edge of her notebook was visible. Written in bold red ink were the words: Human Liberty - STUCK. Adaline's breath hitches. She taps to the next story. It was posted two hours ago, right after her victory in class. A selfie of her holding up a peace sign, captioned: Team Leader secured! Eat dirt, Camilla. This story was not public. It was posted exclusively to her 'Close Friends' list. Adaline's heart begins to pound. She taps the 'Viewers' icon at the bottom left of the screen. A list of twenty names pops up. Her sorority sisters, her childhood friends, and right at the top, a familiar profile picture of a guy holding a surfboard. Jason Poole. Her older brother. The pieces of the puzzle snap together with sickening clarity. Adaline's blood runs cold, and then it boils. "Traitor," she hisses through her teeth. She exits Instagram, opens her contacts, and hits Jason's number. She does not care that it is barely 9:00 AM in New York. The phone rings four times before it connects. "Addie?" Jason's voice is thick with sleep and the raspy undertone of a hangover. "This better be a life-or-death emergency." "You sold me out!" Adaline screams into the receiver. Her voice is so shrill it hurts her own throat. "You are screenshotting my private Instagram stories and sending them to that old pervert!" There is a beat of silence on the other end. Jason lets out a long, heavy sigh, the sound thick with exhaustion and a hint of genuine frustration. "Addie, please calm down. Take a breath. I didn't sell you out, I'm trying to manage a highly volatile situation." Adaline's vision literally tints red. She grabs a decorative velvet pillow from the sofa and hurls it across the room. It knocks over a crystal vase, which shatters on the floor. "Stop making excuses!" she roars. Tears of pure, hot frustration prick her eyes. "Because of you, he blackmailed me into having dinner with him this Saturday! You handed him the ammunition!" "Dinner? Addie, you are overreacting to a simple meal," Jason says softly, attempting to reason with her. "Do you know how many people in Manhattan respect Barron Cooke? He isn't some monster. You are letting your imagination run wild." The words hit Adaline like a physical blow to the chest. Her own brother. The person who used to cover for her when she snuck out of the house. He is taking the older man's side. "He is thirty-three years old!" Adaline cries out, her voice breaking. "How can you push your own sister into the arms of a man from a totally different era? Are the corporate shares really worth my freedom?" "Addie, listen to yourself," Jason says, his tone turning serious. "You have this completely wrong. Barron is not who you think he is. Just go to the dinner and see for yourself. He is..." "I don't want to hear it!" Adaline shrieks, cutting him off completely. Her chest heaves. She is hyperventilating. The betrayal is a physical pain in her ribs. "You are all liars! You are all part of Green's sick little corporate cult!" "Adaline, just let me explain. Barron is..." "Go to hell, Jason!" Adaline slams her thumb onto the red end-call button. She drops the phone. She sinks to the floor, pulling her knees to her chest. She wraps her arms around her legs and buries her face in her knees. She is completely alone. Her father is threatening her cat. Her mother is calculating her social value. Her brother is a spy. She is surrounded by enemies, being herded toward a man she despises. A soft ding comes from her phone on the floor. Adaline slowly lifts her head. She wipes her wet cheeks. She picks up the phone. It is an email notification. The sender name makes her stomach drop for an entirely different reason. Rhys Fallon. Rhys. Her ex-boyfriend. The aspiring actor who cheated on her with a socialite, publicly humiliated her in the New York tabloids, and caused her to flee to London in the first place. She opens the email. Adaline, heard you were in London. I'm flying in for a shoot this weekend. Let's grab a drink? I miss you. Adaline stares at the email. She feels a wave of nausea, but then, a dark, reckless thought sparks in her brain. She looks at the shattered crystal vase on the floor. She has a dinner with a controlling, thirty-three-year-old tycoon on Saturday. She needs a way out. She needs to do something so offensive, so disrespectful, that Barron Cooke will cancel the dinner and break the engagement himself. A slow, dangerous smile spreads across Adaline's face.