Bound By The Cruel Billionaire's Deal

"I think we are done here." Penelope Astor-Vance slid the thick, glossy business plan back across the polished mahogany table. The heavy document stopped inches from Aida Ruiz's hands. Aida looked down at the rejected proposal. She pressed her fingertips into her palms, her nails digging so hard into the soft flesh that a sharp, stinging pain shot up her forearms. Penelope picked up her limited-edition Hermes Birkin from the empty chair next to her. She let out a soft, breathy laugh that echoed in the quiet conference room. "It is a valiant effort, Aida," Penelope said, walking around the large table until she stood right beside Aida's chair. She leaned down, her expensive perfume thick and suffocating. "But the market doesn't run on charity. NovaTech will be filing for the Bankruptcy Code by next month. You should start looking for a regular desk job." Aida pulled in a slow, deep breath. The air in the room felt thin. She forced the corners of her mouth up, stretching her lips into a flawless, impenetrable public relations smile. "The game isn't over yet, Penelope," Aida said. She stood up, her heels clicking sharply against the hardwood floor. She leveled her gaze, looking Penelope dead in the eye. Her voice was cold, flat, and completely steady. "I wouldn't write my obituary just yet." Penelope shrugged, a dismissive lift of her narrow shoulders. She turned toward the heavy glass doors. "Good luck with that," Penelope said. She gestured to her legal team, and the three men in tailored suits followed her out, pushing the doors open and disappearing down the hallway. The heavy glass doors swung shut with a soft click. The moment the latch caught, the rigid tension holding Aida's spine together snapped. Her shoulders slumped forward, and she grabbed the edge of the conference table to keep her knees from buckling. Emmet Miles stepped out from the corner of the room, his brow deeply furrowed. "I just ran a background check on Penelope's holding company. They have a massive, undisclosed vested interest in one of our direct competitors. She never intended to fund us; this was just a fishing expedition to look at our financials," Emmet said, his tone heavy with frustration. He walked over to the water pitcher, poured a glass of room-temperature water, and held it out to her. His brown eyes were heavy with worry. "Drink this," Emmet said quietly. Aida reached out and took the glass. Her hand was shaking so violently that the water sloshed over the rim, spilling cold drops onto her knuckles and the cuff of her silk blouse. She stared at the ripples on the surface of the water, her chest rising and falling in shallow, erratic jerks. "We have exactly fifteen days of cash flow left, Aida," Emmet said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "After that, we can't make payroll. The servers shut down. It's over." Aida set the glass down on the table with a loud clatter. She closed her eyes. The darkness behind her eyelids immediately filled with the faces of her engineering team, the late nights, the empty coffee cups, the sheer desperation of the last two years. She opened her eyes. The panic in her chest hardened into something cold and sharp. "I am going to get a bridge loan," Aida said. Emmet frowned, his brow furrowing deeply. "From who? Every venture capital firm in Manhattan has already passed on us. The banks won't touch us without collateral." Aida picked up her black wool trench coat from the back of her chair. She slid her arms into the sleeves and pulled the collar up. "Brendan Walls," she said. Emmet's face drained of color. He reached out and grabbed Aida's forearm, his grip tight. "Are you out of your mind?" Emmet demanded. "Walls isn't an investor. He's a predator. He guts companies for sport. You can't go near him." Aida looked down at Emmet's hand on her arm. She reached over and firmly peeled his fingers off her sleeve. "He is the only man in this city with enough liquid capital to wire five million dollars by tomorrow morning," Aida said. "It is the only way to save the company." She turned her back on Emmet, pushed open the heavy glass doors of the conference room, and walked out into the corridor. She moved fast, her heels sinking into the plush carpet as she headed straight for the elevator bank. She pressed the down button. While she waited, she stared at her distorted reflection in the brushed metal doors, smoothing down a stray piece of dark hair and adjusting the lapels of her coat. Her stomach churned with a sickening knot of acid. The elevator chimed and the doors slid open. Aida stepped inside and rode it down to the lobby. She walked briskly past the security desk, pushed through the heavy glass revolving doors, and stepped out onto the damp pavement of the street. A cold drizzle was falling over Manhattan. Aida stepped off the curb, raised her arm, and flagged down a passing yellow taxi. She opened the back door and slid onto the worn leather seat. "The Plaza Hotel," Aida told the driver. The taxi pulled away from the curb, merging into the heavy traffic on Fifth Avenue. Aida turned her head and stared out the rain-streaked window. The neon signs of storefronts blurred into streaks of red and white light, reflecting off the wet asphalt. Twenty minutes later, the taxi jerked to a halt in front of the iconic entrance of the Plaza Hotel. A uniformed doorman stepped forward and pulled the door open. Aida handed a twenty-dollar bill to the driver through the plastic partition. She stepped out of the cab, her heels landing on the thick red carpet laid out over the sidewalk. She opened her small black clutch, pulled out the thick, embossed invitation card Emmet had secured for her, and walked up to the security detail standing behind a velvet rope. She handed the card to a massive man in a black suit with an earpiece. He looked at the card, checked a digital tablet in his hand, and nodded. He unhooked the velvet rope and stepped aside. Aida walked past him, entering the grand, sprawling corridor of the hotel. She followed the sound of a jazz band, her footsteps muffled by the thick rugs, until she reached the heavy, carved wooden doors of the main ballroom. She pushed them open. The light from the massive crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling was blinding. Aida squinted, blinking rapidly as her eyes adjusted to the overwhelming brightness and the sea of designer gowns and tuxedos. She began to walk through the crowded room. She dodged waiters carrying trays of champagne, her eyes scanning the faces of the wealthy elite, searching for one specific man. She stopped near the center of the room. She tilted her head up. There, standing on the second-floor VIP balcony, was Brendan Walls. He was a tall, broad-shouldered silhouette against the dim lighting of the upper level, holding a crystal glass of bourbon. He was looking down at the crowd, completely still, like a hunter watching a field of prey.