Bound By The Cruel Billionaire's Deal

Aida gripped the fabric of her skirt, lifting the hem just enough to keep from tripping. She walked toward the grand marble staircase that curved up to the second floor, her heart hammering against her ribs with a heavy, frantic rhythm. She climbed the steps, her eyes fixed on the balcony. As she reached the top landing, two massive bodyguards in identical black suits stepped directly into her path, crossing their arms to block her way. Brendan Walls slowly turned around. He gently swirled the amber liquid in his glass. The ice clinked softly against the crystal. He looked at her, his face an unreadable, carved mask of cold indifference. He didn't say a word. Alex Graves, Brendan's executive assistant, stood a few feet away. He caught a microscopic nod from Brendan. Alex stepped forward and waved a hand at the bodyguards. The two men immediately dropped their arms and stepped back into the shadows. Aida pulled a sharp breath into her lungs. She walked forward, stopping exactly three feet away from Brendan. Brendan looked down at her. His dark, calculating eyes slowly dragged over her damp hair, down the front of her coat, and settled on the hem of her skirt, which was slightly darkened from the rain outside. "I need a five-million-dollar bridge loan," Aida said. Her voice was louder than she intended, cutting through the low hum of the jazz music drifting up from downstairs. Brendan let out a low, dry chuckle. He tilted his head back and swallowed the rest of his bourbon in one smooth motion. He held the empty glass out to the side. Alex materialized instantly, took the glass, and stepped back. "NovaTech is not worth five million dollars," Brendan said. His voice was a deep, gravelly baritone that sent a strange, involuntary shiver down Aida's spine. "It's barely worth the electricity keeping your servers running." Aida clamped her jaw shut. The muscles in her cheeks jumped. "Our new predictive algorithm has a market potential of fifty million in the first year of licensing alone. If you look at the data-" Brendan reached up and casually adjusted his platinum cufflink. The sharp, dismissive movement cut off her words instantly. He took a slow step forward. The physical distance between them vanished. Aida had to tilt her head back to look at him. The sheer size of him, the expensive scent of cedar and cold air coming off his suit, created a suffocating wall of pressure. Aida's instinct screamed at her to step back, to put space between them. She dug her nails into her palms, forcing her feet to stay planted on the marble floor. Brendan leaned down. His face was inches from hers. "I can give you the money," he murmured, his breath brushing against her ear. "But there is a condition." Aida's stomach dropped. She snapped her head up, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. "How much equity do you want?" Brendan shook his head slowly. He turned away from her and walked to the edge of the balcony. He rested his hands on the ornate railing and pointed down at the crowded ballroom floor. Aida walked up beside him and followed the line of his finger. Down below, surrounded by a group of laughing sycophants, stood Grayson Lott. "Grayson Lott has been quietly poaching my top executives and aggressively undercutting my subsidiaries for months," Brendan said, his voice flat and hard. "I want to see exactly how greedy he really is. Get close to him. Test his boundaries. Consider this an informal corporate espionage assignment—though I suspect he will cross a line. If he does, I will be ready to collect something far more valuable than market intelligence. " Aida stared down at Grayson, then turned her head to look at Brendan. Her eyes went wide with pure shock. The sheer absurdity of the demand hit her like a physical blow to the chest. "Are you out of your mind?" Aida hissed, the heat of anger rushing into her cheeks. "Do you think I am some high-end call girl you can pimp out for a deal?" Brendan turned his head. His eyes were dead, devoid of any human warmth. "It is a simple business transaction, Ms. Ruiz. I need to know how far you are willing to go to secure an objective." Aida's hands curled into tight fists. Her fingernails bit into the crescent-shaped marks already bruised into her palms. Her chest tightened as a violent war raged inside her head between her dignity and the faces of her employees who would lose everything if she failed. Brendan raised his left arm and glanced at his Patek Philippe watch. "You have exactly ten minutes to decide." As if on cue, Alex stepped up to Aida's side. He held out a sleek black leather folder. Inside was a crisp, legally binding term sheet for a five-million-dollar cash injection. Aida stared at the thick white paper. It was the lifeline she had been begging for. A thick, bitter wave of humiliation rose in her throat, choking her. She closed her eyes. She swallowed hard, forcing the bile and the pride down into her stomach. When she opened her eyes again, the desperation was gone, replaced by a sheet of cold, hard ice. Aida reached out and snatched the folder out of Alex's hands. She tucked the leather folder into the deep inner pocket of her black wool trench coat—a snug fit, but secure. "Deal." A microscopic, cruel smirk tugged at the corner of Brendan's mouth. It was there for a second, and then it vanished. Aida turned on her heel. She didn't look at him again. She walked straight toward the marble staircase. She descended the steps slowly, her hand gliding along the cold brass railing. Her eyes were locked onto the first floor, burning a hole straight into the back of Grayson Lott's head.