Bound To The Ruthless Wall Street Butcher
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I was trapped in a velvet booth at Le Bernardin, Arthur Sterling’s hand crawling up my knee as he whispered that my father would be in handcuffs by morning if I didn't spend the night with him.
Desperate to escape, I lunged at the only man more dangerous than Arthur—Gunnar Kirk, the "Butcher of Wall Street"—and kissed him in front of every camera in the room, thinking I was choosing the lesser of two evils.
I was wrong; Gunnar didn't just play along, he took possession, forcing me into a cold-blooded contract to be his fake fiancée to save his corporate image from an SEC investigation. While my greedy stepmother and sister were busy fighting over the diamonds he sent, I was living in terror, trying to hide the one thing that truly mattered: my infant son, hidden away with a nanny in a cramped Queens apartment. When my baby suffered a febrile seizure and I rushed to the ER, I looked up to see Gunnar standing in the doorway, his glacial eyes boring into me as he realized the "ruined" socialite was hiding a child from her past.
I tried to sabotage the wedding, setting up my fame-hungry stepsister as a decoy bride so I could flee to Switzerland with my son, but Gunnar caught me on the fire escape before I could take a single step toward freedom. He threw me over his shoulder like a sack of flour and told me that if I didn't walk down that aisle, he would personally ensure my father rotted in prison.
We stood at the altar and exchanged vows in a ceremony built on blackmail and lies, but as we walked out as husband and wife, Gunnar didn't look at me with affection; he turned to his assistant and ordered a total deep dive into the medical records I had spent a year trying to erase.
"Find out exactly what happened during those nine months in Switzerland, and tell me who that baby really belongs to."
Bound To The Ruthless Wall Street Butcher Chapter 1
"If you leave with me tonight, Elayne, I can make sure the bridge loan for the gallery gets an extension."
Arthur Sterling's voice was a wet, heavy thing that seemed to coat Elayne's skin in oil. Under the table, his hand moved. It crawled up her knee, fingers digging into the fabric of her dress, claiming territory that wasn't his.
Elayne Baxter stared at the pristine white tablecloth of Le Bernardin. Her stomach gave a violent lurch, a physical rejection of the man sitting across from her and the situation she had been forced into. She gripped her napkin until her knuckles turned the color of bone.
"Arthur, please," she whispered, her voice tight. She tried to shift her leg away, but his grip tightened. It wasn't a caress; it was a clamp.
"Don't play hard to get, sweetheart," Arthur hissed, leaning in. The smell of stale scotch and expensive cologne wafted off him. "Your stepmother was very clear. If you walk out that door, the marshals will be at your father's gallery by morning. Do you want to see Richard in handcuffs again? Do you want to lose the last thing your mother left you?"
Elayne's breath hitched. The air in the restaurant felt too thin. She looked around, her eyes darting frantically from table to table. The maître d' caught her eye, paused, saw Arthur Sterling, and smoothy turned his back.
No one was coming. In New York, the taint of financial ruin was a disease, and Elayne Baxter was contagious.
Panic began to rise in her throat, tasting like bile. She was going to throw up. She was going to scream. She was trapped in a velvet booth with a predator, and the walls were closing in.
Then, the air in the room shifted.
It wasn't a sound. It was a sudden, vacuum-like silence near the entrance.
Elayne looked up.
A phalanx of men in dark suits moved through the dining room like a storm front. In the center of them walked a man who didn't need to rush. He was tall, wearing a suit that cost more than her father's current debt, and his face was a mask of bored, lethal indifference.
Arthur's hand froze on her leg. His eyes widened, the arrogance draining out of them to be replaced by a stark, naked fear.
"Kirk," Arthur breathed.
Elayne followed his gaze. Gunnar Kirk. The "Butcher of Wall Street." The man who dismantled companies for sport. The same man whose name had been plastered across the Financial Times for weeks, the subject of a relentless SEC investigation that had the city holding its breath.
A desperate, insane idea sparked in the terrified chaos of her mind. Fear could only be fought with greater fear.
She didn't think. If she thought, she would freeze.
Elayne stood up abruptly. Her hand jerked, knocking over her wine glass. The dark red liquid splashed across the tablecloth and onto Arthur's lap.
"Shit!" Arthur yelped, jumping up, batting at his wet trousers.
Elayne didn't apologize. She was already moving. She stepped into the aisle, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She walked fast, her heels sinking into the plush carpet, straight toward the bar where the dark suits were converging.
A bodyguard stepped in her path, a wall of muscle.
"Honey!" Elayne shouted. Her voice was high, breathless, fake.
The bodyguard blinked, hesitating for a fraction of a second.
That was all she needed. Elayne slipped past him. She reached the tall man in the center.
Gunnar Kirk turned. His eyes were the color of glacial ice, cold and unreadable. He looked down at her, his expression not even registering surprise, just a mild, dangerous curiosity.
Elayne didn't give him a chance to speak. She didn't give him a chance to kill her.
She rose on her tiptoes, grabbed the lapels of his jacket with trembling hands, and pulled him down.
She pressed her lips to his.
The restaurant went silent. A collective gasp sucked the oxygen out of the room.
Elayne's eyes were squeezed shut. His lips were firm, unyielding, and cold. He didn't kiss her back. He stood there like a statue, his body hard and tense against hers.
"Help me," she breathed against his mouth, her voice barely a tremor. "Play along, and I'll get rid of the paparazzi trailing you."
She felt a muscle in his jaw tick.
Gunnar didn't push her away. His eyes flicked over her shoulder. He saw the camera lens glinting behind a potted palm. He saw Arthur Sterling, pale and shaking, frozen by the table. He saw the girl in his arms, the ruined daughter of Richard Baxter. But the Baxter name, for all its current scandal, was old money. A name that still opened doors in circles the SEC couldn't touch. An asset.
Gunnar's hand came up. It was large, warm, and heavy. He cupped the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair.
He didn't just play along. He took control.
He deepened the kiss, tilting her head back, possessing her mouth with a brutal, calculated efficiency. It wasn't romantic. It was a claim. It was a performance designed to dominate the room.
Flashes of light erupted. The paparazzi were getting the shot of the decade.
Arthur Sterling turned and fled toward the side exit, leaving his bill unpaid.
Gunnar broke the kiss. He released her so abruptly she almost stumbled. He looked at her, his blue eyes devoid of any warmth, wiping his mouth with a pristine white handkerchief.
He turned to the man standing just behind him.
"Cornell," Gunnar said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in Elayne's chest. "Find out which bankrupt family she belongs to. Then put her in the car."
Elayne stood frozen, her lips throbbing, as two security guards stepped forward to flank her. She had escaped the wolf, only to throw herself at the dragon.
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Bound To The Ruthless Wall Street Butcher of Contents
Chapter 1 Ch. 1Chapter 2 Ch. 2Chapter 3 Ch. 3Chapter 4 Ch. 4Chapter 5 Ch. 5Chapter 6 Ch. 6Chapter 7 Ch. 7
Chapter 8 Ch. 8
Chapter 9 Ch. 9
Chapter 10 Ch. 10
Chapter 11 Ch. 11
All Chapters all
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7.8
Alayna was working a grueling catering shift in worn-out heels to support her broke college boyfriend, Caiden, who claimed to be studying at the library.
But through the crack of a VIP suite door, she saw him wearing a bespoke suit and a Patek Philippe watch, sipping expensive liquor.
"It's a little poverty role-play. Keeps things interesting."
He was laughing with his rich friends, mocking her as his clueless "charity case."
To make matters worse, she was forced into a humiliating mascot costume just in time to watch him passionately kiss his wealthy ex-girlfriend.
That same night, Alayna's mother collapsed with gastric cancer, requiring a half-million-dollar surgery.
When a desperate Alayna begged Caiden for help, he refused.
"Why don't you just apply for Medicaid? That's the path for people like you."
For two years, she had starved herself to buy his textbooks, his tickets, and his shoes.
He had stolen her sweat and her sacrifices, all for a cruel game.
The sheer audacity of his betrayal made her blood run cold.
When a billionaire stranger stepped in to pay her mother's medical bills in exchange for a one-year fake marriage, Alayna didn't hesitate to sign the contract.
She slipped the flawless diamond ring onto her finger, opened a spreadsheet, and sent Caiden an invoice for every single cent.
This time, she was going to dismantle his entire life.
7.3
I was tracing the gold paint on my own tombstone when a hand tapped me on the shoulder.
It was Clayton.
The same man who, five years ago, had left me bleeding out in a ditch because he didn't want to be late for my sister's engagement party.
"Die quietly, Ivy," he had said over the phone before hanging up.
Now, standing over my grave, he dropped his cheap plastic flowers in shock.
"Ivy? You're... we buried you."
They hadn't buried me.
They had buried an empty box to save face, mourning a "troubled" daughter they had actually discarded like broken trash the moment I became a liability.
Clayton's shock quickly turned to that familiar, arrogant anger.
He accused me of faking my death for attention.
He told me I was sick for putting the family through such pain.
He even reached out to grab my arm, intending to drag me back to my father to apologize.
"You're coming with me," he spat. "You owe us an explanation."
But he made a fatal mistake.
He thought he was talking to Ivy Dillard, the soft girl who cried when she skinned her knees.
He didn't notice the town car waiting at the curb, or the man stepping out of it.
Before Clayton's fingers could graze my coat, a hand made of steel caught his wrist.
Collin Richardson, the most feared Capo in Chicago, stepped between us.
"Touch my wife again," Collin whispered, his voice promising violence. "And you lose the hand."
I smiled at the terror draining the color from Clayton's face.
I didn't come back from the dead to explain myself.
I came back to bury them.
8.1
Born into luxury, Hermione Watson-Pierce has always felt like merely a pawn in her parents' ruthless game of power. She learned to suppress her emotions, earning herself the title of the "Ice Queen."
Just then, Aiden Mendes bursts into her life-a charming playboy known for his reckless reputation. Aiden chooses to cope with his inner turmoil through a lavish lifestyle, using his charisma and striking looks to keep others at bay.
A looming threat forces them to face a contracted marriage or risk losing their inheritance. When they first meet, Aiden is struck by an unexpected attraction, as if it were love at first sight. Yet, his notorious reputation precedes him, and Hermione makes no effort to hide her disdain.
As their contractual marriage evolves into a battle of wills, Aiden must work to melt Hermione's icy heart, proving that he is more than what meets the eye. But can he persuade her to rise above her prejudices and bravely pursue love?
8.2
For three years, nineteen-year-old Ella Campbell rotted in a freezing psychiatric isolation room.
Her billionaire family didn't visit her once, only pulling her out today to force her to publicly apologize to Ashlyn, the perfect sister who had framed her.
At Ashlyn's glamorous engagement gala, Ella was treated worse than a stray dog and forced to watch her childhood sweetheart propose to her sister.
When Ella showed no jealousy, her brother Ivan dragged her onto a dark balcony and nearly choked her to death.
Her mother didn't even check if Ella was breathing, merely ordering a makeup artist to paint thick concealer over the dark purple handprints on Ella's neck so the family's stock price wouldn't drop.
Standing under the blinding stage lights in a shapeless gray dress, facing three hundred mocking Wall Street executives, Ella was supposed to be the broken, obedient psycho the Campbells needed.
"I am deeply sorry for the pain I caused."
She was supposed to end the apology there and bow to her abusers, but Ella didn't shed a single tear.
"My only regret is that I didn't insist on waiting for the police to arrive that night. I deeply regret that I didn't demand a full, legal toxicology report to prove to everyone exactly what happened."
As the ballroom erupted into suspicious whispers and her paralyzed twin brother finally saw the violent bruises hidden beneath her makeup, Ella's counterattack against the Campbell family officially began.
7.6
Isolde Mitchell knew her wealthy husband was cheating on her, but the true nightmare began when her mother-in-law summoned her.
The older woman coldly announced that the mistress was pregnant with a boy and would be moving into their estate.
Because Isolde's family had gone bankrupt and she had only given birth to a frail daughter, she was deemed completely worthless.
When Isolde packed her bags and demanded a divorce, her husband Clark just laughed.
He threatened to use their ironclad prenup to leave her penniless and take full custody of her daughter just to torture her.
To make matters worse, he forced Isolde to secure a failing business deal with the ruthless billionaire Jacques Valdez, essentially ordering her to sell her body to get the signature.
"If you fail, you will never see Bria again."
He even sent his goons to snatch the little girl from her preschool to prove his point.
Isolde was completely cornered, trembling with a mix of rage and absolute despair.
How could the man she married be such a monster? She would rather die than let them destroy her daughter, but how could a bankrupt mother fight a powerful dynasty with absolutely nothing?
Out of options, she looked at the private business card the terrifying billionaire Jacques had unexpectedly given her daughter.
Swallowing her pride, she decided to make a deal with the devil himself, ready to use his power to tear her husband's family apart.
8.9
Aliana braved a heavy storm, carrying a warm stew for her fiancé, Ivan, just as she always put his needs before her own. This ingrained habit, a survival mechanism from a cold childhood, was about to shatter into a million pieces. Tonight, everything she believed was a lie.
The iron gates of Ivan's private villa flashed red, denying her entry, and a guard mumbled lies. Ignoring him, she pushed past, a strange orchid perfume leading her to Ivan's car, where a tube of crimson lipstick lay on the passenger seat. Through a window, she saw him with another woman and a small child, an image that felt like jagged glass twisting in her heart.
Then his words cut through the storm, cold and cruel:
"Aliana is just a placeholder."
He was marrying her for her multi-billion-dollar patent, a secret deal made with her own parents, who had sold her for a kickback to buy this very house. Her family, her love, her future-all were a calculated lie.
Her inner wolf, usually fierce, fell terrifyingly silent, replaced by a chilling resolve. The burning acid in her throat wasn't just bile; it was the taste of her shattered devotion.
She didn't want his apologies or his guilt. She wanted his ruin, and as Ivan walked in with a fake smile the next morning, Aliana was ready to deliver it.
