Bound To The Ruthless Wall Street Butcher

The door of the Maybach clicked shut, sealing them inside a vacuum of leather and silence. The sound was final, like the lid of a coffin closing. The car was already moving, gliding through the Manhattan traffic with a smoothness that felt unnatural. Elayne sat pressed against the door, her hands clutching her purse to her stomach. Gunnar Kirk sat on the other side of the spacious backseat. He hadn't looked at her since she was shoved into the car. He was reading a document on a tablet, his profile sharp and unforgiving in the passing streetlights. "Mr. Kirk," Elayne started, her voice shaking. "I... I want to apologize. That was necessary. I was being-" "Thirty-two million," Gunnar said. He didn't look up. Elayne blinked. "Excuse me?" "The current debt load of the Baxter family trust," Gunnar said. He swiped a finger across the screen. "Including the bridge loan from Sterling Capital that is currently in default. Your father faces three counts of fraud. Your stepmother has maxed out six credit cards this month alone." Elayne felt the blood drain from her face. It had been five minutes. How did he know? "You're efficient," she whispered, the fight draining out of her. "I'm thorough," Gunnar corrected. He finally turned his head. His eyes were predatory. "That photo of us is already trending. My company's stock price just jumped two percent. The market likes seeing me... humanized." Cornell Conrad, the man from the restaurant, turned from the front passenger seat. He held out a sleek black tablet. "The contract is ready, Miss Baxter," Cornell said. His voice was mild, professional, and terrifying. Elayne looked at the screen. Consulting Services Agreement. "I need a fiancée," Gunnar said flatly. "The board is trying to trigger a morality clause in my grandfather's trust to oust me. They think I'm unstable. A fiancée from an old, established family-even a ruined one-fixes that image." "You want me to... act?" Elayne asked. "Three months," Gunnar said. "You play the part. I get control of the trust. In return, I clear the debt to Arthur Sterling." "No," Elayne said. The word was automatic. She couldn't be in the spotlight. Not with the secret she was hiding. Not with him. "I have... I have a boyfriend." Gunnar let out a short, dry laugh. He tapped the screen again. A video began to play. It was grainy footage from outside the restaurant, taken minutes ago. Arthur Sterling was on the phone, his face red with rage. "Burn it," he was screaming. "Burn the damn gallery down. I want Baxter on the street tonight." Elayne's hands flew to her mouth. The gallery. Her mother's legacy. It was all she had left. Gunnar leaned forward. He invaded her space, his scent-sandalwood and cold rain-filling her nose. "Sign the paper, Elayne," he said softly. "Or I sue you for sexual harassment for what you did in the restaurant. I will bury you in legal fees until you can't afford to buy a cup of coffee, let alone bail your father out." Elayne looked at him. He was a monster. A beautiful, well-tailored monster. Her phone buzzed in her hand. A text from Meredith, her stepmother: YOU STUPID GIRL. ARTHUR IS CALLING THE COPS. FIX THIS. Elayne closed her eyes. She thought of the small, warm weight she held in her arms every night in secret. She needed money. She needed safety. She took the stylus from Cornell. Her hand trembled as she signed Elayne Baxter on the digital line. Gunnar took the tablet back instantly. The predator relaxed, satisfied with the kill. "To the estate," he ordered the driver. "The estate?" Elayne asked, panic spiking again. "Why? I need to go home." "Tonight is the engagement gala," Gunnar said, returning to his reading. "You're late, my dear fiancée." The car accelerated, merging onto the highway that led to Long Island. The city lights faded behind them. Cornell reached back again. This time, he held a bottle of water and a small, orange prescription bottle. "For the anxiety, Miss Baxter," Cornell said politely. "We pulled your recent prescription history. We know about the panic attacks." Elayne stared at the bottle. Her heart stopped. Prescription history. Not full medical records. A wave of cold relief washed over her, so potent it made her dizzy. They knew about the Xanax, but not the reason for it. Not the clinic in Switzerland. Not the nine-month gap. Did they see the gap? Did they see the "rehabilitation" stay in Switzerland nine months ago? Did they know? She took the pills, her fingers brushing Cornell's. He didn't react. Gunnar closed his eyes, leaning his head back. He looked exhausted, human for just a second, before the mask slipped back into place. Elayne moved her hand to her stomach, tracing the faint line of the C-section scar through her dress. They don't know, she told herself. If they knew, this car would be turning around. She had sold her soul to the devil, but she had to make sure he never found the angel she was hiding.