Buying The Exiled Heir: He Is Mine

Alyssa snatched her Birkin bag from the sofa. She shoved her feet into her heels and walked out of the penthouse without looking back. She stepped into the elevator and hit the lobby button. She caught her reflection in the mirrored doors, staring at the oversized men's shirt hanging off her frame, and bit her lower lip hard enough to taste copper. The elevator doors opened to the underground garage. She climbed into her Porsche, slamming the heavy door shut to block out the world. She rested her forehead against the leather steering wheel, her chest still heaving from the sheer physical presence of Benton in that room. She turned the key. The engine roared to life, vibrating through the floorboards. She sped out of the Plaza Hotel garage, the tires gripping the concrete. The freezing morning air of New York rushed in through the cracked window, cooling the heat in her cheeks. She stopped at a red light and glanced at her rearview mirror. Benton was standing on the curb outside the hotel's main entrance. He wore a thin black trench coat, his hands shoved into his pockets as the harsh wind whipped around him. There were no bodyguards, no fleet of Maybachs waiting for him anymore. The headline from the Wall Street Journal flashed in her mind, detailing how his grandfather had stripped him of every asset overnight. The light turned green. The car behind her honked loudly. She made it half a block before she caught sight of him again in the rearview mirror. The solitary, defiant line of his shoulders against the freezing wind struck a sudden, uncomfortable chord in her chest. It reminded her too much of how her own family looked at her—like a disposable problem. Her grip on the leather steering wheel tightened until her knuckles ached. He is my asset now, she told herself, a fierce, territorial instinct overriding her lingering anger. And I don't let my investments freeze to death on the pavement. The rationalization failed to soothe her entirely, and her stomach twisted into an uncomfortable knot. She yanked the steering wheel hard to the left. The tires screeched against the asphalt as the Porsche whipped around in a violent U-turn. She pulled up right in front of him, the brakes squealing. She rolled down the passenger window and slid her sunglasses over her eyes to hide the sudden tightness in her throat. "Get in," she ordered. "I can't have my new business partner freezing to death on the sidewalk." Benton raised an eyebrow. He opened the door and folded his large frame into the passenger seat. The cold cedar smell of him instantly filled the small cabin of the sports car. Alyssa cleared her throat. She glanced down at herself—the wrinkled men's shirt, the missing buttons, the bare legs. A flush of mortification crept up her neck. "I need to change first," she muttered, more to herself than to him. She drove not toward Midtown, but toward her apartment on the Upper East Side. Fifteen minutes later, she pulled into the underground garage of her building, told Benton to wait, and took the private elevator upstairs. Inside her walk-in closet, she stripped off the humiliating shirt and threw on a cream-colored cashmere sweater dress, a pair of sheer stockings, and her favorite black Louboutin heels. She checked her reflection—hair smoothed, lipstick reapplied, composure restored. She was Alyssa goddamn Sterling again. She returned to the garage, slid back into the driver's seat without a word, and hit the gas. Now she drove straight for Midtown. She pulled up to the entrance of Le Bernardin. The valet rushed forward and opened her door. He did not blink at her attire—because she finally looked like she belonged there. She tossed the keys to the kid and walked toward the entrance, her heels clicking sharply on the pavement. The maitre d' recognized her immediately and guided them to a private booth in the back. Alyssa ordered the most expensive tasting menu in fluent French, refusing to look at the prices. She folded her hands on the white tablecloth and stared at Benton. "You took my money," she said, lifting her chin. "You need to eat if you're going to work for me." Benton picked up his silver fork. His movements were precise, carrying the heavy weight of a man raised in absolute wealth. He took a bite of the fish and looked up at her. "Thank you for your generosity, boss," he said, his tone perfectly flat. The word boss sent a warm rush of satisfaction straight to her chest. The waiter brought the leather checkbook at the end of the meal. Alyssa pulled her heavy black card from her wallet and dropped it onto the tray without a second thought. She signed the receipt with a quick, aggressive flourish. Benton watched her profile. His jaw flexed, a dark, predatory amusement pooling in his eyes as he watched her pay for him.