Buying The Exiled Heir: He Is Mine

Alyssa shoved the black card back into her wallet. She walked out of the restaurant, the cold air hitting her face again. She slid into the driver's seat and looked at Benton as he got in. "What street are you staying on?" she asked. Benton rattled off a zip code deep in Brooklyn, his voice completely indifferent. Alyssa's hands froze on the steering wheel. She turned her head, her eyes wide behind her sunglasses, waiting for him to laugh and say it was a joke. He just stared straight ahead. A heavy weight settled in her chest, and she pressed the gas pedal, steering the car toward the Brooklyn Bridge. The towering glass skyscrapers of Manhattan faded in the rearview mirror. The streets grew narrower, the pavement cracked, and the brick walls were covered in thick layers of graffiti. Alyssa slowed the Porsche to a crawl, her tires thumping over deep potholes. She pulled up to a crumbling red-brick apartment building. The streetlamp above them flickered with a loud buzzing sound, casting harsh shadows over the trash lining the sidewalk. Alyssa frowned, her chest tightening with genuine unease. "I'm walking you up," she insisted, unbuckling her seatbelt. Benton didn't argue. He pushed open the heavy, rusted metal door to the building. The smell of damp mold and stale cigarettes hit Alyssa's nose instantly, making her stomach churn. She gripped the wobbly wooden handrail, her heels sinking into the soft, rotting wood of the stairs. They reached the top floor. Benton pulled a cheap brass key from his pocket and shoved it into the scratched lock. The door groaned open, revealing a space no bigger than her walk-in closet at home. Alyssa stood in the doorway, her breath catching in her throat. There was a stained sofa, a metal bed frame, and a tiny kitchen counter with peeling laminate. Benton took off his coat and draped it over a plastic chair. He walked to the sink and turned the faucet. The pipes shuddered and banged behind the wall before spitting out a stream of cloudy water. He filled a cheap glass and held it out to her. Alyssa stared at the water, remembering the times she had seen him drinking only imported Fiji water at the Steele estate. Her throat closed up completely. She ignored the glass, reached into her bag, and pulled out a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills. She slammed the cash down on the chipped coffee table. "Move out tomorrow," she ordered, her voice shaking slightly. "Get a real place in Manhattan." Benton looked at the money, his eyes darkening. "This isn't in the investment contract," he said quietly. "I don't care," she snapped, her chest rising and falling fast. "I'm not letting my partner live in a dumpster." She couldn't stand being in this suffocating room for another second. She turned around and practically ran out the door. Her heels echoed loudly down the stairs until the heavy metal door slammed shut at the bottom. Benton walked to the small, dirty window. He watched the red Porsche speed away down the dark street. The blank, defeated look on his face vanished completely. He walked over to the peeling wall next to the front door and pushed his thumb against a hidden panel. A green light scanned his fingerprint. The entire wall slid open silently, revealing a compact, heavily soundproofed server room and surveillance hub that starkly contrasted the decay outside. The reinforced steel walls hummed with the quiet power of a dedicated, off-the-grid generator, a secret installation funded by an untraceable offshore trust long before his public exile. He sat down in the leather chair, his eyes fixed on the glowing screen tracking the GPS signal of the Porsche. He allowed himself a grim, fleeting smile, thankful for the split second he had taken to slip the magnetic micro-tracker under the lip of her car's rear bumper while she had been distracted by the valet at Le Bernardin.