Discarded By Him, Claimed By The Zillionaire

Vivian stood before the massive floor-to-ceiling windows of the Mercer Capital executive office. Her fingers gripped two printed private jet confirmations for Martha's Vineyard so tightly that the edges of the paper cut into her skin. Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. The heavy mahogany double doors swung open. Landon Mercer strode into the room. He wore a custom-tailored Tom Ford suit, his presence instantly sucking the oxygen out of the massive space. Vivian took a step forward. She held out the flight confirmations. Landon did not even look at her. He walked straight past her extended hand and headed for the crystal decanters on the wet bar. Ice clinked against heavy glass. He poured a generous measure of bourbon. The sharp sound echoed in the suffocating silence of the room. Vivian drew in a shallow, shaky breath. "Landon," she said, her voice trembling. "About the itinerary for this weekend..." Landon turned around. He took a sip of his drink. His cold, dark eyes scanned her from head to toe, assessing her like a piece of depreciating office furniture. "I am going to the island with Whitney this weekend," he stated. His tone was flat, leaving no room for discussion. Vivian's stomach dropped. A wave of nausea hit her so hard she had to lock her knees to stay standing. She bit down on her lower lip, tasting the metallic tang of blood, fighting the burn of tears in her eyes. She walked over to the massive mahogany desk. She placed the tablet down. "Then we need to end this," she said. Her voice was barely a whisper. "I want to break up." Landon's finger paused on the rim of his crystal glass. A low, mocking laugh rumbled in his chest. He set the glass down and closed the distance between them. His tall frame blocked out the sunlight from the windows, casting a dark shadow over her face. He reached out. His fingers clamped around her jaw like a steel vise, forcing her head up. She had no choice but to look into his freezing eyes. "Let me remind you of something, Vivian," he said softly. "You are a nobody from St. Agnes Orphanage." Vivian grabbed his wrist. She tried to pull his hand away, but his grip was immovable. The physical dominance made her chest tighten with absolute helplessness. "You will never cross the threshold into Boston society," Landon continued, his thumb digging into her cheek. "You are a convenient girlfriend. Nothing more." A single tear broke free. It rolled down her cheek and dropped onto the polished toe of his handmade Italian leather shoe. Landon looked down at the wet spot. His upper lip curled in disgust. He released her jaw abruptly. He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a silk handkerchief, and wiped his fingers. He wiped them thoroughly, as if her skin had left a layer of filth on him. He turned his back to her and sat down in his leather executive chair. He opened a drawer, pulled out a checkbook, and signed his name. He tore the check out and tossed it onto the center of the desk. The amount line was completely blank. "Handle the airport pickup for Whitney," Landon ordered, his eyes already shifting to the hedge fund data on his monitors. "And stop playing these pathetic hard-to-get games. It bores me." Vivian stared at the blank check. The white paper glared under the desk lamp. The sheer humiliation of it crawled up her throat, choking her. She did not reach for the check. Instead, she took a physical step back, putting distance between herself and the mahogany desk. Landon noticed the movement. He frowned, adjusting his expensive cuffs. "Do not test my patience, Vivian," he warned. Vivian lowered her head. Her long dark hair fell forward, hiding the sudden, absolute deadness in her eyes. "I understand," she whispered. She turned and walked toward the door. Her legs felt like they were made of lead. Every step sent a dull ache up her spine. Behind her, Landon let out a dismissive snort. The sound of his keyboard clicking resumed. Vivian wrapped her hand around the cold brass doorknob. Her knuckles turned stark white. She pushed the door open. The heavily air-conditioned air of the hallway hit her face, snapping her chaotic brain into sharp focus. The heavy mahogany door clicked shut behind her. The sound severed her completely from the gilded cage of Boston's old money. Vivian leaned her back against the cool wall of the corridor. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. Her thumb scrolled down her contacts to a saved number with no name attached. She hovered her thumb over the screen for three seconds. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. She pressed send. The message contained only five words: I agree to get married. The faint glow of the screen illuminated her pale, rigid face. The soft swoosh of the sent message echoed clearly in the empty, silent hallway.