Fifty Million Dollar Contract: My Enemy Husband

Eloise's chest heaved. She stood in the center of the Soho rehearsal studio, her lungs burning as she sucked in the stale air. Sweat dampened the back of her neck, making her blonde hair stick to her skin. She closed her eyes, forcing her breathing to slow, trying to hold onto the desperate, hollow feeling of the lead character in The Mist. Clara walked across the wooden floor. She handed Eloise a bottle of room-temperature water. "You need to stop," Clara said quietly. "You've been running this scene for four hours. Your voice is completely gone." Eloise took the bottle. Her fingers trembled slightly as she unscrewed the cap. Before she could take a sip, the heavy glass door of the studio swung open. Sloane marched in. Her high heels clicked rapidly against the floorboards. Her face was flushed, and she was waving her tablet in the air. "Five minutes!" Sloane shouted, her voice echoing off the mirrored walls. "Julian Finch just agreed to give you a five-minute slot tomorrow morning. Five minutes to show him you aren't just some Upper East Side socialite." Eloise dropped the water bottle. It hit the floor with a dull thud, water spilling over the wood. She covered her mouth with both hands. Her eyes burned with sudden heat. This was it. This was the only way out of the golden cage her family had built for her. From the corner of the room, a phone started ringing. It was a sharp, customized ringtone. The sound cut through the excitement in the room like a physical blow. Eloise lowered her hands. The smile fell from her face. Her stomach dropped. She walked over to her bag on the bench. The screen lit up with the name Genevieve. Eloise picked it up and pressed it to her ear. "Mom, I can't talk right now. Sloane just got me-" "Get downstairs," her mother's voice snapped through the speaker. It was cold. Absolute. "My driver is waiting outside." "Mom, you don't understand. Julian Finch is letting me audition. I need to prep-" "The company is filing for bankruptcy by Friday, Eloise," Genevieve interrupted. Her voice was flat, devoid of any emotion. "Christian Clarke flew back into the city this morning. He is the only one who can inject enough capital to save the Brandt legacy." Eloise stopped breathing. Her fingers clamped down on the phone. Her nails dug into the plastic case. The name Christian Clarke hit her ears, and all the blood drained from her face. Her heart hammered wildly against her ribs. "Eloise?" Sloane stepped closer, her brow furrowing. "What's wrong? You look sick." Eloise swallowed hard. Her throat felt like sandpaper. "I have to go." She didn't wait for Sloane to argue. She grabbed her wool coat from the chair and practically ran toward the exit. Clara called out her name, but Eloise pushed through the glass door, her sneakers hitting the hallway carpet. She took the elevator down to the street level. The cold New York wind bit into her cheeks as she stepped onto the sidewalk. A black Lincoln Navigator sat idling at the curb. The rear door pushed open from the inside. Eloise climbed into the back seat. The door clicked shut, sealing her in the quiet, leather-scented space. Genevieve sat next to her, wearing a pristine Chanel suit. She didn't say hello. Instead, she held out a tube of Tom Ford lipstick. "Fix your face," Genevieve ordered. "You look like a corpse." Eloise pushed her mother's hand away. "Why are we doing this? You know what he thinks of me. You know what happened. Going to him is just begging for humiliation." Genevieve's jaw tightened. "Brandt stock plummeted another fifteen percent at the closing bell. The bank is taking the Hamptons house tomorrow. This townhouse is next." The air in the car suddenly felt too thick to breathe. Eloise stared out the tinted window. The blurred lights of Manhattan sped by, but all she felt was a suffocating weight pressing down on her chest. Genevieve reached into her designer tote and pulled out a thick financial report. She tossed it onto Eloise's lap. The pages fell open. Columns of red numbers glared back at her. "Your father's heart is failing," Genevieve said, her voice finally cracking, losing its icy edge. "If we lose the company, we lose his premium care. A hundred years of the Brandt name, Eloise. It all ends this week if you don't make this work." Eloise closed her eyes. A single tear slipped down her cheek. She wiped it away aggressively. Her hands shook as she picked up the lipstick. She uncapped it and dragged the red color across her pale lips, staring at her reflection in the darkened window. She felt like an animal being prepped for the slaughterhouse. The SUV slowed to a stop. They were parked outside a three-Michelin-star restaurant near Central Park. The doorman rushed over and pulled the door open. Eloise stepped out onto the red carpet. Her high heels wobbled slightly on the pavement. She took a deep breath, forcing her spine straight. She followed her mother through the heavy revolving doors. The restaurant was dim, smelling of expensive truffles and aged wine. Low jazz played from hidden speakers. The hostess led them past the crowded main dining room, straight toward the VIP private booths in the back. The hostess pushed open a heavy oak door. A blast of air conditioning hit Eloise's bare arms, making her shiver. The lighting in the room was terrible, just a few candles flickering on the center of a long table. Sitting at the head of the table was a man in a custom-tailored black suit. He was slowly turning a crystal glass of whiskey between his long fingers. At the sound of the door opening, he stopped moving. He lifted his head. His blue eyes locked onto Eloise. They were the color of a frozen ocean, holding zero warmth. Eloise's heart seized. It had been years, but Christian Clarke still carried that same suffocating, heavy presence. It made her want to shrink into the floor. Genevieve instantly plastered on a bright, desperate smile. She grabbed Eloise's arm and pulled her forward. "Christian, it is so wonderful to see you," Genevieve said, her voice dripping with fake warmth. Christian didn't stand up. He didn't even look at Genevieve. His gaze remained dead set on Eloise's rigid face. He slammed the whiskey glass down onto the table. The sharp clink of crystal against wood echoed in the quiet room. The corner of his mouth twitched upward into a cruel, mocking smirk. "So," Christian said, his voice a low, rough rumble that vibrated in Eloise's chest. "What exactly is the Brandt heiress putting up for sale today?"