Fifty Million Dollar Contract: My Enemy Husband

Eloise walked blindly down the Manhattan sidewalks. The cold wind whipped her hair across her wet face. She didn't know how far she walked before the black Lincoln Navigator pulled up beside her. The driver got out, gently but firmly guiding her into the back seat.

The car drove straight to the Upper East Side. It pulled through the iron gates of the Brandt family mansion.

Eloise pushed open the heavy mahogany double doors of her father's study. The room smelled of stale cigar smoke and old paper. The air was thick and hard to breathe.

Her father, Marcus, sat slumped in his leather executive chair. He looked like he had aged ten years in a single week. His skin was gray. The massive oak desk in front of him was covered in letters stamped with red PAST DUE warnings.

Genevieve sat on the velvet sofa, her face buried in her hands, sobbing loudly. When she heard the door click shut, her head snapped up. She rushed across the room and grabbed Eloise by the shoulders.

"Why did you provoke him?" Genevieve screamed, her fingers digging into Eloise's skin. "Are you that selfish? Do you want to see us die?"

Eloise felt completely numb. She shoved her mother's hands away and walked over to the desk. She stared at the bank notices.

Marcus slowly lifted his head. His eyes were cloudy and unfocused. "The company accounts were frozen an hour ago, Ellie," he said. His voice was a weak, rattling sound.

He reached into his top drawer. His hand shook violently as he pulled out a white folder. He slid it across the desk toward her.

Eloise picked it up. It was a medical report from Mount Sinai Hospital. She scanned the bold black text. Severe congestive heart failure. Immediate surgical intervention required. Below that was an estimated cost that made her head spin.

"If we lose the company," Marcus whispered, forcing a bitter smile, "we lose the premium insurance. The trust funds are already drained. I can't pay for the surgery next month."

A massive wave of guilt crashed into Eloise's chest, knocking the breath out of her. Her knees went weak. She stumbled backward. Her shoulder hit the tall brass floor lamp standing near the bookshelf.

The lamp tipped over and crashed onto the Persian rug with a loud thud. The glass shade shattered into dozens of pieces. The sound echoed in the quiet room, sounding like the final breaking point of their family.

Genevieve dropped to her knees right in the middle of the broken glass. She wrapped her arms around Eloise's legs. The proud, untouchable society woman was gone.

"Please, Ellie," Genevieve sobbed, burying her face against Eloise's knees. "Please save us. We will be on the street. We will be a joke. Please."

Eloise looked down at her mother crying on the floor. She looked at her father, who looked like a ghost waiting to die. The walls of the study felt like they were shrinking, crushing her ribs.

She closed her eyes. Two hot tears slid down her cheeks, dropping onto her mother's hair.

"What do you need me to do?" Eloise asked. Her voice was completely dead.

Marcus reached across the desk. He held out a thick, black business card with gold foil lettering. It only had a name and a private phone number. Christian Clarke.

"His assistant called the house just after you left the restaurant," Marcus said, his voice trembling. "He said Mr. Clarke is unsatisfied with tonight's negotiation. However, he is willing to give you an opportunity to privately discuss an alternative. This is his private number. Whether you call or not is entirely your choice."

Eloise reached out. She took the black card. The edge of the thick paper was sharp. It sliced a tiny cut into the pad of her index finger. A drop of blood welled up, but she didn't feel the pain.

She didn't say another word. She turned around and walked out of the study, moving like a machine whose power had been cut.

She climbed the grand spiral staircase to the second floor. She walked into her bedroom and shut the door, locking it behind her.

She didn't turn on the lights. She walked straight to her vanity and stared at the mirror. The moonlight coming through the floor-to-ceiling windows illuminated her pale face and hollow eyes.

In the corner of the room, sitting on a velvet chair, was her script for The Mist. It was covered in her handwritten notes and yellow highlighters.

Eloise walked over and dropped to her knees. She picked up the script and hugged it tightly against her chest. She squeezed her eyes shut. The tears came fast and hard now, soaking the thick paper. She thought about the late nights in acting classes, the rejections, the tiny spark of hope she had felt just hours ago.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. The screen lit up the dark room. It was a text from Sloane: Don't forget, 9 AM sharp tomorrow! You're going to kill it!

Eloise stared at the glowing words. Christian's voice echoed in her head. One phone call.

She let out a broken, wet laugh. There was no way out. She slowly stood up. She walked over to her nightstand, opened the bottom drawer, and shoved the script inside. She pushed the drawer shut, burying her dream in the dark.

She picked up her phone. Her thumb hovered over the keypad. Her hand shook so badly she almost dropped the device. She typed in the number from the black card.

Her heart pounded against her ribs, fast and painful. She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed the green call button. She lifted the phone to her ear.

It rang exactly one time.

"I'm listening," Christian's deep, cold voice answered.