From Abandoned Puppet to the Tycoon's Contract Wife

The heavy glass doors of the apartment building shut behind Gabrielle. The November wind whipped down the Manhattan street, biting through her thin blazer. The cold hit her all at once. The adrenaline that had kept her spine straight and her voice steady in the bedroom evaporated in the instant she stepped outside. Replacing it was a crushing weight of exhaustion that settled onto her shoulders like concrete. Her body began shaking uncontrollably. Gabrielle walked a few steps mechanically. She had no idea where she was going. Her mind was blank except for those words—she's so plain, she's so safe, she never steals the spotlight—echoing inside her skull, pounding against her temples with every heartbeat. She hadn't eaten in over twelve hours. From handling Johan's schedule at seven in the morning, to soothing his investors in the afternoon, to preparing his surprise at night—all she'd consumed was a single cup of cold coffee in the car. Her stomach churned with a burning, acidic sensation, the kind that came from mixing hunger with emotional devastation. Her steps began to falter. Reaching the corner, she stopped instinctively and bent over, bracing her hands on her knees, gasping for air. The streetlight in front of her wavered in her vision for a moment, then steadied. She blinked hard, telling herself she was just tired. She needed to call a car. Go home. Sleep. Her trembling hand reached into her pocket for her phone. But her fingers had stopped obeying—not just from the cold, but from the post-trauma physical crash. Three times in a row, she failed to grasp the smooth metal edge. Inside the car, Colvin Sykes stared at the monitor built into the back of the passenger seat. The screen showed a live feed from the dashcam. He watched Gabrielle's shoulders shake as she walked. His chest tightened so hard it restricted his breathing. Alex Rivers sat in the front passenger seat. He stared straight ahead, not daring to make a sound. The temperature in the car felt like it had dropped below freezing. "Find everything there is to know about Lacey Morrow," Colvin said. His voice was a lethal, quiet blade. "I want her off every casting list in this city. I do not want to see her name in print ever again." "Yes, sir," Alex said immediately. Colvin kept his eyes on the screen. His jaw ticked. He wanted to tear Johan Lee apart with his bare hands. On the street, Gabrielle bent down to pick up her phone. Her vision swam. She did not see the wide crack in the pavement. She took a step forward. The heel of her shoe wedged deep into the concrete fissure. Her ankle twisted sharply. Her balance vanished. "Ah—" She threw her hands out instinctively to break the fall, but her arms felt like they belonged to someone else. The streetlights spun wildly. A loud rush filled her ears. This is it, she thought. I'm going to hit the concrete. But in the split second before darkness claimed her completely, she felt it—two powerful arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her against a solid chest. As her cheek brushed against soft cashmere and the scent of cedar filled her senses, her heavy eyelids fluttered just long enough to glimpse the sharp, rigid line of a man's jaw above her. Colvin stared down at the woman in his arms. Her face was pale and completely devoid of life. Her head rolled against his shoulder. His heart slammed against his ribs. He scooped her up, lifting her off the ground entirely. She weighed nothing. "I have you, Gabby," Colvin whispered into her hair. His voice was thick with an emotion he had buried for years. "I am never letting you go again." Alex already had the back door of the Maybach open. Colvin slid into the spacious backseat, keeping Gabrielle cradled tightly against his chest. The heavy door slammed shut. The Maybach pulled away from the curb smoothly. "Drive to the private wing at Grace Hospital," Colvin ordered the driver. He shrugged off his suit jacket with one hand. He draped the heavy, warm fabric over Gabrielle's shivering body, tucking it around her shoulders. He looked down at her sleeping face. The heavy glasses were slightly askew. He gently pulled them off her face and set them on the seat. He reached out and brushed a stray curl away from her forehead. His fingers lingered against her cold skin. The ruthless predator of Wall Street was gone, replaced by a man who looked like he was holding his entire world.