His Sister's Fiancé, My Forbidden Protector

The rain in New York doesn't wash things clean; it just makes the grime slicker. Scarlett stood on the corner of 5th and 23rd, the hem of her trench coat soaked with mud. It was 8:55 AM. She had spent the last of her cash on a cab to get to Sebastian Vance's investment firm. In her pocket, the black card she had retrieved from the planter last night felt heavy. It was damp, the edges slightly curled, but the gold foil Harrison Sterling Jr. was still legible. She walked into the lobby. The receptionist, a girl named Chloe who used to compliment Scarlett's shoes, didn't even look up. "I have a meeting with Mr. Vance," Scarlett said, her voice steady despite the trembling in her hands. "He's busy," Chloe said, typing furiously. "Wait over there." "He told me nine." "Sit. Down." Scarlett sat. She waited for two hours. Every minute that ticked by was a minute her father sat in a holding cell. Every minute was a calculated insult. Finally, at 11:15, the heavy oak doors opened. "He'll see you now." Scarlett walked in. Vance's office was a shrine to his own ego. Glass walls, leather furniture, and a view that cost more than her father's life savings. Vance was sitting behind his desk, scrolling on his phone. He didn't stand up. "You look tired, Scar," he said, finally looking up. His eyes raked over her damp coat and messy hair. "Rough night?" "I need the money, Sebastian," Scarlett said, cutting straight to the point. "Five million for bail. I'll pay you back. I'll sign whatever promissory note you want." Vance chuckled. He stood up and walked around the desk, leaning against the edge, crossing his arms. "Pay me back? With what? Piano lessons? Your assets are frozen, darling. You're destitute." "You owe my father," Scarlett said, stepping forward. "He introduced you to your first investors. He vouched for you." "And look where that got him." Vance's face hardened, a smirk playing on his lips. "Your father was... careless. In this industry, carelessness is a sin. Someone had to take the fall for the market corrections." "You framed him," Scarlett breathed, the realization settling in her gut like lead. "You used him as a scapegoat." "Careful with those accusations," Vance tutted, inspecting his fingernails. "I'm just a concerned citizen who cooperated with the authorities. But I'm a generous guy. I can help with the legal fees. Maybe even get the charges reduced." Scarlett looked at the document he slid toward her. It wasn't a loan agreement. Non-Disclosure and Personal Services Agreement. She scanned the clauses. Exclusive availability... sexual compliance... termination at will... It was a contract to be his mistress. To be his whore. "Sign it," Vance said, his voice dropping to a whisper. He reached out, his finger tracing the line of her jaw. "Victoria is boring in bed. I need someone with a little more... fire. Like the old days." Scarlett stared at him. This man, whom she had once thought she loved, was a predator. She saw a glass of ice water on the corner of his desk. Without thinking, she grabbed it and threw the contents into his face. The ice cubes hit him with a satisfying clatter. Vance sputtered, water dripping from his expensive nose onto his silk tie. "You bitch!" He lunged for her. Scarlett reacted on instinct. She stomped her heel down, hard, onto the arch of his Italian loafer. Vance howled, hopping back. Scarlett didn't wait. She turned and ran. She burst through the office doors, past a stunned Chloe, and sprinted for the elevator. She hit the button repeatedly, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. The doors slid open. She dived in. As the doors closed, she saw Vance limping into the hallway, his face twisted in a mask of pure rage. "You're dead, Miller!" he screamed. "You hear me? I'll bury him!" The elevator descended. Scarlett slumped against the metal wall, sliding down until she hit the floor. She hugged her knees, shaking uncontrollably. She stumbled out of the building and into the rain. She walked blindly for blocks, her mind racing. She had no money. No allies. And her enemy held all the cards. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the black card. Harrison Sterling Jr. Direct Line: 212-555-0199 She walked to a bodega on the corner, bought a box of band-aids with her last ten dollars, and went into the tiny bathroom. She washed her hands, scrubbing until the skin was raw. She bandaged her cut. She fixed her hair as best she could. Then, she dialed the number. It rang once. Twice. "Sterling." The voice was deep, impatient, and terrifyingly familiar. Scarlett swallowed. "Mr. Sterling? It's... it's Scarlett Miller. From the terrace." There was a silence on the other end. A silence so long she thought he had hung up. She could hear the faint sound of typing in the background. "I didn't think you'd call," he said finally. His voice had lost the edge of impatience. Now, it was just cold curiosity. "I need to see you," Scarlett said. "Please." "I'm at my office. Sterling & Partners. 45th and Park." "I know where it is." "You have twenty minutes, Ms. Miller. Don't be late." The line went dead. Scarlett looked at her reflection in the dirty mirror. Her eyes were hollow, her skin pale. But there was a fire burning in her pupils that hadn't been there yesterday. She wasn't just fighting for her father anymore. She was fighting for revenge.