Married To The Vulture Of Wall Street

Ivy forced air into her lungs. Fear was a chemical reaction; she could control it. She turned her back on Preston, using a cluster of tourists taking selfies as a shield.

She walked toward the man in the corner.

Every step felt heavy, like walking through water. As she got closer, the details of him came into focus. He was tall, taller than Preston. His shoes were Italian leather, hand-stitched, scuffed slightly at the toe-someone who walked, not just someone who was driven. No logos. No flash. Just quiet, terrifying quality.

He was looking at a phone now, a sleek device with a privacy screen. His brow was furrowed, a microscopic line of tension between his eyes.

A younger man stood next to him, holding a tablet. He looked like a lawyer or an assistant, nervous energy radiating off him in waves.

She stopped three feet away. She had breached his perimeter.

A large man in a suit-security-stepped forward to intercept her.

The man in the coat raised a hand. One finger. The security guard froze and stepped back.

The man slowly lifted his eyes from his phone.

When his gaze met hers, she felt a physical drop in her stomach, like missing a step on a staircase. He didn't just look at her; he assessed her. He dismantled her. And she recognized him instantly. Dominik Mack. The Vulture of Wall Street. His file was flagged in three different international databases she monitored. This wasn't a random encounter; it was an opportunity she hadn't dared to plan for.

Preston was shouting her name somewhere behind her, his voice rising in pitch.

She didn't have time for introductions. She didn't have time for sanity.

"Do you want to get married?" she asked.

The words hung in the air, absurd and sharp.

The assistant, the nervous one, dropped his stylus. His mouth fell open. "Excuse me?"

The man in the coat didn't blink. His expression didn't change. He looked at her as if she had just asked him for the time, or perhaps for a light.

"I need a U.S. citizen," she said, the words tumbling out faster now. "No criminal record. Immediate signature. It's a business transaction. I can pay. Or I can owe you."

His eyes dropped to her hand. She was gripping her phone so hard her fingers were numb. He looked at the white knuckles, then back up to her face.

Something flickered in his eyes. Not amusement. Calculation. It was gone before she could read it.

He slid his phone into his pocket.

"Ivy!" Preston had broken through the tourists. He was coming.

Her body went rigid. If Preston dragged her out of there, if he caused enough of a scene to get them detained, the window would close.

She looked at Dominik Mack again. She let the mask slip. She let him see the desperation. Please.

It was the only leverage she had.

He tilted his head slightly. His voice was deep, a baritone that vibrated in the floorboards.

"Terms?" he asked.

She blinked. She hadn't expected him to negotiate. She expected him to call security.

"Mutual non-interference," she said, her voice steadying. "Divorce on demand. Separate assets."

Preston was five meters away. She could hear his heavy breathing.

The stranger straightened up. He towered over her, casting a shadow that blocked out the harsh overhead lights. He adjusted his collar.

"Deal," he said.

He extended his arm. It wasn't a handshake. It was an invitation.

"Take my arm," he said.

She reached out. Her hand was trembling. She hated that he could see it. She laid her hand on his forearm. Beneath the expensive wool of his coat, the muscle was hard as rock.