Married To The Vulture Of Wall Street

"Ivy! Stop this insanity!" Preston lunged. He was red-faced, sweat beading on his upper lip. He reached for her free arm, his fingers hooked like claws. She flinched. It was instinct. But before he could touch her, the stranger shifted. It was a subtle movement, a shift of weight, but it put his shoulder directly in Preston's path. Preston slammed into the black wool coat. It was like running into a wall. He stumbled back, his shoes skidding on the polished floor. "Get out of my way," Preston snarled. He looked at the stranger, dismissing him. He didn't see the danger. He only saw an obstacle. "This is a private matter." The stranger didn't even look at him. He looked down at her. "Is this a problem?" he asked. She looked up at his jawline. It was sharp enough to cut glass. "It's an ex-fiancé." Preston tried to step around the stranger's bulk. "She's sick! She's not in her right mind! She just got out of a facility in Zurich. Any contract she signs is voidable!" He was shouting it now. He wanted everyone to hear. He wanted to shame her into submission. People were raising their phones, recording. The stranger frowned. He didn't like the cameras. He made a small gesture with his left hand. The nervous assistant, the one with the tablet, stepped forward. He moved with surprising speed. "Sir," the assistant said, his voice crisp and projecting authority. "I am Ari Levinson, legal counsel. You are currently engaging in harassment and menacing behavior. If you do not cease and desist immediately, we will have you removed." Preston scoffed. "Do you know who I am? I'm Preston Hayes." The stranger finally turned his head. He looked at Preston. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. "I know who you are," the stranger said. "You're loud." Preston opened his mouth to retort, but the words died in his throat. He saw something in the stranger's eyes. It was the look of a man who didn't make threats because he simply executed consequences. "She's... she's crazy," Preston stammered, pointing a shaking finger at her. "You don't know what you're getting into." Ivy felt the blood drain from her face. The label. The stigma. It was the weapon her father always used. The stranger's hand moved. He placed his other hand over hers, covering her trembling fingers on his arm. His palm was warm. Dry. "I'm a good judge of character," the stranger said softly. "She seems perfectly lucid. You, however, seem desperate." He turned his back on Preston. "You're out of time, Mr. Hayes." He guided her toward the clerk's window. Preston tried to follow, but the large security guard-the one who belonged to the stranger-stepped into his path. Preston bounced off the man's chest and nearly fell onto a bench. They reached the counter. The clerk, a woman with tired eyes and a coffee stain on her blouse, looked at them. She looked at the stranger, then at her. "IDs," she said. Her hands were shaking so badly she dropped her license on the counter. The stranger picked it up. He handed it to the clerk along with a black card and a passport. She glanced at the passport on the counter. Dominik Mack. The name settled in her mind not as a shock, but as a confirmation. The man whose hostile takeovers were legendary, whose financial network was a black hole she'd been trying to map for months. Her brain was firing on adrenaline and strategic calculation. The clerk stamped a form. The sound was like a gunshot. "Sign here," she said.