The Oracle's Revenge: My Purchased Marriage

Sunlight didn't filter into the room; it assaulted it. The harsh morning rays cut through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Tribeca penthouse, landing directly on Heda Roman's face.

She woke with a gasp, her body a map of dull aches. Her lower back throbbed, a rhythmic reminder of the cold transaction disguised as intimacy that had taken place hours ago. She didn't move immediately. It was a rare and calculated command performance; at the Hamptons estate, they slept in separate wings. Here, in this glass box in the sky, she was entirely his property. Instead, her hand slid under the pillow, fingers trembling slightly until they brushed the cold, hard plastic of the invisible earpiece.

It was still there. Good.

The sound of the bathroom door handle turning made her flinch. Instantly, her breathing shallowed, her posture collapsing inward. The door swung open, slamming against the marble wall. A cloud of steam billowed out, followed by Gustavus English.

He wore only a towel low on his hips. Water droplets clung to the dark hair on his chest, trailing down to the defined ridges of his abdomen. He looked like a statue carved from resentment. On his shoulder, a fresh red scratch mark stood out against the pale skin-her mark.

He didn't look at her like a husband. He looked at her like a stain on his Egyptian cotton sheets.

Heda instinctively grabbed the duvet, pulling it up to her chin. She scrambled backward, pressing herself into the corner of the headboard, widening her eyes. It was a practiced motion. The frightened doe. The girl from the trailer park who had never seen sheets with a thread count higher than two hundred.

Gustavus walked to the bedside table. He didn't speak. The silence in the room was heavy, suffocating, filled with the unspoken toxicity of the night before.

He pulled a checkbook from his discarded suit jacket.

Scritch. Scratch.

The sound of the fountain pen tearing across the paper was louder than a scream in the quiet room. He ripped the check out with a sharp snap.

He didn't hand it to her. He let it go in the air above her.

The slip of paper fluttered down, the sharp edge grazing her cheek before landing on the duvet. Heda didn't flinch. She let a single tear slide down her nose. It was perfect timing.

Her hand shook as she picked it up.

$2,000,000.

Two million dollars.

Inside her chest, Heda Roman felt nothing but cold amusement. The English Group's stock fluctuated more than this in a single second of bad trading. She could burn this check and not feel the heat. But Heda, the girl from Appalachia, stared at the zeros as if they were a lifeline.

"Service fee," Gustavus said. His voice was gravel, rough from disuse and the meds. "Last night was a mistake."

Heda bit her lip, forcing her voice to pitch higher, layering on the thick twang of the mountains. "I thought we were... husband and wife."

Gustavus let out a short, cruel laugh. He reached out, his fingers digging into her jaw, forcing her face up. His eyes were empty.

"Don't method act with me, hillbilly. You aren't my wife. You are a shield I bought to keep the vultures on the board away from my carcass."

He shoved her face away, disgust radiating off him in waves. He turned his back to her, dropping the towel to dress. The muscles in his back bunched tight, a roadmap of tension and repressed rage.

Heda moved.

In the split second he was turned, her "frightened" demeanor vanished. Her eyes went sharp. Her hand darted out, plucking the tiny black listening device from the edge of the nightstand where it had been placed. With a practiced, silent motion, she pressed it firmly into the sticky underside of the collar on his discarded suit jacket, tucking it deep into the seam.

Gustavus pulled on his shirt, fastening the cufflinks with aggressive precision. The wall of ice was back up. The Wall Street shark had returned.

He grabbed a hanger from the chair and threw a garment bag at her. It hit the bed with a thud.

"Put it on. We go back to the Hamptons in an hour."

Heda pulled the fabric out. It was a Chanel suit. Pink. Tweed. Expensive, but on her, it would look like a costume. Like a child playing dress-up.

"I have class," she whispered, clutching the suit. "I'm in college."

Gustavus paused, his hand on his tie. He looked at her reflection in the mirror, his lip curling.

"That etiquette class at whatever community college you go to? Don't make me laugh."

Heda lowered her head, hiding the flash of ice in her eyes. It was Columbia University. Finance. Top of her class. But he didn't need to know that. Not yet.

"Yes, Gustavus," she mumbled.

He stormed out, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the window panes.

The moment his footsteps faded down the hall, Heda's tears stopped. Instantly. It was as if someone had turned off a faucet.

She threw the duvet off and sprinted to the bathroom, turning the shower on full blast to create a wall of white noise. She reached behind the toilet tank, her fingers finding the waterproof bag taped to the porcelain.

She pulled out an old Blackberry. It looked like a relic, but the software inside was military-grade.

Her thumbs flew over the keypad. Green code cascaded down the screen.

English Group Short Position: 15% Established.

She looked at herself in the mirror. The bruise on her neck was darkening.

"I'll take the interest on last night out of your stock price, Gustavus," she whispered.

The phone buzzed. A text from Roxy.

'Oracle', massive buy order coming in from the Cayman Islands is sweeping English stock. Looks like a counter-move.

Heda frowned. Her reflection looked back, sharp and dangerous.

Negative. It's not us. Trace it.

A horn honked from the street below. The summons.

Heda shoved the phone back into its hiding spot. She pulled on the pink Chanel suit. It was tight in the shoulders. She looked in the mirror and practiced a smile-timid, greedy, pathetic.

She opened the door. The Oracle was gone. The hillbilly was back.