The Phantom CEO's Runaway Contract Lover

The next morning, the scent of Drake was gone, replaced by the sterile smell of the cleaning service's lemon polish. Hope sat at her kitchen island, black coffee in hand, watching the pre-market numbers for Perry Group flicker across her tablet. They were down. Again. Her personal phone buzzed against the cold marble countertop. She glanced at the screen. Kenia Spencer. A wave of nausea, hot and acidic, rose in her throat. She hadn't spoken to her former best friend in the year since she'd found Kenia in Arley's arms. The message was a text. Hope, darling. How are you? I heard Arley's back tomorrow. So happy for you both. :) Attached was a photo. A selfie of Kenia, pouting prettily for the camera. Around her neck was a necklace Hope recognized instantly—a cascade of sapphires and diamonds Arley had boasted about winning in a remote Sotheby's auction six months ago. He'd called it an "investment" while showing Hope the press release, a casual cruelty she hadn't understood until now. It was a declaration of war. A reminder of who held Arley's affection, even if Hope held the title. The old Hope would have deleted the message. Her hands would have shaken. She would have swallowed the pain, letting it curdle into a familiar, silent misery. But the old Hope was dead. Her finger, steady and cold, bypassed the reply button and pressed "Call." The phone rang. And rang. Kenia was panicking, Hope knew. She hadn't expected this. She'd expected silence. Finally, she picked up. "Hope?" Her voice was a nervous squeak. Hope didn't waste time on pleasantries. Her tone was like ice water. "The necklace is beautiful, Kenia." A beat of silence. Then, a sharp intake of breath on the other end. "But on a mistress's neck," Hope continued, her voice dropping to a silky, venomous whisper, "even the most expensive gems look cheap." "What—how dare you! Arley loves me!" Kenia's voice rose, shrill and defensive. Hope let out a small, humorless laugh. "Love? He loves you, yet I'm the one with the Simmons name attached to mine. I'm the one the world sees as his future wife. Does that feel like love to you, Kenia? Or does it feel like humiliation?" Kenia was speechless, making small, choking sounds. Hope pressed her advantage, her words precise and cruel. "A woman who has to hide in the shadows, who proves her existence with jewelry a man buys her... you want to talk to me about love?" She let that sink in. "Know your place," Hope said, her voice now flat and commanding. "In front of the cameras, I am Arley Simmons's fiancée. You are nothing." She could hear Kenia's ragged, angry sobs. "Oh, and one more thing," Hope added, twisting the knife. "Arley and I will be very... busy when he gets back. The families are so eager for an heir. So do try to control yourself. It would be terribly inconvenient if you called while he was otherwise occupied." Without waiting for a response, she ended the call. She blocked the number. A profound sense of release washed over her. A breath she'd been holding for a year finally escaped her lungs. It was the first time she had fought back. It felt good. Her phone vibrated again. This time, an email from her lawyer. Subject: Regarding Mr. Simmons's Requests. The email was a list of commands, dictated by Arley. She was to be present at the airport. She was to smile for the cameras. She was to attend the Simmons family dinner in the Hamptons tonight and perform the role of the loving, devoted fiancée. The phone rang again. Her father. "Hope, I just spoke with Sterling Simmons," Harrison Perry's voice boomed, devoid of any fatherly warmth. "Don't cause any trouble tonight. The family's reputation is on the line. Our reputation." My reputation, he meant. Hope stared out the window at the gray Manhattan sky. They all still thought she was their puppet. She replied to the lawyer's email with a single word. Received. Then she walked to her closet and pushed past the muted beiges and pale pinks she used to wear. Her fingers closed around the hanger of a dress she'd bought on impulse months ago but had never dared to wear. It was the color of blood. The color of fire. She was going to the Hamptons. And she was going to burn it all down. In an office overlooking Central Park, an assistant placed a slim file on a vast mahogany desk. "Mr. McCarthy. The background on Kenia Spencer is complete. We also flagged a 37-second call made to her from Ms. Perry's number, just this morning." Algernon McCarthy leaned back in his leather chair, his ice-blue eyes fixed on the file. He tapped a single finger on the desk. "Interesting," he said softly.