The Ruined Heiress's Dark Contract Marriage

Elsie stood shivering on the welcome mat, her bare feet numb against the concrete. She pounded her fist against the door of Eduardo Hurley's hidden Brooklyn apartment. The freezing rain dripped from her ruined hair, mixing with the dried blood on her chin. The door swung open. Eduardo, the oldest executive of the Phillips Group, stared at her in absolute shock. He grabbed her arm, yanking her out of the hallway, and quickly threw three heavy deadbolts into place. He grabbed a dry towel from the rack and shoved it into her hands. Elsie didn't dry herself. Her eyes were bloodshot, burning with a feverish intensity. "Was it you?" she demanded, her voice hoarse. "Did you make the call?" Eduardo's shoulders slumped. He let out a heavy sigh, the wrinkles on his face deepening. He walked over to a small wall safe, punched in the code, and pulled out a yellowed, folded document. He slid it across the counter toward her. It was a vehicle inspection report. Elsie's eyes scanned the ink. The report clearly detailed that a remote-controlled Trojan had been implanted into the electronic braking system of her parents' Lincoln the day before the crash. Eduardo pointed a trembling finger at the signature at the bottom. "The mechanic who signed off on this," Eduardo said quietly. "He became a millionaire a week after the funeral. He moved to South America and vanished." Elsie's numb fingers traced the ink of the signature. "What does this have to do with Fenton?" she asked, her voice dangerously quiet. Eduardo pulled out a second sheet of paper. A wire transfer record from an offshore account. "The ultimate beneficiary of the account that paid the mechanic," Eduardo explained, tapping the paper. "It's a shell company controlled entirely by Fenton." The proof was right there. Hard, undeniable evidence. Fenton had bought their murders. "I don't have the power to fight him, Elsie," Eduardo pleaded, his eyes filled with sorrow. "He controls everything now. You need to hide. You need to stay alive." The image of her parents' crushed car flashed behind Elsie's eyelids. Then, the memory of Fenton standing in the ballroom tonight, watching her life burn with a polite smile. Her sanity snapped. She lunged forward, snatching the car keys resting on the edge of the counter. Eduardo shouted her name, reaching out to grab her, but Elsie was already out the door. The fire in her veins completely masked the pain in her body. She was going to kill him. She threw herself into the driver's seat of Eduardo's Aston Martin parked on the street. She slammed her bare foot on the gas pedal. The engine roared like a wounded beast, tearing into the rainy night. She drove with one hand gripping the steering wheel, her knuckles white. Her other hand was crushed into a fist, tightly clutching the wire transfer record. Tears and rain blurred her vision, turning the streetlights into streaks of yellow fire. The sports car swerved violently across the slick lanes of the cross-sea bridge. The speedometer needle buried itself near the redline. She only had one thought. Drive to the Long Island estate and run Fenton down. From the shadows of the intersection, the black Maybach pulled out. It accelerated silently, locking onto the taillights of the Aston Martin like a predator tracking bleeding prey. In the backseat of the Maybach, Arthur Michael stared at the tablet in his hand. The screen displayed the Aston Martin's terrifying speed. A muscle feathered in his tight jaw. "Cut her off," Arthur ordered his driver, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Stop that car." Elsie glanced in her rearview mirror. The massive black grille of the Maybach was gaining on her. Panic spiked in her chest. Fenton's assassins. They had found her. She pressed the gas pedal harder, desperate to shake them. The Aston Martin hit a deep pool of standing water on a sharp curve. The tires lost all traction. A deafening screech of rubber against asphalt echoed over the bridge as the sports car hydroplaned, sliding completely out of control, heading straight for the concrete barrier. In a split second of calculated violence, the Maybach surged forward. It cut the inside lane and slammed its reinforced steel side directly into the sliding Aston Martin, forcing it against the guardrail. The impact was explosive. Sparks showered into the rain as metal ground against metal. Both cars screeched to a violent halt, stopping less than two feet from the edge of the bridge. The airbag deployed, punching Elsie in the face. The world spun into a dizzying blur. Her forehead slammed against the steering wheel, and hot blood immediately began to trickle down her skin. The door of the Maybach was kicked open. Arthur stepped out into the torrential rain. He wore a black trench coat, his heavy leather shoes splashing into the puddles with deliberate, predatory steps. He reached the crushed door of the Aston Martin and ripped it open with brute force. The freezing smell of rain flooded the cabin. Elsie thrashed wildly in her half-conscious state. "Get off me!" she screamed, swinging her arms blindly, terrified the assassin was here to finish the job. "Don't touch me!" Arthur caught her flailing wrists in one hand, pinning them effortlessly. "Stop moving," he commanded. His voice was deep, vibrating with an absolute, undeniable authority. The sheer dominance in his tone made Elsie's body freeze on instinct. She blinked, trying to look up at him. Between the heavy rain and the blood dripping into her eyes, his face was nothing but a dark, blurred silhouette. But the scent of him-a heavy, intoxicating mix of male pheromones, cold cedar, and expensive cigar smoke-wrapped around her senses. Arthur leaned in. He carefully avoided the bleeding gash on her forehead, sliding one arm under her knees and the other behind her back. He lifted her out of the wrecked driver's seat, carrying her against his chest as he walked back to his car. The adrenaline crashed. The exhaustion and terror finally dragged Elsie under. Her head fell limply against Arthur's broad, solid chest as she lost consciousness. Arthur laid her gently onto the leather backseat. He glanced coldly at the flashing red and blue lights of the police cruisers approaching in the distance. "Drive," Arthur told his driver. "Take us to the penthouse."