The Widow's Price: Owned By Adrien

7

Larsen Tower pierced the Manhattan skyline like a shard of black glass. Aurora stood in the lobby, clutching a dry-cleaning bag. Inside was a shirt that, despite the best efforts of the 24-hour service, still bore a faint, ghostly shadow of mud near the cuff. Her hands were sweating.

"Mr. Larsen is expecting you," the receptionist said, her eyes scanning Aurora's simple gray dress with judgment.

The elevator ride to the top floor made Aurora's ears pop. The doors slid open to reveal a space that was more cathedral than office. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked Central Park. The furniture was sparse, modern, and intimidating.

Adrien was behind his desk. He didn't look up as she entered.

"Sit."

Aurora sat. She placed the bag on the edge of his desk.

"I brought the shirt. And I wanted to thank you for-"

Adrien stood up. He picked up the bag with two fingers, as if it were contaminated. He walked to the trash can and dropped it in.

Aurora blinked. "That... that was expensive."

"I don't wear things that have been in the mud," Adrien said. He leaned back against his desk, crossing his ankles. "And I don't care about the shirt."

He picked up a file folder and slid it across the polished mahogany.

"Open it."

Aurora opened the folder. Her eyes scanned the documents. Promissory notes. Loan guarantees. All signed by her.

"I didn't sign these," she said, her voice rising. "These are for Clark's failed ventures. I never agreed to this."

"The signatures match," Adrien said calmly. "Forensic analysis confirms it. Or rather, it confirms that whoever forged them did a perfect job. Likely a family member with access to your handwriting."

Chloe. It had to be.

"The total is three million dollars," Adrien said. "And the bank is moving to seize your assets on Monday. Normally, probate would protect you, but your sister was quite proactive. She had you sign a document waiving the standard waiting period for this specific debt consolidation, disguised as a simple household expenditure form weeks ago. You'll be homeless. And with a fraud investigation pending, you'll likely go to prison."

Aurora felt the room spin. "I... I can't pay this."

"I know."

Adrien moved. He came around the desk, invading her personal space. He placed his hands on the arms of her chair, trapping her.

"I can make the debt go away," he said softy. "I can buy the notes from the bank."

Aurora looked up at him, hope warring with suspicion. "Why?"

"Because I need a personal assistant," he said. "Someone discreet. Someone who is available twenty-four seven."

"You want me to work for you?"

"I want you to belong to me," Adrien corrected. His eyes dropped to her lips, then back to her eyes. "My assistant. My shadow. My... whatever I need you to be."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then enjoy prison, Aurora. I hear the jumpsuits are orange."

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