Billionaire’s Captive Heiress: Love Under His Rule

Chapter 12

Zachary

Shadows in The Club are always deeper than anywhere else. Smoke curls in lazy tendrils under lights as men gather around the table. The weight of the place, its history, steeped in blood and power, is crushing to most. Not to me. This is my world. Here, I am untouchable.

Nicholas, my cousin, sits to my left. His sharp eyes scan the room, catching every shift, every whisper, as if danger might be lurking anywhere at any time. Across from us, Michael leans back in his chair, pen rolling between his fingers. His analytical mind is likely ten steps ahead, dissecting every angle of the transaction before us.

Between us sits Viktor, a man whose name is whispered in the darkest corners of the underworld. He is a broker of disruption, a supplier of weapons that can shift power in a single night. He toys with a silver lighter. Viktor's reputation precedes him, and his presence alone commands respect.

"The price is final," Viktor says, leaning forward. "You want the shipment in two weeks. I want full payment upfront."

"Full payment," Nicholas scoffs. "You're asking for trust you haven't earned."

Viktor's lips curve into a faint smile, though his eyes stay cold. "I don't need your trust. I need your money. You're not the only buyer interested in this cache."

Michael sets his pen down. "If you believe selling to Montgomery will get you out of this, be my guest and attempt it. But I guarantee you, you will never live to spend the proceeds."

The lighter clicks shut, and Viktor's smile disappears. "Is that a threat?"

"That's a reality," I finally say. "Montgomery's time is almost up. You don't want to get caught in the crossfire when we collect.

Viktor looks at me, then settles back, arms spread. "Fifty now, fifty when delivered."

"Seventy-thirty," Nicholas says quickly.

Viktor raises his eyebrow, then nods. "Deal."

"Good choice." Michael leans back again, his pen dancing again. "Well, let's proceed to another matter. The sooner we get this done, the better for all of us."

The discussion at the table should hold my full attention. But tonight, my focus is fractured. My mind is tugged in a direction I don't want to acknowledge.

Clara.

These past few days, she has a way of slipping into my thoughts, uninvited but persistent. It is maddening. I had dismissed her as nothing more than another figurine in the complicated activity of my life. A new maid, naive and out of her depth, someone to blend into the background like the rest of the staff. But she hasn't.

I can still see her as she stood in my penthouse—or in my bathroom—that first day. She was nervous but stubborn. It intrigued me then, though I hadn't realized it. Now, that spark seems to start something deeper every time I think of her.

Nicholas's voice snaps me back to the present. "Zach, you're miles away. What's going on?"

I don't react, letting my eyes drift to him. His face is knowing, but he won't push. Not here. Not now.

"Are you in the right condition?" Michael asks sharply, tapping his pen against the edge of the table. "Montgomery's been moving pieces. If we don't secure this deal, we lose leverage."

I nod, pushing Clara out of my mind. For now.

I don’t get distracted. Not in negotiations. Not in war. But Clara Hale has lodged herself in my thoughts like a splinter I can’t ignore.

"Set the terms. Full payment on delivery. We're not taking risks," I say.

Michael makes notes, and his sharp features show that he agrees. Nicholas leans back and sips his whiskey as the subject changes.

A knock at the door brings me back to the present. It is harsh, hurried. Nicholas straightens in his chair as his hand instinctively drifts toward the concealed weapon at his side.

“Enter,” I say.

The door opens, and a man stumbles in. His face is deathly pale with streaks of sweat. Blood seeps from a gash on his temple onto the collar of his shirt.

"The picciotto," Nicholas mutters, his mouth curling into a lopsided smirk.

"Speak," I command.

He drops to his knees, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Montgomery sends a message. He requests your presence at Fashion Week."

We exchange confused glances.

Michael straightens. He's already chuckling at the absurdity of the news. "Fashion Week? Montgomery must be out of his mind," he scoffs.

"Probably one of the Montgomery brothers thought it'd be a good way to lure us out into the open," Viktor says, shaking his head.

"Well, or walk the runway in our suits and ties," Nicholas is tilting his head, a sly smile spreading across his lips.

"Perhaps in a skirt and heels," Michael suggests, and we all crack up. Montgomery's unorthodox methods never cease to amaze us. Fashion Week is definitely not what we are expecting, but we know better than to underestimate the Montgomery brothers' creativity.

The made-man nods wildly. "Anton said it's the only place safe enough for a conversation. He wants to discuss terms. But he made it clear. Your response will decide everything. Accept his terms, or prepare for war."

Nicholas leans back. "Fashion Week. A spectacle of silk and champagne. Perfect cover for plotting bloodshed."

Michael's gaze turns to me. "Well?"

I keep the made-man's eyes. "Tell Montgomery we'll be there. But let him know that this doesn't mean we're playing by his rules."

Relief crosses the man's face as he nods quickly. Nicholas motions for him to be escorted out.

"I think our meeting is over for now," I say, already pushing the chair back and standing up.

—

The ride back to the mansion is uneventful, but my mind churns with thoughts of Montgomery's latest ploy. Fashion Week. It is absurd yet ingenious. The audacity of it irritates me almost as much as it intrigues me. Anton Montgomery is a showman, always finding ways to twist a knife in unexpected ways.

As I enter through the main doors, my phone buzzes, and I enter my study, where a neat stack of documents is waiting for me.

The message is from my secretary at Langston Enterprises:

KING FROM ORANGE ISLAND CHECKING IN AT THE HOTEL TOMORROW. HE REQUESTS YOUR PRESENCE.

I stare at the text, my jaw tightening. King is a powerful ally or a dangerous adversary, depending on the day. His request is an order wrapped in a gracious invitation, and refusing isn’t an option.

I type out a swift reply, confirming the meeting. My fingers hover over the screen for a moment before hitting send. Another message immediately comes through, making me sigh heavily.

This one is not from an associate or a rival. It is from Ella.

MOVIE MARATHON TONIGHT! COME JOIN US!

I frown, my thumbs already moving to type an excuse. But before I can send it, another text pops up with emojis of popcorn and laughter.

CLARA'S ALREADY HERE. BRING SNACKS!

I raise my brows.

This time, my reply is slower, more deliberate. I look at the screen a beat longer than I need to before typing one word.

Fine.