Tangled in His Bed: The Billionaire's Secret Obsession

Chapter 5: The Collateral

Vivian’s breath stopped dead in her throat.

Her eyes remained riveted to the teardrop stone dangling from Julian’s scarred knuckles. The emerald glowed like a trapped serpent’s eye under the crystal chandeliers, casting fractured green embers across the dark walnut desk.

The Sterling Emerald.

The pledge her mother had made her swear on family honor to protect.

Before her intellect could intervene, instinct hijacked her limbs. She lunged forward, her hand darting out across the blotter to snatch the platinum chain.

"Give that back to me!"

With the lazy, effortless speed of a viper, Julian closed his fist.

He drew his arm back, lifting the pendant high above her reach. The movement pulled his black shirt taut across his chest, the open collar shifting to reveal the violent red marks her nails had carved into his skin.

"Careful, little rabbit," Julian drawled, his voice low, vibrating with velvet amusement. "A pirate doesn't return his plunder simply because the victim asks nicely."

Vivian’s chest heaved against the edge of the desk.

"That is not plunder! It's mine!" Desperation cracked the porcelain veneer of her voice. "It is a family heirloom. It was given to me by my mother, and it has nothing to do with you. Give it back, Mr. Sterling. Please."

Julian tilted his head, his storm-grey eyes darkening with a lethal, calculating gleam.

He rose slowly from his seat, towering over her until his shadow completely swallowed her.

"A family heirloom?" Julian leaned in, his face stopping inches from hers. The rich scent of cedarwood, bitter citrus, and clean sweat washed over her like an intoxicating drug. "Is that what you call it? Funny. My sister told me a rather different story."

Vivian froze, her knuckles whitening against the edge of the wood.

Chloe told him?

Julian watched the color drain from her face with dark, predatory satisfaction.

"She told me," he continued, his voice dropping into a slow, merciless rasp against her ear, "that you have a fiancé. An arranged dynastic match. A promise sealed twenty years ago."

Every hair on the back of Vivian’s neck stood on end.

"I wonder," Julian murmured, his thumb stroking the cold platinum link resting against his palm, "does your mystery fiancé know where this sacred pledge spent the weekend? Did he know it was buried in my black silk sheets, watching his promised bride scream my name while I took her six times?"

"Stop it!" Vivian choked out, her face burning with a mortifying mixture of shame and fury. "Don't you dare talk about him like that!"

A muscle in Julian’s jaw ticked hard.

The amusement in his eyes vanished, replaced by an abyssal, possessive coldness that made the temperature in the room plummet.

"Touchy, aren't we?" he sneered softly. "Loyal to a ghost who hasn't bothered to show his face in twenty years. Tell me, Vivian... did he ever make your knees shake the way I did? Did his hands ever leave bruises on your hips?"

"You're disgusting," Vivian whispered, her amber eyes blazing with defiance behind her glasses. "Give me my necklace, and I'll submit my resignation today. I won't ever cross your path again."

"Resign?"

Julian let out a dry, chilling chuckle.

He stepped around the desk, his presence so suffocating she couldn't retreat. Before she could flinch, his left hand reached down, his long fingers wrapping around the strap of her leather laptop tote.

With smooth, unyielding force, he slipped the tube of Swiss dermatological balm into the front pocket of her bag.

"You're not resigning, Vivian," Julian said, his voice quiet, final, and brooking no room for negotiation. "You signed a three-year exclusivity contract with Sterling Capital. If you break it, my legal department will tie your academic family up in breach-of-contract lawsuits that will bankrupt your parents' trust before the year is out."

Vivian’s jaw dropped. "You wouldn't."

"Try me."

Julian pocketed the emerald pendant in his tailored trousers, his hand resting casually over the bulge of the stone.

"Here are my terms, Miss Reed. The pendant stays in my safe. Consider it a hostage for your good behavior."

"My good behavior?!"

"When I text, you answer," Julian commanded, his gaze pinning her to the floorboards. "When I summon you to this office, you come. And if you dare to run from me again like a thief at dawn... I won't just keep the necklace. I’ll hand-deliver it to Chloe, along with a detailed description of what happened in my bed."

Vivian stared at the man standing before her—so impeccably dressed, so devastatingly handsome, and completely, utterly ruthless.

She was trapped. Bound by a three-year contract, her best friend's ignorance, and an irreplaceable family jewel held hostage in a billionaire's pocket.

"You're a devil, Julian Sterling," she spat, her voice trembling with unshed tears.

Julian’s lips curved into a slow, unholy smile.

"I know, sweetheart," he murmured. "Now wipe that pretty scowl off your face and get back to your spreadsheets. You have fifteen minutes before your lunch break ends."

Vivian spent the rest of the workday in a state of hyper-focused numbness.

When she stepped out of the elevator on the eighteenth floor, Brooke Vance had been waiting near the water cooler, eyes gleaming with malicious anticipation. But when Vivian walked past her with a calm, unbothered expression—holding her tablet and showing no signs of having been fired—Brooke’s face curdled like spoiled cream.

"What did he say to you?" Brooke demanded, blocking her path.

Vivian didn't even slow down. "He asked for an update on the quarterly liquidity ratio. If you're curious, Brooke, feel free to schedule an appointment on the fiftieth floor and ask him yourself."

Brooke choked on her own spite, while Maya snickered behind her monitors.

At five-thirty sharp, the chime of Vivian’s phone saved her from the corporate prison.

It was Chloe.

Within twenty minutes, Vivian found herself dragged into the sensory whirlwind of SoHo.

Chloe was on a mission. The blonde heiress swept through designer boutiques on Mercer Street like a hurricane, pulling silk dresses, leather trenches, and cashmere knits off the racks while an entourage of sales associates trailed behind her with flutes of champagne.

"Vivi, try this on!" Chloe insisted, shoving an emerald-green slip dress into her hands. "The color would look insane with your eyes!"

Vivian swallowed hard at the word emerald, feeling a phantom weight around her bare throat. "Chloe, I can't afford a three-thousand-dollar Galvan gown on a junior analyst salary."

"Did I say you were paying? It’s on my brother's platinum card!" Chloe scoffed, casually signing a five-figure receipt with a flourish. "Julian never checks the statements. He’s too busy being a soulless corporate dragon."

Chloe suddenly turned, throwing her arms around Vivian’s waist from behind and squeezing her into a suffocating hug.

"Seriously, though, Vivi," Chloe mumbled into her hair, rubbing her cheek against Vivian’s cheek. "Your waist is literally the size of a tea cup. How are you this soft? It’s not fair! Whatever lucky bastard ends up marrying you in that dynastic pact is going to lose his goddamn mind."

Vivian’s heart did a violent, guilty flip in her chest.

He already did, a traitorous voice whispered in her head. And he’s your brother.

"Chloe, stop," Vivian laughed nervously, peeling her friend’s manicured fingers away. "People are staring."

"Let them stare!" Chloe beamed. Then, she paused, looking at Vivian with sudden curiosity. "By the way... did Julian say anything to you today? I heard from someone in PR that some girl caused a scene in the lobby this morning."

Vivian’s stomach plummeted.

"No," Vivian lied smoothly, forcing her voice to remain flat. "I just ran risk simulations all day. I barely see the executive level."

"Good," Chloe sighed in relief, grabbing her shopping bags. "Keep it that way. Julian has been in a foul mood all weekend. He came down on Sunday looking like he wanted to execute the entire board of directors. You stay as far away from him as possible."

If only you knew, Vivian thought, her chest aching with exhaustion. I am currently his favorite prisoner.

By eight-thirty, Chloe’s town car dropped Vivian off in front of her West Village pre-war building on Perry Street.

The red-brick facade was draped in ivy, bathed in the amber glow of the wrought-iron streetlamps. It was quiet, peaceful, and worlds away from the glass-and-steel monstrosity of Midtown.

Vivian took a deep, shuddering breath of the cool evening air, clutching her tote bag as she walked up the stone stoop.

"Well, well. Look who finally decided to come home."

The nasal, grating voice made Vivian’s spine stiffen.

Coming out of the basement trash vestibule was Mrs. Gable, the building’s superintendent and landlady. A stout, sharp-eyed woman in a faded floral duster, holding an overflowing recycling bin.

"Good evening, Mrs. Gable," Vivian said politely, reaching for the brass lobby door.

"Hold your horses, Vivian," Mrs. Gable stepped onto the stoop, wiping her hands on her apron with a calculated grin. "I've been waiting for you all afternoon. Did you think over what we talked about last Thursday?"

Vivian’s temple throbbed. "Mrs. Gable, I told you, I'm extremely busy with my new job."

"Oh, please! That fancy spreadsheet job of yours?" The woman waved a dismissive hand, stepping closer and lowering her voice with conspiratorial familiarity. "Listen to me, girl. You're twenty-three. Fresh out of college, pretty face, nice manners. But beauty fades fast in this city! My boy, Todd... he’s completely head over heels for you."

Vivian suppressed a shudder of profound disgust.

Todd Gable was a twenty-nine-year-old trust-fund slacker who spent his days vaping on the front stoop, living off his mother's brownstone income. Every time Vivian passed him in the narrow hallway, his beady, bloodshot eyes lingered on her chest with greasy, unapologetic entitlement.

"Mrs. Gable, I have immense respect for you, but I am not interested in Todd," Vivian stated with cold, unyielding clarity.

"Not interested?!" Mrs. Gable’s voice climbed an octave, her friendly demeanor cracking into defensive hostility. "My family owns three historic brownstones in Brooklyn and this building right here! Todd is set for life! If you marry him, you won't have to break your back working for those Wall Street vampires. You can stay home, keep house, and give me three healthy grandsons. What more could an academic's daughter want?!"

"I want to live my own life," Vivian said sharply, turning the key in the heavy glass door. "Goodnight, Mrs. Gable."

"You're being foolish, Vivian Reed!" the woman called after her as the door clicked shut. "A girl like you won't find a better deal in this city! Don't come crying to me when you're thirty and single!"

Vivian didn't look back. She took the four flights of stairs two at a time, her legs burning, and locked herself inside her fourth-floor apartment.

She collapsed against the wooden door, sliding down until she was sitting on the polished floorboards.

Her chest heaved.

The contrast between her two worlds was suffocating. On one side was the suffocating, vulgar domestic cage Mrs. Gable wanted to trap her in; on the other was Julian Sterling, a dark, all-powerful predator holding her sacred engagement token hostage in a high-rise tower.

Is there anywhere in this city where a man doesn't want to claim me?

She let out a dry, bitter laugh, resting her forehead on her knees.

Eventually, she pushed herself up, ran a hot bath, and washed away the grime of the day.

At ten-forty-five, Vivian was tucked beneath her linen duvet, dressed in a simple oversized cotton sleep-shirt. The room was dark, illuminated only by the faint orange glow of the streetlamp filtering through her sheer curtains.

Her iPhone chimed with a soft, melodic ping from the nightstand.

A text message.

Vivian turned over and picked up the device.

The lock screen displayed an alert from an unsaved number, identified only by the contact she had been forced to add that morning:

J.S.

Her breath caught.

Her thumb hesitated, hovering over the screen for three agonizing seconds before she tapped the notification.

It was an image.

As the high-resolution file loaded, Vivian’s heart violently slammed against her throat.

The photo had been taken from an intimate, low angle.

It showed Julian Sterling lying back against the dark charcoal sheets of his TriBeCa penthouse. He was completely bare-chested, his massive shoulders illuminated by the amber glow of a single bedside lamp. His collarbone was cast in deep shadows, showing the faint, half-healed scratch marks she had carved into his skin.

And resting directly over his sternum, tangled in the dark hair of his chest... was her pendant.

The eight-carat Colombian emerald gleamed with a wicked, possessive fire against his sun-bronzed skin.

Beneath the image was a single line of text:

[It misses your throat, Vivian. Come get it tomorrow night... or I tell Chloe where it was found.]