The Diamond Clause:Married To The Ruthless Billionaire. [FREE]

Numbers don’t lie. Men do, constantly and with alarming ease, but the ledger is always a brutal, unforgiving mirror. I sat in the sterile lit purgatory of my cubicle, my eyes burning as they traced the lines of data on my dual monitors. The air conditioning hummed a steady, rattling drone, carrying the scent of stale coffee and printer ink. It was past eight on a Friday evening. The financial district of the city had long since emptied out, the suits abandoning their glass towers for expensive scotch and mistresses, leaving drones like me to scrub the day's debris. But this wasn't debris..My finger hovered over the mouse as I clicked through a nested series of offshore accounts. Cayman. Seychelles. Zurich. The routing numbers were buried beneath layers of legitimate client acquisitions, camouflaged with a skill that was almost poetic. Almost. I was a forensic analyst, and my brain was wired to find the rough edge in a smooth surface. There was a repeating sequence of codes tied to a consulting firm—Aegis Holdings. Every time our firm closed a major real estate portfolio, a perfectly calculated 4.2 percent went out into Aegis. I thought it was an accounting error. But as I looked closer, I realized funds were being siphoned. And it was attached to an authorization key that belonged to only one man in the entire building. Vince. My stomach plummeted, a cold, heavy stone dropping into the cavity of my hips. Vince was the senior partner. He was the man who had hired me, the man who patted my shoulder and told me I was his brightest associate. He was stealing millions from our most dangerous clients—men who did not settle disputes in courtrooms, but in dark alleys. And I had just stumbled into the blast radius. I printed the hard copies. The machine whirred, spitting out the damning pages. I gathered them into a manila folder, my hands shaking so violently I gave myself a paper cut. The sharp sting of it grounded me. I had to report it. I had to clear the firm’s name before the clients found out and brought the whole building down on our heads. I walked down the long corridor toward the corner office. The oak door was slightly ajar, a sliver of light spilling onto the carpet. "Vince?" I pushed the door open. He was pouring himself a glass of Macallan, the amber liquid catching the city skyline behind him. Vince didn't wear a mask or carry a crowbar. He looked like a man who owned the world—tailored Brioni suit, silver hair perfectly coiffed, a smug, relaxed posture. "Hazel," he said, taking a slow sip. "Burning the midnight oil. I admire your dedication. What can I do for you?" I stepped into the room, the plush carpet silencing my footsteps. I tossed the manila folder onto his desk and watched it land with a final thud. "I found the leak in the Rothwell account," I said, my voice tight but steady. "And the Mercer portfolio. It’s all routing to Aegis Holdings." Vince remained as still as a statue carved from ice, the heavy crystal tumbler steady in his palm. Not a single drop of the amber liquid rippled against the glass, and his hand didn't so much as tremble as he watched the evidence of his ruin hit the desk. He simply looked at the folder, then up at me, a slow smile stretching across his face. "Did you, now?" "It’s your authorization key, Vince. You've been embezzling client funds for the better part of two years." I gripped the back of a leather guest chair to hide my trembling hands. "I have to take this to the compliance board. You have to know I can't bury this." Vince chuckled. It was a dark, amused sound that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. He set his glass down and walked around the desk, leaning his hips against the polished wood. "Oh, Hazel. My sweet, naive girl," he murmured, picking up the folder and casually dropping it into the shredder beside his desk. The machine ground the evidence into confetti. "You aren't taking anything to the compliance board." "There are digital copies," I shot back, taking a step away from him. "Yes, there are," Vince agreed smoothly. "And if anyone were to look at those digital copies, they would find that the IP address originating the transfers to Aegis Holdings traces directly back to your cubicle." The breath was knocked out of my lungs. "What?" "The authorization key was cloned," he explained, his tone conversational, as if we were discussing the weather. "The passwords match your keystroke logs. The offshore shell company is registered under a maiden name vaguely related to your mother’s side of the family. It took quite a bit of effort to construct, I’ll admit. But you see, I needed a fall guy. Or, in this case, a brilliant, overworked, financially desperate fall girl." "You framed me." The words tasted like ash in my mouth. "I secured my retirement," Vince corrected, his smile vanishing, replaced by a cold, reptilian stare. "You are officially terminated, Hazel. Effective immediately. And if you even think about breathing a word of this to anyone, I will hand that fabricated file over to the authorities—or worse, to the Rothwells. You know what they do to people who steal from them. You’ll be in a grave before the week is out." He pressed a button on his intercom. "Security? Please escort Miss James from the building. She’s no longer an employee." The city rain was a cold, driving sheet of misery as I stumbled out of the revolving doors, a cardboard box of my belongings clutched to my chest. As the rain began to hit the box it darkened, the corners softening into a pulp.The mug rattled against the jar of pens and a framed photo of Fynn.I could already feel the packing tape I'd used bowing out. I didn't have the money for a cab. I walked the six blocks to the subway, the icy downpour soaking through my trench coat, plastering my hair to my cheeks like dark, wet ropes. By the time I reached my apartment building on the fringes of the city, I was shivering, my teeth chattering. The hallway smelled of boiled cabbage and old damp. It was a far cry from the marble floors of my former firm, but it was all I could afford. I trudged up the three flights of stairs, my shoes squeaking against the linoleum. When I reached my door, I stopped dead. There was a piece of paper taped to the peeling wood like a stain making the surrounding hallway look even more dilapidated.Yellow.The color of caution tape and toxic spills, signaling a catastrophe that refused to be ignored. I dropped my box and let it hit the floor, spilling the mug and pens without a care. I tore the paper from the door with numb fingers. FINAL NOTICE OF DELINQUENCY. ACCOUNT SENT TO COLLECTIONS. The numbers at the bottom of the page blurred as tears finally broke free, mixing with the rain on my face. Seventy-five thousand dollars. It was for Fynn’s last three rounds of treatment. My younger brother’s heart was failing, his medical care an agonising drain that fed on my future with an unrelenting hunger swallowing every cent I made before it even hit my palm. But I had willingly shouldered it.Desperately. I had promised him I would handle it. I had promised him he only needed to focus on staying alive. I slid down the front of my door, hitting the floor of the dingy hallway, and pulled my knees to my chest. Without my salary, Fynn would be discharged from the clinic. He would be transferred to a state facility. He would die. Vince had turned my brother's breathing into a countdown of debt I couldn't pay. He had taken my brother’s life. My throat closed as if an invincible hand had clamped around it. I couldn't breathe. I crumpled the collection notice in my fist, pressing my face into my knees, and let out a choked sob. The walls of my life were caving in and there was no one coming to save me. My phone buzzed on the floor beside me. The screen glowing: Clair. She was a junior analyst, the only person at the firm who had ever bothered to learn my coffee order. I swiped the screen with a trembling thumb and pressed the phone to my ear. "Hazel?" Clair’s voice was hushed. "Oh my god. Security just sent out a building-wide email. They’re saying you were escorted out for gross misconduct. They’re locking down your servers." "It's a lie, Clair," I whispered, my voice cracked and raw. "Vince is embezzling. He pinned it on me. I’m blacklisted. He made it look like I stole from the clients." Silence fell over the line. "Hazel... the Rothwells. If they think you stole from them..." "I know." "You can't apply anywhere else in the district," Clair said, her voice dropping to a panicked whisper. "Vince is already making calls. It's like he's trying to scorch the earth. He wants to make sure no one ever hires you again so his story holds up." "I need money, Clair. I need a job. Fynn’s bills..." I swallowed hard, fighting another wave of tears. "I don't know what to do." "Listen to me," Clair said, her tone suddenly shifting, sharpening with one of her dangerous ideas. "You can't play by the rules anymore. The system is rigged. You need a backer,someone who has more money and more power than Vince. Someone who doesn't give a damn about a corporate blacklist." "Who?" "The Olympus Charity Gala is tonight," Clair said quickly. "It's at the ballroom downtown. It’s invite-only—old money, billionaires, the kind of men who buy and sell people like Vince for sport. If you can get in there... if you can corner an investor, pitch them your skills privately, prove how good you are... you might find someone ruthless enough to hire you off the books but not to kill you though." "Sneak into a billionaire's gala?" I let out a bleak, humorless laugh. "Look at me, Clair. I don't belong in that world. I'd be thrown out in seconds." "You don't have a choice," Clair said bluntly. "You need a shark, Hazel. Go find the biggest one in the room and make yourself useful to him." She hung up, leaving the dial tone ringing in my ear. I looked down at the notice in my hand. She was right. I was out of options, out of time, and out of grace. If I had to walk into a den of wolves, I would. Two hours later, I stood in front of the towering mirrors of a rental boutique on the upper east side. The saleswoman looked at me with thinly veiled disdain, but her expression shifted when I handed her my last, un-maxed credit card. "I need your best piece," I had told her. "Something that doesn't look like I rented it." The dress she brought me was a willow floral maxi. It was a midnight-blue silk slip that clung to every curve of my body, the material so thin it felt like water against my skin. The back plunged low, the delicate straps barely holding against my collarbones. It was the kind of dress designed to make men stop breathing. If that was possible, and probably on a more…supple body. I was five feet and five inches , with an oval face, big brown eyes and full lips. I looked like a disgraced accountant.But coupled with a bold red lip and my dark hair sweeping over one shoulder, the woman staring back at me in the mirror looked nothing like me. I signed the credit card receipt, ignoring the pain of seeing my available balance drop to zero. This was an investment. It had to be. When my cab pulled up to the ballroom, the scale of the wealth on display was made every breath I took a conscious straining effort. Paparazzi flashes illuminated the night like lightning. Valets scrambled to park a parade of Rolls-Royces and Bentleys. Men in custom tuxedos and women dripping in diamonds walked up the velvet-carpeted steps. Every person who brushed past me held a cream-colored card like ticket, their faces bright with the easy confidence of someone who belonged.. Arrogance was the universal language of the elite. If you act like you own the ground you walk on, no one questions your right to stand there. I stepped away from the cab, keeping my chin high, my expression bored and slightly irritated. I walked straight toward the VIP entrance, bypassing the main line. A security guard in a dark suit stepped into my path, lifting a hand. "Invitation, miss?" I let out a soft, annoyed sigh, rolling my eyes as if his existence was a personal inconvenience to me. "I’m with the Hayes party," I lied smoothly, picking the most powerful name Clair had mentioned in passing. "And if you make me stand in the cold for another second while you check a list, I will personally ensure you're a working mall security by tomorrow morning." The guard hesitated, his eyes dropping briefly to the plunge of my dress, then back to my icy glare. The bluff worked. He swallowed hard and stepped aside, unclipping the velvet rope. "Apologies, ma'am. Go right ahead." I slipped past him, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped staccato melody. The doors of the ballroom opened, and the noise washed over me—the clinking of wine glasses, the low murmur of dangerous conversations, the soft hum of a jazz quartet. I stepped into the opulent sea of the city's elite. My hands empty, my bank accounts were drained, and my reputation in ruins. But I was inside. Now, I just needed to find a monster willing to make a deal.