BOUND BY BLOOD AND BILLIONS

Chapter 2- The Mess He Bought Part 1

"Miss, you cannot go in there! Mr. Sterling is—"

I interrupt the panicked assistant. I shove my shoulder against the heavy black door of the boardroom, putting all my weight into it. The door swings open with a loud bang, and I stride inside, my black boots dirtying the expensive rug. If Alistair Sterling thinks he can buy a polite, meek socialite who will just comply, he is mistaken. I made sure to look like the exact kind of nightmare that frightens men like him.

I’m dressed in a ripped leather miniskirt that barely covers me, fishnet tights with a jagged tear running up my left thigh, and a sheer neon-pink mesh top over a dark bralette. I deliberately smeared my black eyeliner thickly around my eyes and painted my lips a bruised red. I look like I just emerged from an underground rave at four in the morning.

The entire room freezes. There are at least a dozen people seated around a massive polished mahogany table. Old men in stiff gray suits. Women in pristine navy pencil skirts. Every one of them stares at me, horrified. One executive's jaw drops, and his pen slips from his fingers, clattering to the floor. But at the head of the table sits the man I believe murdered my brother.

Alistair Sterling.

He doesn’t flinch at the sound of the doors slamming against the walls. For the first time in two years, my eyes lock onto him. The air in the room seems to vanish.

"Sir, I am so sorry!" his assistant gasps, breathless in the doorway behind me. "She just barreled right past security—"

"It's fine, Sarah," Alistair replies.

He wears a custom midnight-blue three-piece suit that fits him perfectly. Not a single strand of dark hair is out of place. His jaw is sharp and unyielding. But it's his eyes that send a shiver down my spine. They are icy gray, cold and calculating, completely devoid of warmth.

"What is the meaning of this?!" a red-faced executive sputters, nearly jumping out of his chair.

"Security! Get this hooligan out of here immediately!"

“Tsk, tsk, tsk. Did you just call your boss's wife a hooligan?” I say, amusement evident in my voice.

Alistair doesn’t even glance at the man. He doesn’t raise his voice; he merely lifts a long finger from the table. Immediately, the executive's mouth snaps shut, and he sinks back into his chair. The authority Alistair commands in the room is suffocating and disturbing to witness.

He leans back, resting his hands on the armrests, his ice-cold gaze traveling down my body. He takes in the neon mesh, the ripped fishnets, and the scuffed combat boots ruining his floor. I lift my chin, crossing my arms over my chest, waiting for his disgust. I want him to see that this is a mistake. I want him to tear up the contract. Instead, a muscle twitches in his jaw.

"The meeting is adjourned," Alistair says. His voice is deep and resonant, sending a chill straight down my spine.

"But, sir, the merger—" a woman at the front stammers.

"I said, leave us. And close the door behind you," he adds, finally putting down his pen.

The room erupts into chaos. I watch as they hurriedly close their briefcases and stuff papers into folders. Within thirty seconds, twelve of the city's most powerful executives have scuttled out, the terrified assistant shutting the door with a soft click that seals us inside.

We are completely alone.

Alistair rises, his imposing size intimidating. He towers at the head of the table, moving with deadly grace as he picks up a thick leather-bound folder.

"I see you dressed for the occasion, Vivienne," he says, lowering his voice as he slides the folder down the table toward me.

"I wanted you to know exactly what you're investing in, Sterling," I snap back, my voice laced with venom. "Are you sure this is the look you want for your shiny new corporate wife? It might be a bit hard to clean up.”

"I don't care if you show up wearing a garbage bag, Vivienne," he replies. "As long as you sign the contract."

I lean back against the table, half sitting, refusing to move toward him.

"If you want me to sign it, Sterling, bring it to me."

Alistair’s eyes darken, shifting to something more dangerous, but he doesn’t argue. He simply picks up the leather folder, a gold fountain pen, and a small black velvet box.

Slowly, deliberately, he walks around the massive table. He moves like a predator, his tailored suit shifting smoothly over his broad shoulders. With each step, the air seems to grow thin. I try to stand my ground, lifting my chin defiantly, but as he closes the distance, my heart starts to race in my chest. He stops just inches from me. Too close. Dangerously close.

I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. Up close, he is infuriatingly perfect. I hate the sharp, Greek-god cut of his jaw. I hate the faint shadow of stubble along his chin. But most of all, I hate how he smells—a rich, intoxicating mix of cedar, bergamot, and something else that makes my head spin.

A wave of guilt crashes into my stomach. He killed Julian, I remind myself. He is a monster. But my body doesn’t listen. My skin heats beneath the neon mesh of my top, and I know he can sense my heart racing.

"You are trembling, Vivienne," he murmurs, his voice a low vibration that sends shivers down my spine.

"I'm disgusted," I lie, my voice coming out breathier than I intended.

Alistair’s gaze drops to my lips—painted that deep red—and lingers for a moment before rising back to my eyes. His look feels too intense, almost like a touch.

"Are you?" he asks softly.

He doesn’t hand me the folder. Instead, he reaches out and takes my left hand.

I gasp at the sudden contact, trying to pull away, but his grip is firm. His large, warm fingers close around my cold, trembling ones. The heat of his skin sends a jolt up my arm. He ignores my resistance, his thumb slowly tracing circles over my racing pulse on my wrist.

He knows exactly what he is doing to me.

With his other hand, he flips open the black velvet box. Inside rests a flawless, emerald-cut diamond, enormous and blinding.

"A physical reminder of our agreement," Alistair says quietly, his thumb still tracing circles against my pulse.

"You belong to me now. To my world. You will wear this, and you will behave."

He slides the heavy platinum band onto my ring finger. The metal is cold, a sharp contrast to his warm touch. He doesn’t release my hand right away, lifting it slightly, forcing me to feel the weight of his claim.

"Sign the contract," he whispers, leaning in so close that his warm breath brushes my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. "Or the bank takes your father's estate at noon."

The arrogance of his words, combined with the heat flooding my veins, makes something inside me snap. I jerk my hand free from his grip. The sudden loss of his warmth feels shocking, but I don’t let myself dwell on it. Driven by grief, humiliation, and rage, I swing my arm back.

Smack.

The sound of my palm hitting his cheek echoes in the silence of the boardroom. The impact makes my hand burn, a sharp stinging sensation shooting up my arm. I hit him hard enough to make a normal man's head snap back. But Alistair barely moves, and a bright red handprint begins to form on his pale cheekbone.

My chest heaves as I breathe heavily through my neon mesh top. I wait for him to grab my neck or slap me back. I brace myself for him to yell.Instead, Alistair slowly turns his head back to face me. There is no anger in his eyes. There is only a dark, terrifying amusement. He lifts a hand, his thumb casually wiping a tiny smear of blood from the corner of his split lip. He looks at the blood on his thumb and then looks at me.

"Feel better?" he asks. His voice is a low, dangerous purr that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

"I'll feel better when you're dead," I spit, my voice shaking with adrenaline.

"A beautiful sentiment for our wedding vows," he replies smoothly.

But he doesn't step back. His imposing height traps me against the edge of the mahogany table. He taps a long, elegant finger against the leather folder sitting behind us. "Now, sign it. I have a company to run."

I snatch the heavy gold fountain pen from the table. My hand shakes so violently I can barely grip the metal. I flip the folder open, not even bothering to read the blocks of legal text, and go straight to the last page.

I press the nib of the pen so hard against the thick paper that it threatens to tear. I angrily s***h my signature onto the dotted line.

"There," I say, throwing the pen onto the glass. It clatters loudly, rolls off the edge, and hits the floor. "You bought me. I hope you choke on the receipt."

Alistair smoothly picks up the folder and closes it with a heavy thud. He slips it under his arm, his icy gray eyes locking onto mine.

"You misunderstand our arrangement, Vivienne," he says quietly, reaching out. I flinch, but his hand simply bypasses mine to straighten the collar of his perfect suit. "I didn't buy you to be an ornament. I bought you to play a role. And your first performance starts in exactly three hours."

"What are you talking about?" I demand, my stomach dropping.

"We are attending the Mayor's charity gala tonight," he says, stepping back and finally giving me room to breathe. "And you will not attend it looking like a streetwalker."