DIED TO LIVE AGAIN

CHAPTER THREE: MEETING RAINES

~DOMINIC

The acquisition closed at 9:47 PM.

"Seventeen point five million," I said into the phone, watching the contracts populate on my screen. "Final offer. Take it or spend the next six months watching your company bleed out."

Silence on the other end. Then heavy breathing. The desperate kind I was accustomed to.

"Fine." The CEO's voice cracked. "We accept."

"Smart choice." I ended the call and leaned back in my chair, rolling the tension from my shoulders.

Another distressed asset saved. Another failing executive put out of his misery. Another win for Raines Capital.

My office was dark except for the city lights bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Queens stretched out below me, all steel and glass and ambition. I'd built my empire in this city, clawed my way up from nothing until men like Victor Castellan had no choice but to notice me.

Not that it mattered. He'd still called me trash.

I shut down my computer and reached for my scotch. The glass was halfway to my lips when my phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

I almost ignored it. Then I saw the message.

Your offer. Is it still open?

The scotch glass stopped mid-air.

I knew that number. I'd deleted it from my contacts six months ago after she'd blocked me, but I'd memorized it anyway. Pathetic, maybe. But I couldn't help myself.

Mira Castellan.

My pulse kicked up. I set the glass down carefully and stared at those five words like they might disappear if I blinked.

She was reaching out. After six months of silence. After blocking my number and pretending I didn't exist.

Why now?

My mind dragged me back four years ago, to the Vanderbilt Summit. I'd gone because investors expected it, not because I cared about networking with old money b*stards who looked down on anyone without a trust fund.

Then she'd walked onto the stage.

Gold dress. Body-hugging silk that moved like water with every step. A slit that ran up her left thigh, just high enough to make my brain short-circuit. Her blonde hair had been swept over one shoulder, and when she'd smiled at the crowd, something in my chest had tightened.

She wasn't just beautiful. She was magnetic. Confident. The kind of woman who owned a room without trying.

I'd watched her deliver the opening keynote like she'd been born for it. Sharp. Precise. Every word calculated to land exactly where she wanted it. She'd talked about disruption in luxury markets, about legacy brands failing to adapt, about the future belonging to people brave enough to burn outdated models to the ground.

The entire room had been riveted.

Especially me.

I'd tried to approach her afterward, but her brother—Adrian, I'd learned later was her adoptive brother—had intercepted everyone who got close. Protective. Possessive. The kind of guard dog that made you wonder what he was really protecting her from.

So I'd improvised. Caught a waiter, scribbled my number on a cocktail napkin, asked him to deliver it with her drink.

Five minutes later, I'd watched her unfold the napkin. Read it. Smile.

She'd pulled out her phone right there, typed something, and handed the napkin back to the waiter.

My phone had buzzed seconds later.

Mira Castellan. I'll call you.

She never did.

I'd waited two weeks before accepting that she wasn't interested. Deleted her number. Moved on.

Except I hadn't. Not really.

Six months ago, I'd seen the engagement announcement. Mira Castellan to wed Adrian Castellan. My coffee had gone cold while I'd stared at the photo of them together, her smile tight, his hand gripping her waist like he owned her.

Adrian. Her adoptive brother.

The whole thing reeked of something wrong. So I'd reached out. Offered help. Told her if she needed a way out, I'd provide it.

She'd blocked me.

And now, four years after that summit and six months after I'd given up, she was asking if my offer still stood.

Hell yes, it did.

I typed back quickly.

Always. When can we meet?

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Tomorrow. Your office. Noon.

I stared at those words and felt something shift in my chest. Relief. Anticipation. The same pull I'd felt four years ago when she'd smiled at my note.

I'll be waiting.

I sent it and set my phone down. Then I picked up the scotch and drained it in one swallow.

Tomorrow. She'd be here tomorrow.

I had twelve hours to figure out what had changed her mind…and how to make sure she didn't change it back.

* * *

She arrived at 11:58.

My assistant knocked once and opened the door. "Miss Castellan."

Mira walked in, and I forgot how to breathe.

She looked different from the woman in the gold dress. Thinner. Tired. There were shadows under her eyes that makeup couldn't quite hide, and her movements were careful, like she was trying not to break.

But she was still beautiful.

She wore a navy blazer over a white shirt and pencil skirt, her blonde hair pulled into a neat bun. Professional. Controlled. Except her hands—they twisted the strap of her purse like she was wringing water from it.

I stood. "Mira."

"Mr. Raines." Her voice was steady. Stronger than I'd expected.

"Dominic." I gestured to the chair across from my desk. "Please."

She sat, spine straight, knees together. I poured her a glass of water from the pitcher on my desk and slid it across. She took it but didn't drink.

I settled into my chair and studied her.

Four years. It had been four years since the summit, and she still had that same pull. That same gravity that made everything else in the room fade to background noise.

"I wasn't sure you'd reach out," I said honestly.

"I wasn't sure I would, either." She muttered, but I heard every word.

"But you did." I leaned back, keeping my posture open. Nonthreatening. "Why now?"

She looked at me for a long moment. I watched her debate lying—saw it flicker across her face—before she squared her shoulders and met my eyes.

"Because I don't want to marry Adrian Castellan," she blurted. "And I need help making sure it doesn't happen."

There it was. The truth I'd suspected six months ago.

"Tell me everything."

She did.

She told me about Isla's return. About how the family had shifted overnight from treating her like a daughter to treating her like a stranger. How Victor had stripped her of her position. How Celeste had turned cold and cruel.

"They gave me an ultimatum," she said, her voice flat. "Marry Adrian or lose everything. My inheritance. My reputation. Any chance of a future outside their control."

"And if you refuse?"

"Total disinheritance. Public humiliation." She paused. "They'll make sure no one hires me. No one helps me. They'll destroy me."

I watched her hands tighten on the water glass. Watched the way her jaw clenched when she talked about Celeste. There was more she wasn't saying. I could feel it, but I didn't push.

Not yet.

"Would you care?" I asked. "About the public narrative, I mean. If you walked away from the Castellans entirely, would their version of events matter to you?"

She went still. For a moment, I thought I'd lost her. Then she looked up, and something in her eyes had changed.

"No," she said quietly. "I don't think it would."

Good.

I leaned forward. "Then we have options."

Her eyebrows lifted. "Options?"

"I can provide financial backing. Enough to establish independence. A place to live, legal representation, seed capital for whatever you want to build next." I paused. "But I need to know what you want in return."

"What I want?" She asked, unsure.

"From life. From this situation. Revenge? Distance? Something else?" I held her gaze. "I can't help you if I don't know what you're trying to achieve."

She was quiet for a long moment. Then she said something that made my chest tighten.

"I want them to see what they threw away." Her voice was steel now. "I want to build something so successful, so undeniable, that every time they hear my name, they'll remember they chose wrong."

I smiled. Couldn't help it.

"That," I said, "I can work with."

We spent the next hour going over logistics. What she needed. What I could provide. What the Castellans would do when they realized she was building an exit strategy.

She was sharp. Sharper than I'd expected. She asked the right questions, caught details most people would miss, pushed back when something didn't make sense.

This was the woman from the summit. The one who'd owned that stage.

By the time she stood to leave, my respect for her had doubled.

"Thank you," she said at the door. "For this. For listening."

"Don't thank me yet." I stood too. "We still have work to do."

She nodded and turned to go.

"Mira."

She looked back.

"You did the right thing," I said. "Reaching out."

Something flickered across her face. Relief, maybe. Or hope.

"I hope so," she said quietly, breath slightly shaky.

Then she was gone.

I stood at the window and watched her emerge onto the street below, watched her hail a cab and disappear into traffic.

Four years.

For four years I'd wanted a chance to help her. To know her. To prove that not everyone in her world was a predator.

Now I had it.

I pulled out my phone and sent one more message. To reassure her.

You did the right thing.

Then I went back to my desk and started making calls.

The Castellans thought they owned her.

They were about to learn how wrong they were.

But who would have thought she'd end up turning to me for help.