Chapter 2 2

The drive to Brooklyn was a blur of red taillights and smearing wipers. Darian's hands gripped the steering wheel of her ten-year-old sedan so tightly her knuckles turned white.

She parked two blocks away from the grim brick building that housed the St. Jude's Long-Term Care Facility. It wasn't the luxury sanitarium Grant had threatened to cut funding for-she had moved her mother three days ago, in secret. It was clean, but it smelled of industrial bleach and boiled cabbage.

Darian walked through the quiet corridors, nodding to the night nurse. She stopped outside Room 304.

Through the observation window, she could see her mother, Martha. She was sitting in a wheelchair by the window, rocking back and forth. She clutched a ragged doll to her chest, whispering to it.

Martha Klein. Once a socialite, now a shell of a woman whose mind had fractured under the weight of the family's collapse.

"She's been asking for you," a voice said from the shadows.

Darian turned. Her Aunt Vivian stood at the end of the hallway. Vivian was seventy, dressed in a Chanel suit that was at least twenty years out of date but impeccably preserved. She looked like a ghost of old New York money.

"I came as soon as I could," Darian said.

Vivian handed her a thick manila envelope. The wax seal on the back was broken. It bore the crest of the Klein family-a hawk clutching a key.

"We're out of time, Darian," Vivian said, her voice clipped. "The liquid assets are gone. I sold the last of my jewelry to pay for this month's stay here. After that..." She gestured helplessly to the bleak hallway.

"I have some savings," Darian said, though she knew it was a lie. Grant was right; she had drained everything.

"Pocket change," Vivian scoffed. "We need the Trust."

They walked out to the small courtyard garden. The rain had slowed to a drizzle. Vivian lit a slim cigarette, the cherry glowing in the dark.

"The Klein Trust," Vivian said, exhaling smoke. "One billion dollars in offshore accounts. Frozen since your father's suicide. It unlocks on your twenty-sixth birthday."

"I turned twenty-six last week," Darian said.

"Under one condition," Vivian interrupted. She tapped the envelope. "Read Clause 7, Section B."

Darian pulled out the yellowed legal document. She squinted in the dim light of the security lamp.

The Beneficiary must be in a state of lawful matrimony to a spouse of good standing and financial independence, to ensure the preservation of the family legacy against fortune hunters.

Darian lowered the paper. A bitter laugh escaped her lips. "You have to be kidding me. Grandpa put a marriage clause in his will?"

"He was a traditionalist. He didn't trust a single woman to manage a billion-dollar empire," Vivian said dryly. "The irony is rich, isn't it? You just left the most powerful bachelor in New York, and now you need a husband to save your life."

"I can't just... get married, Aunt Viv. To who?"

Vivian reached into her purse and pulled out a stack of photos. "I've taken the liberty of compiling a list. There's a tax attorney in Queens, a widowed dentist in Jersey..."

Darian flipped through the photos. They were ordinary men. Decent men. Men who would be crushed by Grant Charles the moment he found out.

"No," Darian said, handing the photos back. "Grant will destroy anyone he thinks is weak. If I marry, it has to be someone untouchable. Someone who hates Grant as much as I do."

Vivian raised an eyebrow. "That is a short list, darling."

Darian looked out at the wet pavement. Her mind raced through the rolodex of names she had memorized over seven years as Grant's shadow. Competitors. Enemies. Rivals.

One name stopped the spinning wheel in her head.

Julian Vance.

Top corporate litigator. The only man who had ever beaten Grant in court. He was ruthless, cold, and notoriously single.

"Julian Vance," Darian whispered.

Vivian choked on her cigarette smoke. "Vance? The shark? He eats people like us for breakfast. Why would he agree to marry you?"

"Because he wants the Charles merger files," Darian said, her mind sharpening. "And I know where they are. Besides," she added, a flicker of memory in her eyes, "the Vances and the Kleins go back. Your father set up the Trust with Julian's grandfather, Alistair. It's shielded by layers of attorney-client privilege so thick even Grant couldn't pierce them without a key. Julian might be the only man in New York who can even find the door, let alone open it."

Her phone buzzed again. She looked down. Grant Charles.

He was calling. Again.

Darian pressed the 'Block Caller' button. It felt good. A tiny reclamation of control.

"Are you sure you're over him?" Vivian asked, watching her closely. "Love makes people do stupid things."

Darian looked back at the window where her mother was rocking the doll.

"Love is a luxury, Aunt Viv," Darian said, her voice cold. "I can't afford it. But I can afford a business partner."

She pulled out her phone and dialed a number she had saved years ago under 'Emergency Legal'.

"What are you doing?" Vivian hissed.

"I'm calling a matchmaker," Darian said. "But not for a date. I need a meeting."

Back in the Charles Tower penthouse, Grant stared at his phone. The call went straight to voicemail.

He threw the device onto the sofa. It bounced and slid onto the floor.

Aimee walked in, holding a glass of water. "Is she still ignoring you?"

"She's playing games," Grant muttered, pacing the room. "She's trying to make me worry. She thinks if she disappears, I'll realize her value."

"Well, do you?" Aimee asked, her voice light, teasing.

Grant stopped. He looked at the empty spot on the rug where Darian had stood. The wet footprints had already dried, leaving faint outlines.

"I realize she's an employee who walked off with sensitive knowledge," Grant lied. "Get security on the line. I want to know where she is."

Aimee smiled, but her eyes were cold. "I heard a rumor, Grant. From my friend at the agency. Darian contacted a high-end matchmaker tonight."

Grant froze. The ice in his glass settled with a clink.

"A matchmaker?"

"Desperate, isn't it?" Aimee laughed. "Trying to find a sugar daddy to pay Mommy's bills."

Grant felt a surge of heat in his chest that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with possession.

"She wouldn't dare," Grant whispered.

But Darian was already in her apartment, stripping off her wet clothes. She stood before the mirror, looking at the scars on her soul. She wiped off her smeared mascara.

Tomorrow, she wouldn't be Darian the Assistant. She would be Darian the Commodity.