Chapter 3 3

The rain in New York doesn't wash things clean; it just makes the grime slicker.

Isa stood on the sidewalk outside the Faulkner estate, water soaking through her blouse. Her suitcase-the only thing she had left-sat in a puddle next to her.

Twenty minutes ago, her father, Boyce Faulkner, had slapped her. Her ear was still ringing.

"You ungrateful bitch! You tanked the merger with Holden's family!"

Kylee had sat on the sofa, filing her nails, hiding a smile behind her hand. "Don't worry, Daddy. I can take over Isa's board seat. I'm sure Holden needs a shoulder to cry on."

Isa had walked out before he could hit her again. She took nothing but her clothes and the one thing that mattered: a broken pearl bracelet wrapped in a silk handkerchief. Her mother's.

She shivered, hugging her arms around herself. She had no cards. Her accounts were frozen. Her friends weren't answering.

A sleek black car glided to the curb, cutting through the rain like a shark. A Maybach.

The rear window rolled down.

Gerhardt Phillips sat in the shadows. He looked dry, warm, and impossibly expensive. He was reading a file on a tablet. He didn't look up.

"Get in," he said.

"I'm wet," Isa said, her teeth chattering. "I'll ruin your leather."

"The leather is replaceable. My patience isn't."

The door clicked open automatically.

She hesitated. Getting into that car was admitting defeat. It was accepting that she had nowhere else to go.

But the cold was seeping into her bones. She threw her suitcase into the trunk and slid into the backseat.

The warmth of the car hit her instantly. It smelled of him-cedar and ice.

"Sterling," Gerhardt said to the driver. "Drive."

The partition slid up, sealing them off.

Gerhardt handed her a towel. A thick, white, fluffy thing that probably cost more than her car. "Dry your hair. You're dripping on the upholstery."

She rubbed the towel over her head aggressively. "If you're here to offer me money to go away, save it. I tore up your check, remember?"

"I remember." He finally looked at her. His eyes scanned her face, lingering on the red mark on her cheek where Boyce had struck her. His jaw tightened, just a fraction. "Who did that?"

"Does it matter?"

"It matters if you're going to be my wife. I can't have damaged goods walking down the aisle."

Isa froze, the towel halfway down her hair. "Your grandmother was serious?"

"Helena is always serious when it involves the family trust." He tapped the tablet. "I need a wife to secure my position as CEO. The board thinks I'm... volatile. A wife stabilizes the image."

"And what do I get?" she asked, dropping the towel. "Besides the honor of being your nursemaid?"

"Protection," he said simply. "Access. Money. And revenge."

He turned the tablet toward her. It showed a live feed of the Faulkner stock price plummeting.

"You want to hurt them," Gerhardt said softly. "Boyce. Kylee. Holden. You want to burn their little kingdom to the ground."

He was right. God, he was right.

"I can give you the matches, Isa. And the gasoline."

She looked at him. Really looked at him. He was offering her a deal with the devil. But right now, the devil was the only one offering her a seat at the table.

"I have conditions," she said, her voice steadying.

"Name them."

"I want access to the Phillips logistical network." (She needed it for Aeon Group, but he didn't need to know that). "And I want complete autonomy over my schedule."

"Done," he said, bored.

"And," she leaned in, "I want fifty percent of the Faulkner Group shares once we acquire them."

Gerhardt raised an eyebrow. "Greedy."

"You said it yourself. Everyone has a price."

He extended his hand. For a moment, she stared at it. The hand that shouldn't be able to touch anyone.

She reached out and shook it. His skin was warm. His grip was firm.

"Deal," he said. "Welcome to hell, Mrs. Phillips."