Chapter 2 2

Gretchen threw her head back and swallowed the last burning drop of her dry martini.

The harsh liquid scorched a path down her throat, settling like a hot coal in her empty stomach.

The dim, amber lighting of the Soho House private club offered her a dark corner to hide.

A man in a custom-tailored suit leaned heavily against the bar next to her.

His eyes roamed hungrily up and down her bare legs.

Gretchen turned her head slowly, fixing him with a dead, freezing stare.

"Get lost."

The words slipped from her lips, flat and utterly fearless.

The man's face flushed red with sudden, wounded pride.

He reached out, his thick fingers grabbing her wrist to pull her off the stool.

He muttered a filthy curse under his breath.

Before Gretchen could pull away, a large hand shot out from the shadows.

The hand, adorned with a heavy Patek Philippe watch, clamped down on the man's wrist like a steel vice.

A sickening pop of grinding bone echoed over the low jazz music.

The man let out a sharp, pathetic yelp.

He stumbled backward, clutching his arm to his chest, his face pale with pain.

Gretchen blinked her heavy eyes and turned her head.

Her gaze crashed into a pair of deep, dangerous, gray-blue eyes.

Dixon Spencer stepped smoothly out of the shadows of the VIP booth.

He was Barnett's younger brother.

He moved with the lazy grace of a predator, taking the empty barstool right beside her.

He raised two fingers in the air.

The bartender immediately backed away to the far end of the counter, terrified, leaving them in absolute privacy.

Gretchen stared at the sharp angles of his face.

He looked so much like Barnett, yet infinitely more lethal.

Her stomach violently churned.

She grabbed her small clutch purse from the counter and stood up.

"Running away?"

Dixon's voice was a low, dark rumble, like a demon whispering in the dark.

"Just like you ran away from The Plaza tonight? Like a stray dog?"

The words stomped directly onto her bleeding wounds.

Gretchen froze in her tracks.

She spun around, her chest heaving, glaring at him with pure, unadulterated hatred.

"Did you come here to laugh at me, the second son of the Spencer family?"

She sneered, her knuckles turning stark white as she gripped her purse.

Dixon's lips curved into a cold, entirely humorless smirk.

He reached into the inner pocket of his dark suit jacket.

He pulled out a neatly folded legal document and slid it across the polished mahogany bar.

"I came to hand you a knife."

He tapped his long, elegant index finger against the thick paper.

"Do you want to destroy Barnett?"

Gretchen stopped breathing.

Her eyes were dragged downward against her will, landing on the bold black letters at the top of the page.

Commercial Marriage Agreement.

"He forgot you," Dixon said smoothly, tossing out the bait.

"He married a woman from nowhere. And now, he plans to transfer the company shares that belonged to both of us to that little stray."

Gretchen's breathing turned shallow and rapid.

The image of Barnett looking at her with absolute disgust flashed behind her eyelids.

A sharp, stabbing pain twisted her heart.

"Marry me."

Dixon leaned forward, his broad shoulders blocking out the rest of the room.

The scent of cedar and expensive tobacco wrapped around her.

"Move back into the estate, openly and legally, as the second Mrs. Spencer."

Gretchen stumbled back half a step.

She stared at him like he had lost his mind.

"Are you insane? I am your brother's ex-fiancée!"

"Exactly."

Dixon's eyes darkened into a pitch-black void, threatening to swallow her whole.

"That is what makes it the perfect revenge. I want his shares. You want his pain. We both get what we want."

Gretchen gasped for air.

Every rational thought in her brain screamed at her to run away from this dangerous man.

But the alcohol in her bloodstream poured gasoline on her burning hatred.

She refused to be kicked to the curb like a piece of trash.

"Why me?"

She ground her teeth together, probing for the trap.

"Because you are the only person who can make him and the old man utterly miserable."

Dixon delivered the business excuse flawlessly.

He blinked, hiding a dark, possessive gleam that flared in his pupils for a fraction of a second, burying the true depth of his calculations behind a flawless mask.

Gretchen closed her eyes.

A single, hot tear finally broke free and slid down her cheek.

She raised the back of her hand and wiped it away with a violent, angry swipe.

When she opened her eyes again, the fragile, broken woman was gone.

Only a cold, burning fire remained.

She snatched the heavy Montblanc pen resting on the bar.

Without a single second of hesitation, she pressed the nib to the paper and signed her name at the bottom of the page.

Dixon stared at the wet ink.

His Adam's apple bobbed sharply against his collar.

He snatched the document back instantly, as if terrified she might rip it up.

"Let's go, Mrs. Spencer."

He stood up, his tall frame towering over her.

He wrapped his large hand firmly around her waist, leaving no room for argument.

He guided her out of the dim club and into the freezing Manhattan night.