Chapter 3

Eleanor walked down the thick, plush carpet of the Beverly Hills Hotel corridor. She wore a razor-sharp, black Tom Ford suit. The fabric cut perfectly against her skin. Her red-soled stilettos sank into the carpet, muffling her footsteps.

She had just hung up the phone with her private investigator. The truth hit her stomach like a bag of wet cement. Caleb wasn't just sleeping with Isla. He was actively siphoning money from Eleanor's joint business accounts into dummy corporations.

Eleanor gripped her phone so hard her knuckles turned stark white. Her fingernails dug into her palms, but her face remained a mask of absolute ice. She didn't cry. She just wanted to break something.

As she rounded the corner toward the conference room, a wall of cheap cologne and stale alcohol hit her face. Mitch Kozlowski, a notorious trust-fund brat, stepped directly into her path. Two massive bodyguards flanked him.

Mitch's bloodshot eyes dragged up and down Eleanor's body. He let out a wet, disgusting whistle. He shifted his weight, completely blocking the hallway.

"Move," Eleanor said. Her voice was flat, carrying zero emotion. "I have a ten-million-dollar endorsement meeting in five minutes."

Mitch laughed, a nasty, grating sound. He took a step closer, invading her personal space. He reached out his clammy hand, aiming for the diamond brooch pinned to the lapel of her suit.

"Come to my yacht party tonight, sweetheart," Mitch whispered, his breath hot and foul. "I can buy you ten endorsements if you're good to me."

Eleanor's eyes went dead. The rage boiling in her blood finally found a target. She didn't blink. Her left hand shot up like a viper. She grabbed Mitch's extended wrist.

Before Mitch could even process the movement, Eleanor twisted her hips, using her entire body weight to snap his arm downward. A loud, sickening pop echoed in the hallway. Mitch's wrist dislocated. He let out a high-pitched scream of agony.

The bodyguard on the left lunged forward, raising his fist. Eleanor didn't retreat. Years of grueling, secret Krav Maga training-a desperate necessity she had forced upon herself to ensure she could never be dragged back to Boston against her will-kicked in instantly. Her body remembered the drills even when her mind was clouded with rage. She shifted her weight to her left leg and snapped her right stiletto up. The sharp heel drove directly into the side of the bodyguard's knee joint with practiced, ruthless precision.

The giant man grunted in pain, his leg buckling. He dropped to one knee. Eleanor used his downward momentum. She grabbed Mitch by the collar of his expensive shirt, spun around, and executed a flawless judo throw. She slammed Mitch's heavy body directly into the hallway wall.

The impact shook the drywall. A heavy framed painting crashed to the floor, the glass shattering into hundreds of pieces. Mitch slid down the wall, clutching his broken wrist, sobbing on the carpet.

Eleanor stood over him. Her chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. She calmly reached down and adjusted the hem of her suit jacket. "Keep your hands to yourself," she said, her voice dripping with venom.

Twenty feet away, hidden in the deep shadows of a recessed alcove, Dominic Sterling stood perfectly still. He watched the entire scene unfold.

R. Graves, Dominic's head of security, stepped forward, his hand reaching inside his jacket for his weapon. Dominic immediately raised his hand, his fingers slicing through the air. Stop.

Dominic's eyes were glued to Eleanor. He watched the violent snap of her hips, the cold precision of her strikes. He watched the feral, unapologetic rage radiating from her body. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard.

A heavy, dark heat flooded Dominic's veins. The blood rushed in his ears. A sudden, intense surge of fascination gripped him. He had thought she was a delicate rose with thorns, but she was a leopard, coiled and ready to strike. It was a realization that awakened something dormant and fiercely curious within his blood. He didn't just want to watch her anymore. He needed to understand her.

The second bodyguard recovered and lunged at Eleanor from behind. Dominic's eyes turned lethal. He took a half-step out of the shadows, ready to kill the man himself.

But Eleanor didn't need him. She ducked under the bodyguard's swinging arm. She spun around and drove her elbow backward, smashing it directly into the bodyguard's jaw.

The man's eyes rolled back. He collapsed onto the carpet like a sack of bricks. The hallway fell dead silent, save for Mitch's pathetic whimpering.

Eleanor stepped over the shattered glass. She didn't even glance toward the dark alcove. She walked straight to the elevator, pressed the button, and waited.

The metal doors slid shut, taking her away. Dominic stepped out of the shadows. His Italian leather shoes crunched loudly over the broken glass.

Mitch looked up, his face pale with pain. He saw Dominic's face. Mitch's mouth opened to beg for help, but the sheer, murderous coldness in Dominic's eyes made the words die in his throat. Mitch began to shake.

Dominic didn't say a single word to the trash on the floor. He didn't even look at him. He simply raised his left hand and gave Alex a sharp, two-finger gesture.

Alex nodded immediately. He pulled out his phone. "Initiating contact with the short-sellers. The Kozlowski family holdings will be targeted immediately."

Dominic turned and walked toward his private elevator. He pulled a white silk handkerchief from his pocket and slowly wiped the sweat from his palms. His body was still humming with adrenaline.

As the elevator descended, Dominic stared at his own reflection in the metal doors. He replayed the look in Eleanor's eyes when she broke that man's wrist. He needed to accelerate his timeline. The hunt was taking too long.