Chapter 3

The leather sofa in the ground-floor lobby is stiff, offering no comfort to Chantal's rigid spine.

She has been sitting there for two hours.

She pulls her phone from her pocket. The screen lights up with three new text messages. All from different creditors. All threatening legal action by the end of the week.

Her chest physically aches. She drops the phone onto the glass coffee table and presses the heels of her hands into her eyes, fighting the burning sensation of tears.

A sharp ding from the elevator makes her jump.

Finn Voss steps out and walks directly toward her. His face is a blank mask.

"Mr. Valdez will see you now," Finn says.

Chantal stands up so fast her vision spots with black dots. She grips the edge of the sofa to steady herself, then follows Finn back to the glass elevator.

When she enters the penthouse office this time, Dell is not at his desk. He is sitting on a black leather sofa, a glass of dark liquor in his hand.

Standing next to him is an older man in a pinstripe suit holding a thick stack of documents. Julian Croft, his personal attorney.

"I will give you the fifty million," Dell says, not bothering to look at her. He takes a sip of his drink. "But there are conditions."

Chantal's heart leaps, but the coldness in his voice immediately grounds her.

"It is not an investment in Lumina Jewelry," Dell continues, setting his glass down. "It is a personal loan. To you."

Chantal freezes. "That was not my proposal. An investment-"

"Lumina Jewelry is a sinking ship," Dell cuts her off, his voice slicing through the air like a blade. "It has zero investment value. I am buying you, not your family's failures."

Julian Croft steps forward and hands Chantal the stack of papers.

She looks down at the top page. The bold print screams at her. She must repay the fifty million dollars in full within three years.

Her brain short-circuits. Making fifty million dollars in three years is mathematically impossible for her.

Dell leans back against the sofa, watching her. He sees the panic rising in her chest. He sees the way her breathing turns shallow. He looks satisfied.

"I need more time," Chantal says, her voice barely a whisper. "Five years."

"Three years," Dell says flatly. "Or you can walk out that door right now and let the bank take your parents' house tomorrow."

The memory of her mother's hysterical sobbing echoes in Chantal's ears. Her stomach twists into a painful knot. She has no choice. He knows she has no choice.

She reaches out and takes the heavy Montblanc pen from Julian's outstretched hand. Her fingers are trembling so badly she nearly drops it.

She looks up, meeting Dell's cold, triumphant gaze.

"I accept," she says.

She flips to the signature pages. She signs the promissory note. She signs the brutal, ironclad prenuptial agreement that strips her of any right to his assets.

Julian takes the papers back, inspects the signatures, and nods at Dell.

Dell stands up. He walks over to her and extends his large, calloused hand.

Chantal hesitates for a fraction of a second. She reaches out and places her hand in his.

The moment their skin touches, a violent jolt of electricity shoots up Chantal's arm. His palm is unnaturally hot.

Her breath catches. A sudden, violent flash of memory assaults her brain-a pitch-black room, the smell of sweat and alcohol, heavy breathing, and a pair of scorching hot hands pinning her wrists to a mattress.

She gasps, her eyes widening.

Dell drops her hand instantly, as if her touch disgusts him. He turns his back to her.

"We sign the marriage certificate at City Hall tomorrow morning," Dell orders, walking back to his desk. "Have your things packed. You move into the Upper East Side mansion by three o'clock."

Chantal swallows hard, trying to push down the sudden nausea and the bizarre, terrifying memory flash.

"Yes, Mr. Valdez," she says, her voice hollow.

She turns and walks out of the office. She has the money, but she has just sold her soul.