Blackmailed Into The Ruthless Tycoon's Bed

Adaline Poole pushes open the heavy oak door of her Marylebone apartment.

The cold London wind slips in behind her, but inside, the silence is what hits her first. It is a suffocating, empty silence. She drops her keys onto the marble console table. The metal clatters loudly, echoing in the vast, high-ceilinged hallway.

Usually, a flash of orange fur greets her before she even takes off her coat.

"Monty?" Adaline calls out.

Her voice sounds thin in the empty space. She kicks off her Prada loafers. The leather shoes hit the hardwood floor with a dull thud. She frowns. The apartment is too quiet.

She walks into the living room, carrying a paper bag filled with expensive organic cat food. She drops the bag onto the Persian rug. It tips over. Tins of wet food roll out, clinking against each other, but Adaline does not care.

She bends down and lifts the edge of the cashmere throw blanket draped over the velvet sofa. It is Monty's favorite hiding spot.

Nothing.

Her breathing speeds up. A cold knot forms in the pit of her stomach.

She turns and runs into the kitchen. Her bare feet slap against the cold tiles. She yanks open the bottom pantry door. The hinges squeak.

The shelf is completely bare. The fifty-pound bag of dry kibble is gone. The litter box in the corner is gone. The ceramic water bowls are gone.

Her pupils dilate. The knot in her stomach twists into a sharp, physical pain.

Her hands start to shake. She reaches into the pocket of her Burberry trench coat and pulls out her iPhone. Her fingers are trembling so badly she almost drops the device onto the tile floor.

She unlocks the screen. Her thumb hovers over her contacts. She presses the name of the housekeeper back at her family's estate in Long Island, New York.

The phone rings. Each long beep feels like a needle scraping against her eardrums.

Finally, the line connects.

"Miss Adaline?" Mrs. Gable's voice is hesitant, thick with guilt.

"Who touched my apartment passcode?" Adaline demands. Her chest heaves. She does not ask how the housekeeper is doing. In the world of the New York elite, pleasantries are discarded the moment property is violated. "Where is my cat?"

"I... I am so sorry, Miss. Your father ordered it."

Adaline's jaw clenches so hard her teeth ache. Her fingernails dig into the soft flesh of her palms, leaving deep crescent-moon indentations. Her eyes burn with sudden, hot tears.

Green Poole. Her father. The man who runs his family like he runs his corporate acquisitions-with ruthless, cold-blooded efficiency.

She hangs up on the housekeeper without another word.

She scrolls down her contact list and presses the number saved as 'Green Poole (Dictator)'.

He answers on the first ring.

"Bring him back," Adaline yells the second the line opens. Her voice bounces off the pristine white walls of her kitchen. "Bring my cat back right now!"

A low, humorless chuckle comes through the speaker.

"You are wasting your time in London, Adaline," Green says. His voice is smooth, arrogant, and entirely unbothered by her panic. "Playing house with a stray animal while ignoring your responsibilities."

"My responsibilities?" Adaline laughs. It is a harsh, broken sound. "You mean my responsibility to be sold off to the highest bidder? Your reach is too long, Green. You have no right to touch my things."

"I have every right. I pay for that apartment. And as for the stray," Green pauses, letting the silence stretch to maximize her anxiety. "He has been relocated to a shelter. One much more suited for a street cat."

All the blood drains from Adaline's face.

The kitchen spins. She stumbles backward and her spine hits the edge of the granite kitchen island. She slides down until she hits the floor.

"What do you want?" Her voice shakes. The fight drains out of her, replaced by raw, physiological terror.

"I sent you a contact card on WhatsApp," Green says slowly, dictating terms like a CEO closing a hostile takeover. "A man named Barron Cooke. You will send him a friend request. Immediately."

Adaline's nose wrinkles in disgust. Her stomach churns with actual nausea.

Barron Cooke. She knows the name. Everyone in their social circle knows the Cooke family, but the heir, Barron Cooke, is notoriously elusive. He never appears in society magazines, and no one knows what he actually looks like, only that his corporate ruthlessness is legendary. They are old money, aggressive investors. And her father wants her to marry into their wealth to secure his own company's future.

"No," Adaline spits out. She pushes herself off the floor and begins to pace the length of the kitchen. "I am not doing this. I am not participating in your twisted, archaic matchmaking."

"That is your choice," Green says coldly. "But you should know, the shelter I chose is quite overcrowded. They euthanize unclaimed animals after twenty-four hours. Tomorrow morning, to be exact."

Adaline gasps. The air is sucked from her lungs. She stops pacing. Her feet feel glued to the floor.

"You are a monster," she whispers. A single tear escapes and tracks down her cheek, hot and humiliating. "You are a cold-blooded sociopath."

"You have five minutes to send the request," Green says, completely ignoring her tears. In his world, emotions are just leverage. "Or the cat dies."

The line goes dead.

The dial tone buzzes in her ear. Adaline screams. She pulls her arm back and hurls the iPhone across the room. It hits the leather sofa, bounces off the cushions, and lands face-up on the rug.

She drops to her knees. She grabs her hair with both hands, pulling hard enough to hurt. Her mind flashes with images of Monty-the scrawny, terrified orange tabby she rescued from the freezing London rain three months ago-locked in a metal cage, waiting for a lethal injection.

Her chest tightens. She cannot breathe. The panic attack is a physical weight crushing her ribs.

She snaps her head up. Her tear-filled eyes lock onto the glowing screen of her phone on the rug.

The despair morphs into a cold, hard resolution. She crawls across the Persian rug. Her knees burn against the fabric. Her fingers are stiff and clumsy as she grabs the phone.

She opens WhatsApp. The screen is blank. It feels like staring at a death warrant.

The phone vibrates in her hand. A new text message from Green pops up.

It is a photo.

Adaline clicks on it. Her heart stops beating for a full second.

It is Monty. He is crammed into a tiny, rusted wire cage. His ears are flattened against his head. His eyes are wide, reflecting pure, unadulterated terror.

The sight of the photo feels like a physical punch to her gut. Fresh tears spill over her eyelashes and splash onto the glass screen, distorting the image of the terrified cat.

She bites down on her lower lip. She bites so hard she tastes the metallic tang of copper blood. She forces herself to wipe the screen with the sleeve of her trench coat.

She opens the contact card her father sent.

She stares at the screen, her fingernails digging so hard into her palm that the skin nearly breaks. Every breath she takes burns with the hot sting of humiliation. This is not a surrender; it is a temporary ceasefire. She swears to herself, in the silent emptiness of her kitchen, that Green Poole will one day pay dearly for this extortion.

She taps the 'Add Contact' button.

The profile loads. The name reads 'Barron Cooke'. There is no status. There is no bio. The profile picture is just a solid, pitch-black square. It looks like a void.

She stares at the name. Pure, concentrated hatred burns in her chest, heating her blood.

She takes a deep, shuddering breath. She closes her eyes.

Her thumb presses down hard on the 'Send Request' button. It feels like pressing the detonator on her own life.

The screen flashes: Request Sent.

Adaline slumps against the base of the sofa. Her energy is completely depleted. She stares at the black square on her screen, her breathing ragged.

"I hate you," she whispers to the empty room, her voice dripping with venom.

Adaline sits on the floor next to the sofa.

She pushes herself up. Her muscles ache from the tension. She walks over to the floor-to-ceiling windows of her apartment. The London streets below are slick with rain. She presses her hot forehead against the cold glass, trying to force her heart rate to slow down.

A sharp ping echoes from her phone.

Adaline flinches. She spins around, her eyes darting to the device on the sofa.

She walks over and snatches the phone. The notification on the screen makes her stomach drop.

Barron Cooke has accepted your request.

She unlocks the phone and opens the chat. The cursor blinks on the empty text field. She types out the first words that come to her mind: I hope you and my father are happy with your little hostage situation.

Before she can hit send, the screen shifts. An incoming FaceTime call takes over the display.

The caller ID reads: Green Poole (Dictator).

Adaline takes a sharp breath. She swipes the green button to accept the call.

"Show me the cat," Adaline demands instantly. Her voice is ice-cold. She does not offer a greeting.

Green chuckles. The sound grates against her nerves. "You sent the request. Good girl. As long as you cooperate, the animal will be returned to your apartment tomorrow."

"I do not trust a single word that comes out of your mouth," Adaline snaps. Her fingers grip the edges of the phone so tightly her knuckles turn white. "Show me the cat right now, or I block Barron Cooke, book the next flight to JFK, and smash every window in your corporate headquarters."

Green is silent for two seconds. He knows his daughter is impulsive enough to do exactly that.

"Fine," Green says.

The camera feed flips.

Adaline recognizes the background immediately. It is the mahogany-paneled study in their Long Island estate. Standing near the massive fireplace is Mrs. Gable, the housekeeper. In her arms, wrapped in a familiar blanket, is Monty.

The cat looks terrified, but he is alive.

Adaline's shoulders drop. The crushing weight on her chest lifts slightly. She exhales a shaky breath. "Monty," she whispers to the screen.

The camera flips back to Green's face. His expression is stern. "You will maintain daily contact with Barron. No tantrums. No ignoring his messages."

Adaline rolls her eyes. She opens her mouth to tell him to go to hell.

Before she can speak, a sound cuts through the audio of the video call.

It is the sharp, rhythmic click-clack of expensive leather dress shoes stepping onto the hardwood floor of the study. The footsteps are slow, deliberate, and approaching her father.

Adaline narrows her eyes. She instinctively pulls the phone closer to her face.

"Green," a voice says.

The voice does not belong to her father. It is a man's voice. It is incredibly deep, carrying a magnetic, gravelly texture, yet it is completely devoid of warmth. It is the voice of someone who is entirely used to giving orders and having them obeyed without question.

"Regarding the Omni Corp acquisition..." the voice continues.

The sound sends a strange, involuntary shiver down Adaline's spine. The hairs on her arms stand up.

On the screen, Green's arrogant expression vanishes instantly. His posture straightens. His face twists into a sickeningly polite, almost sycophantic smile.

"Barron," Green says, his tone dripping with deference. "You are here. Please, have a seat."

Adaline's breath catches in her throat.

Barron.

Her eyes widen. She stares intensely at the edge of her phone screen, trying to catch a glimpse of the man.

The camera shakes as Green hastily adjusts his phone. For a fraction of a second, a figure enters the frame.

Adaline does not see a face. She only sees a section of an arm resting on the edge of her father's desk. The sleeve belongs to a dark, immaculately tailored suit. The fabric looks impossibly expensive. Peeking out from the crisp white cuff of the shirt is a Patek Philippe watch.

"Are you dealing with family matters?" Barron asks. His tone is flat, completely unbothered. "Do you need me to step out?"

Adaline's mind races.

Her father is the CEO of a massive corporation. He bows to no one. Yet, this Barron Cooke speaks to her father as an equal-no, as a superior. The realization makes her stomach twist. If this man has that much power over her father, he must be ancient. A wealthy, old tycoon using his capital to buy a young bride.

"No, no, not at all," Green says quickly. He fumbles with the phone, turning the camera so the screen faces the room. "This is my daughter, Adaline."

Adaline is suddenly thrust into the view of the man in the room.

She is completely unprepared. Her eyes are red and swollen from crying. Her blonde hair is a tangled mess around her shoulders. Her mascara is slightly smudged beneath her lower lashes.

She gasps and instinctively raises her free hand to cover the phone's camera lens.

Through the audio, she hears a faint sound.

"Hmm."

It is a single, dismissive syllable from Barron. There is no interest in his voice. There is no surprise. It is the sound a person makes when looking at a blank wall.

The absolute indifference hits Adaline like a physical blow.

Her humiliation instantly transforms into a burning, aggressive pride. She drops her hand from the lens. She glares into the camera, her eyes flashing with defiance.

"Say hello to Barron, Adaline," Green commands. His voice is tight with forced cheerfulness. He is begging her to behave.

Adaline grinds her back teeth together. She forces the corners of her mouth up into a wide, entirely fake, and deeply sarcastic smile.

"Not interested," Adaline says. Her voice is sharp and clear. "Goodbye."

She presses the red end-call button.

The screen goes black. The oppressive presence of that deep voice is severed.

Adaline tosses the phone onto the sofa. Her chest rises and falls rapidly. Her heart is hammering against her ribs. She cannot get the sound of that voice out of her head. Or the sight of that cold, calculated suit sleeve.

She walks over to the kitchen island. She grabs a glass, shoves it under the refrigerator dispenser, and fills it with ice water. She drinks it in three huge gulps. The freezing water chills her throat, but it does nothing to cool the anger boiling in her veins.

She sets the glass down with a loud clack.

The phone on the sofa lights up.

Adaline freezes. She walks back slowly, as if the device is a live explosive.

She picks it up. A new WhatsApp message from the black void profile.

She opens the chat.

Barron Cooke: My people will deliver the cat to your apartment tomorrow at 2:00 PM.

Adaline stares at the text. Her brow furrows in deep confusion.

He didn't ask her father to do it. He bypassed Green entirely and took control of the situation.

Adaline stands in the middle of her living room, her eyes locked on the glowing screen.

My people will deliver the cat to your apartment tomorrow at 2:00 PM.

The sheer arrogance of the statement makes her blood boil. He is not asking. He is informing her. He has effortlessly inserted himself into her life, taking control of the one thing she cares about.

She drops onto the sofa, her thumbs hovering over the keyboard. She refuses to let him dictate the terms.

She types rapidly: Do not bother. My father will send him.

She hits send.

Less than three seconds later, the text typing... appears at the top of the screen.

Adaline's heart skips a beat. She holds her breath, staring at the small gray letters.

Barron Cooke: Your father's efficiency is lacking. My personnel are already en route.

The absolute certainty in his words feels like a physical wall closing in on her. He is shutting down her resistance with zero effort.

Adaline's fingers fly across the glass. Do you always enjoy meddling in other people's business, Mr. Cooke?

She hits send. Her chest heaves. She wants to pierce that impenetrable armor of his. She wants him to get angry.

To add insult to injury, she opens her sticker menu and sends a highly pixelated, sarcastic smiley face.

She waits.

One minute passes. Then five. Then ten.

The screen remains dark. Barron Cooke has read her message and chosen to completely ignore it.

The silence is worse than an insult. It is a dismissal. Adaline groans in frustration, throwing her head back against the sofa cushions. She feels like she just threw a pebble at a battleship.

She glances at the digital clock on her microwave. It is 1:15 AM in London.

The adrenaline crash hits her hard. Her eyelids feel like they are made of lead. Her muscles ache from the stress of the past hour. She tosses the phone onto the coffee table and pulls the cashmere throw over her legs, deciding to sleep right there on the sofa.

She closes her eyes. The darkness is a relief.

BZZZ. BZZZ. BZZZ.

The harsh vibration of her phone against the glass coffee table shatters the quiet.

Adaline jolts awake. Her heart hammers in her throat. She grabs the phone.

It is Green.

She swipes to answer, pressing the phone to her ear.

"What did you say to Barron? !" Green roars. His voice is so loud it physically hurts her eardrum.

Adaline pulls the phone an inch away from her face. "I just declined his 'help'. Is that a crime?"

"He just put tomorrow morning's preliminary investment meeting on indefinite hold!" Green shouts. The panic in her father's voice is palpable. "He had his assistant call my office and state that the terms need immediate re-evaluation because he is entirely displeased with our current dynamic. You insulted him!"

Adaline rolls her eyes, though her stomach tightens. "His schedule has nothing to do with me. Stop using your business to hold me hostage."

"Listen to me very carefully, Adaline," Green hisses, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "If you do not fix this tonight, if you do not make him happy, that cat will be thrown into the River Thames before sunrise."

The threat punches the air out of her lungs.

"You are insane!" Adaline screams. Her fingernails dig into the leather of the sofa, scratching the expensive material.

Green hangs up.

Adaline sits in the dark, panting. Her vision blurs with hot, angry tears. She hates her father. She hates the Cooke family. She hates the entire corrupt system of the New York elite that treats her like a bargaining chip.

But she loves Monty.

She wipes her eyes violently with the back of her hand. She picks up the phone and opens WhatsApp.

She stares at the black profile picture. It feels like she is bowing down to an executioner.

She forces her stiff fingers to type: I apologize for my attitude earlier.

She hits send. It tastes like ash in her mouth.

To appease her father's demand to 'make him happy', she begrudgingly opens her GIF keyboard. She searches for 'cute cat' and sends an animated image of a kitten waving its paw.

It is humiliating.

She watches the screen. The clock ticks to 2:00 AM.

Nothing.

She tosses and turns on the sofa. The fabric feels too hot. The room feels too small. She curses Barron Cooke in her head. She pictures him as a wrinkled, sadistic old man, sitting in a leather chair, laughing at her desperation.

At 2:30 AM, the phone vibrates.

Adaline lunges for it.

Barron Cooke: Noted.

Adaline stares at the single word. Noted.

The heat in her blood spikes to a boiling point. She sacrificed her pride, she apologized, and all he gives her is a corporate, dismissive noted?

She loses all self-control.

She types furiously: What is that supposed to mean? What do you want from me? Are you just sitting there trying to act deep in the middle of the night to torture me?

She presses send.

A second later, panic sets in. She remembers her father's threat about the river. She presses her finger against the message, trying to find the 'Delete for Everyone' option.

Before she can delete it, his reply appears.

Barron Cooke: It is 2:30 AM in London. It is 9:30 PM in New York. I am working.

Adaline freezes.

The time difference.

She had been so consumed by her own panic and anger that she completely forgot New York is five hours behind. He isn't staying up late to torture her. He is just at work.

A hot flush of intense embarrassment creeps up her neck and covers her cheeks. She feels incredibly stupid.

Before she can formulate an excuse, another message pops up.

Barron Cooke: Since you are clearly awake and energetic, we will use this time to establish some fundamental ground rules regarding our arrangement.

Adaline swallows hard. The words have a conversation look threatening on the screen. She feels the distinct sensation of being a mouse cornered by a very patient snake.

She bites her lower lip and types: What do you want to talk about? I don't understand anything about your boring corporate mergers.

The typing indicator flashes for a few seconds.

Barron Cooke: Then let's talk about how you plan to prove to me that you are worth the patience of a man my age.

Adaline gasps. Her eyes widen to the size of saucers. The phone slips from her hand and lands softly on her lap.

A man my age.

The words echo in her head, heavy and suffocating.