Buying The Exiled Heir: He Is Mine

A dull throb hammered behind Alyssa's eyes the second she opened them.

The harsh morning sunlight sliced through the gap in the heavy curtains, burning her retinas and forcing her to blink rapidly.

She recognized the ornate, gold-leafed ceiling of the Plaza Hotel penthouse immediately.

Her stomach did a slow, sickening flip when she realized the custom silk gown she wore last night was gone.

She looked down.

She was wearing a massive men's dress shirt.

The fabric swallowed her frame, and the buttons were fastened in the wrong holes, exposing one of her bare shoulders to the cold air of the suite.

The silk duvet slipped off her legs.

Goosebumps erupted across her skin, and the sudden chill snapped the fragmented memories of last night back into place.

She remembered dragging Benton here.

She remembered pouring shots down his throat, desperate to humiliate the man who had just been publicly exiled from his own family empire.

The sound of running water echoed from the master bathroom.

Through the frosted glass door, she could see the tall, broad silhouette of a man moving under the showerhead.

Alyssa swung her bare feet over the edge of the mattress, her toes sinking into the thick carpet.

She grabbed the heavy brass sculpture off the glass coffee table, her fingers wrapping tightly around the cold metal.

The water stopped abruptly.

The bathroom door clicked open.

Steam rolled out into the bedroom, bringing with it the sharp, clean scent of cedar and expensive soap.

Benton stepped out, a single white towel slung low around his hips.

Water dripped from his dark hair, sliding down the hard, defined lines of his chest and stomach.

His dark eyes locked onto hers instantly, pinning her in place.

Alyssa took a step back, her heel hitting the edge of the bed.

She forced her chin up, refusing to let him see the sudden spike in her heart rate.

Benton looked at the heavy brass sculpture in her hand.

A slow, cold smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, making the air in the room feel instantly heavier.

He walked right past her, completely ignoring her defensive posture.

He stopped at the minibar, poured a glass of ice water, and swallowed it down, his throat bobbing with the movement.

Heat rushed to Alyssa's face.

She slammed the brass sculpture down onto the glass table, the loud crack echoing in the quiet room.

She spun around and dug through her Birkin bag scattered on the sofa.

Her fingers found her checkbook and her Montblanc pen.

The pen scratched harshly against the paper as she wrote down the exact amount of her entire quarterly trust fund dividend.

She ripped the check from the pad.

She marched over to Benton, her bare feet silent on the carpet, and slapped the piece of paper flat against his bare chest.

"Consider this charity for a bankrupt heir," she said, keeping her chin high. "This buys your services from last night, and whatever dignity you have left."

Benton didn't even look at the check.

He let it flutter to the floor between them.

He stepped into her space, his chest almost brushing hers.

The cold cedar scent of him completely hijacked her oxygen supply, making her lungs burn.

He turned and pulled a thick stack of legal papers from beneath the sofa cushion.

He tossed the document onto the coffee table.

The bold letters at the top read Angel Investment Performance Agreement.

"If you want to play investor, Alyssa, we play by Wall Street rules," he said, his voice flat and devoid of any warmth.

Alyssa flipped open the first page.

Her stomach tightened as she read the terms, realizing the contract demanded she surrender absolute control of the funds to him.

"Why would I ever sign something this insane?" she demanded, looking up at him.

"Because you don't have the stomach for real capital games," Benton mocked, his eyes dark and dismissive. "You only know how to play dress-up with daddy's money."

The dismissal in his eyes felt like a physical blow to her chest.

Her blood boiled, drowning out any rational thought.

She didn't even look at the penalty clauses on the back pages.

She flipped to the last page and aggressively signed her name on the dotted line.

She shoved the heavy stack of papers back into his chest.

"I own you now," she declared, her breathing shallow and fast.

Benton took the papers, his expression unreadable.

"Once the game starts, you don't get to call a timeout," he warned, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register.

Alyssa snatched her Birkin bag from the sofa.

She shoved her feet into her heels and walked out of the penthouse without looking back.

She stepped into the elevator and hit the lobby button.

She caught her reflection in the mirrored doors, staring at the oversized men's shirt hanging off her frame, and bit her lower lip hard enough to taste copper.

The elevator doors opened to the underground garage.

She climbed into her Porsche, slamming the heavy door shut to block out the world.

She rested her forehead against the leather steering wheel, her chest still heaving from the sheer physical presence of Benton in that room.

She turned the key.

The engine roared to life, vibrating through the floorboards.

She sped out of the Plaza Hotel garage, the tires gripping the concrete.

The freezing morning air of New York rushed in through the cracked window, cooling the heat in her cheeks.

She stopped at a red light and glanced at her rearview mirror.

Benton was standing on the curb outside the hotel's main entrance.

He wore a thin black trench coat, his hands shoved into his pockets as the harsh wind whipped around him.

There were no bodyguards, no fleet of Maybachs waiting for him anymore.

The headline from the Wall Street Journal flashed in her mind, detailing how his grandfather had stripped him of every asset overnight.

The light turned green.

The car behind her honked loudly.

She made it half a block before she caught sight of him again in the rearview mirror. The solitary, defiant line of his shoulders against the freezing wind struck a sudden, uncomfortable chord in her chest. It reminded her too much of how her own family looked at her-like a disposable problem.

Her grip on the leather steering wheel tightened until her knuckles ached. He is my asset now, she told herself, a fierce, territorial instinct overriding her lingering anger. And I don't let my investments freeze to death on the pavement.

The rationalization failed to soothe her entirely, and her stomach twisted into an uncomfortable knot.

She yanked the steering wheel hard to the left.

The tires screeched against the asphalt as the Porsche whipped around in a violent U-turn.

She pulled up right in front of him, the brakes squealing.

She rolled down the passenger window and slid her sunglasses over her eyes to hide the sudden tightness in her throat.

"Get in," she ordered. "I can't have my new business partner freezing to death on the sidewalk."

Benton raised an eyebrow.

He opened the door and folded his large frame into the passenger seat.

The cold cedar smell of him instantly filled the small cabin of the sports car.

Alyssa cleared her throat. She glanced down at herself-the wrinkled men's shirt, the missing buttons, the bare legs. A flush of mortification crept up her neck.

"I need to change first," she muttered, more to herself than to him.

She drove not toward Midtown, but toward her apartment on the Upper East Side. Fifteen minutes later, she pulled into the underground garage of her building, told Benton to wait, and took the private elevator upstairs.

Inside her walk-in closet, she stripped off the humiliating shirt and threw on a cream-colored cashmere sweater dress, a pair of sheer stockings, and her favorite black Louboutin heels. She checked her reflection-hair smoothed, lipstick reapplied, composure restored.

She was Alyssa goddamn Sterling again.

She returned to the garage, slid back into the driver's seat without a word, and hit the gas.

Now she drove straight for Midtown.

She pulled up to the entrance of Le Bernardin.

The valet rushed forward and opened her door. He did not blink at her attire-because she finally looked like she belonged there.

She tossed the keys to the kid and walked toward the entrance, her heels clicking sharply on the pavement.

The maitre d' recognized her immediately and guided them to a private booth in the back.

Alyssa ordered the most expensive tasting menu in fluent French, refusing to look at the prices.

She folded her hands on the white tablecloth and stared at Benton.

"You took my money," she said, lifting her chin. "You need to eat if you're going to work for me."

Benton picked up his silver fork.

His movements were precise, carrying the heavy weight of a man raised in absolute wealth.

He took a bite of the fish and looked up at her.

"Thank you for your generosity, boss," he said, his tone perfectly flat.

The word boss sent a warm rush of satisfaction straight to her chest.

The waiter brought the leather checkbook at the end of the meal.

Alyssa pulled her heavy black card from her wallet and dropped it onto the tray without a second thought.

She signed the receipt with a quick, aggressive flourish.

Benton watched her profile.

His jaw flexed, a dark, predatory amusement pooling in his eyes as he watched her pay for him.

Alyssa shoved the black card back into her wallet.

She walked out of the restaurant, the cold air hitting her face again.

She slid into the driver's seat and looked at Benton as he got in.

"What street are you staying on?" she asked.

Benton rattled off a zip code deep in Brooklyn, his voice completely indifferent.

Alyssa's hands froze on the steering wheel.

She turned her head, her eyes wide behind her sunglasses, waiting for him to laugh and say it was a joke.

He just stared straight ahead.

A heavy weight settled in her chest, and she pressed the gas pedal, steering the car toward the Brooklyn Bridge.

The towering glass skyscrapers of Manhattan faded in the rearview mirror.

The streets grew narrower, the pavement cracked, and the brick walls were covered in thick layers of graffiti.

Alyssa slowed the Porsche to a crawl, her tires thumping over deep potholes.

She pulled up to a crumbling red-brick apartment building.

The streetlamp above them flickered with a loud buzzing sound, casting harsh shadows over the trash lining the sidewalk.

Alyssa frowned, her chest tightening with genuine unease.

"I'm walking you up," she insisted, unbuckling her seatbelt.

Benton didn't argue.

He pushed open the heavy, rusted metal door to the building.

The smell of damp mold and stale cigarettes hit Alyssa's nose instantly, making her stomach churn.

She gripped the wobbly wooden handrail, her heels sinking into the soft, rotting wood of the stairs.

They reached the top floor.

Benton pulled a cheap brass key from his pocket and shoved it into the scratched lock.

The door groaned open, revealing a space no bigger than her walk-in closet at home.

Alyssa stood in the doorway, her breath catching in her throat.

There was a stained sofa, a metal bed frame, and a tiny kitchen counter with peeling laminate.

Benton took off his coat and draped it over a plastic chair.

He walked to the sink and turned the faucet.

The pipes shuddered and banged behind the wall before spitting out a stream of cloudy water.

He filled a cheap glass and held it out to her.

Alyssa stared at the water, remembering the times she had seen him drinking only imported Fiji water at the Steele estate.

Her throat closed up completely.

She ignored the glass, reached into her bag, and pulled out a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills.

She slammed the cash down on the chipped coffee table.

"Move out tomorrow," she ordered, her voice shaking slightly. "Get a real place in Manhattan."

Benton looked at the money, his eyes darkening.

"This isn't in the investment contract," he said quietly.

"I don't care," she snapped, her chest rising and falling fast. "I'm not letting my partner live in a dumpster."

She couldn't stand being in this suffocating room for another second.

She turned around and practically ran out the door.

Her heels echoed loudly down the stairs until the heavy metal door slammed shut at the bottom.

Benton walked to the small, dirty window.

He watched the red Porsche speed away down the dark street.

The blank, defeated look on his face vanished completely.

He walked over to the peeling wall next to the front door and pushed his thumb against a hidden panel.

A green light scanned his fingerprint.

The entire wall slid open silently, revealing a compact, heavily soundproofed server room and surveillance hub that starkly contrasted the decay outside. The reinforced steel walls hummed with the quiet power of a dedicated, off-the-grid generator, a secret installation funded by an untraceable offshore trust long before his public exile.

He sat down in the leather chair, his eyes fixed on the glowing screen tracking the GPS signal of the Porsche. He allowed himself a grim, fleeting smile, thankful for the split second he had taken to slip the magnetic micro-tracker under the lip of her car's rear bumper while she had been distracted by the valet at Le Bernardin.