Fifty Million Dollar Contract: My Enemy Husband

Eloise's chest heaved. She stood in the center of the Soho rehearsal studio, her lungs burning as she sucked in the stale air. Sweat dampened the back of her neck, making her blonde hair stick to her skin. She closed her eyes, forcing her breathing to slow, trying to hold onto the desperate, hollow feeling of the lead character in The Mist.

Clara walked across the wooden floor. She handed Eloise a bottle of room-temperature water.

"You need to stop," Clara said quietly. "You've been running this scene for four hours. Your voice is completely gone."

Eloise took the bottle. Her fingers trembled slightly as she unscrewed the cap. Before she could take a sip, the heavy glass door of the studio swung open.

Sloane marched in. Her high heels clicked rapidly against the floorboards. Her face was flushed, and she was waving her tablet in the air.

"Five minutes!" Sloane shouted, her voice echoing off the mirrored walls. "Julian Finch just agreed to give you a five-minute slot tomorrow morning. Five minutes to show him you aren't just some Upper East Side socialite."

Eloise dropped the water bottle. It hit the floor with a dull thud, water spilling over the wood. She covered her mouth with both hands. Her eyes burned with sudden heat. This was it. This was the only way out of the golden cage her family had built for her.

From the corner of the room, a phone started ringing.

It was a sharp, customized ringtone. The sound cut through the excitement in the room like a physical blow. Eloise lowered her hands. The smile fell from her face. Her stomach dropped.

She walked over to her bag on the bench. The screen lit up with the name Genevieve.

Eloise picked it up and pressed it to her ear. "Mom, I can't talk right now. Sloane just got me-"

"Get downstairs," her mother's voice snapped through the speaker. It was cold. Absolute. "My driver is waiting outside."

"Mom, you don't understand. Julian Finch is letting me audition. I need to prep-"

"The company is filing for bankruptcy by Friday, Eloise," Genevieve interrupted. Her voice was flat, devoid of any emotion. "Christian Clarke flew back into the city this morning. He is the only one who can inject enough capital to save the Brandt legacy."

Eloise stopped breathing. Her fingers clamped down on the phone. Her nails dug into the plastic case. The name Christian Clarke hit her ears, and all the blood drained from her face. Her heart hammered wildly against her ribs.

"Eloise?" Sloane stepped closer, her brow furrowing. "What's wrong? You look sick."

Eloise swallowed hard. Her throat felt like sandpaper. "I have to go."

She didn't wait for Sloane to argue. She grabbed her wool coat from the chair and practically ran toward the exit. Clara called out her name, but Eloise pushed through the glass door, her sneakers hitting the hallway carpet.

She took the elevator down to the street level. The cold New York wind bit into her cheeks as she stepped onto the sidewalk. A black Lincoln Navigator sat idling at the curb. The rear door pushed open from the inside.

Eloise climbed into the back seat. The door clicked shut, sealing her in the quiet, leather-scented space.

Genevieve sat next to her, wearing a pristine Chanel suit. She didn't say hello. Instead, she held out a tube of Tom Ford lipstick.

"Fix your face," Genevieve ordered. "You look like a corpse."

Eloise pushed her mother's hand away. "Why are we doing this? You know what he thinks of me. You know what happened. Going to him is just begging for humiliation."

Genevieve's jaw tightened. "Brandt stock plummeted another fifteen percent at the closing bell. The bank is taking the Hamptons house tomorrow. This townhouse is next."

The air in the car suddenly felt too thick to breathe. Eloise stared out the tinted window. The blurred lights of Manhattan sped by, but all she felt was a suffocating weight pressing down on her chest.

Genevieve reached into her designer tote and pulled out a thick financial report. She tossed it onto Eloise's lap. The pages fell open. Columns of red numbers glared back at her.

"Your father's heart is failing," Genevieve said, her voice finally cracking, losing its icy edge. "If we lose the company, we lose his premium care. A hundred years of the Brandt name, Eloise. It all ends this week if you don't make this work."

Eloise closed her eyes. A single tear slipped down her cheek. She wiped it away aggressively. Her hands shook as she picked up the lipstick. She uncapped it and dragged the red color across her pale lips, staring at her reflection in the darkened window. She felt like an animal being prepped for the slaughterhouse.

The SUV slowed to a stop. They were parked outside a three-Michelin-star restaurant near Central Park. The doorman rushed over and pulled the door open.

Eloise stepped out onto the red carpet. Her high heels wobbled slightly on the pavement. She took a deep breath, forcing her spine straight.

She followed her mother through the heavy revolving doors. The restaurant was dim, smelling of expensive truffles and aged wine. Low jazz played from hidden speakers. The hostess led them past the crowded main dining room, straight toward the VIP private booths in the back.

The hostess pushed open a heavy oak door.

A blast of air conditioning hit Eloise's bare arms, making her shiver. The lighting in the room was terrible, just a few candles flickering on the center of a long table.

Sitting at the head of the table was a man in a custom-tailored black suit. He was slowly turning a crystal glass of whiskey between his long fingers.

At the sound of the door opening, he stopped moving. He lifted his head.

His blue eyes locked onto Eloise. They were the color of a frozen ocean, holding zero warmth.

Eloise's heart seized. It had been years, but Christian Clarke still carried that same suffocating, heavy presence. It made her want to shrink into the floor.

Genevieve instantly plastered on a bright, desperate smile. She grabbed Eloise's arm and pulled her forward.

"Christian, it is so wonderful to see you," Genevieve said, her voice dripping with fake warmth.

Christian didn't stand up. He didn't even look at Genevieve. His gaze remained dead set on Eloise's rigid face.

He slammed the whiskey glass down onto the table. The sharp clink of crystal against wood echoed in the quiet room. The corner of his mouth twitched upward into a cruel, mocking smirk.

"So," Christian said, his voice a low, rough rumble that vibrated in Eloise's chest. "What exactly is the Brandt heiress putting up for sale today?"

Eloise flinched. She took a physical step backward, her heels scraping against the carpet. She dug her fingernails so hard into her palms that she felt the skin break.

Genevieve laughed. It was a high, nervous sound that grated on Eloise's ears. She yanked Eloise's arm, forcing her to sit in the chair at the far end of the long table.

"Oh, Christian, you always had such a sharp sense of humor," Genevieve said, taking the seat next to Eloise.

A waiter silently appeared, placing plates of caviar in front of them. No one picked up a fork. The only sound in the room was the faint clinking of silverware from the main dining area outside.

Genevieve leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. "I was just telling Eloise the other day about your time at the boarding school in Connecticut. We always knew you were destined for great things. The Brandt family always supported you."

Christian leaned back in his chair. He crossed his arms over his broad chest. He looked at Genevieve the way a buyer inspects a defective product.

"Your total debt is four hundred and twenty million, Genevieve," Christian said. His voice was flat. He didn't blink. "Two hundred million is due to the creditors by Friday."

Genevieve's mouth snapped shut. The fake smile melted off her face, leaving her looking old and terrified. The exact numbers stripped away every ounce of her upper-class dignity.

Eloise felt a hot rush of humiliation burn her cheeks. She couldn't take it anymore. She snapped her head up and glared straight into Christian's cold blue eyes.

"You could at least show some basic respect," Eloise said. Her voice shook, but she forced the words out.

Christian shifted his weight. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. The physical distance between them seemed to vanish. His eyes darkened.

"Respect?" Christian repeated softly. "People who come begging for my money don't get to demand respect, Eloise."

The words hit her chest like a physical blow. Her breath caught in her throat. Her chest heaved as she struggled to pull air into her lungs.

Under the table, Genevieve's hand shot out. Her fingers pinched the soft flesh of Eloise's thigh, twisting hard. It was a silent, violent warning to shut up.

Christian reached into his jacket. He pulled out a thick stack of legal documents and tossed them onto the center of the table. He pushed them. The heavy paper slid across the polished wood, stopping right in front of Eloise.

"That is the acquisition agreement," Christian stated. "I am stripping Brandt Group of all its core assets. The real estate, the tech patents, the shipping lines. You get to keep the name and an empty shell. I assume the debt."

Genevieve let out a choked gasp. She jumped up from her chair. "That is robbery! You are destroying a hundred years of our family's work!"

"Business is business," Christian replied, his face completely blank. "If you don't sign it tonight, the Wall Street Journal will publish your bankruptcy filing at 6:00 AM tomorrow."

Eloise stared at the thick white paper. Her stomach twisted into tight, painful knots. He wasn't here to negotiate. He wasn't here to help. He was here to watch them bleed. He was here for revenge.

She stood up. She pushed her chair back so hard the wooden legs screeched against the floor.

"We are done here," Eloise said, her voice hollow.

Genevieve grabbed Eloise's wrist. Her grip was frantic. "Sit down! Eloise, please!" Tears spilled over Genevieve's eyelashes, ruining her expensive makeup. She was crying in front of him.

Eloise yanked her arm free. Watching her mother beg broke the last piece of her pride. She couldn't breathe in this room anymore.

Christian sat in the shadows at the end of the table. He watched Eloise's red-rimmed eyes. His hand gripped his empty whiskey glass so tightly his knuckles turned completely white.

Eloise grabbed her clutch from the table. She looked at Christian with pure hatred. "Even if we end up on the street, we will never sell to a cold-blooded monster like you."

She turned around and walked toward the heavy oak door. Her heels sank into the carpet. Every step felt like walking through wet cement, but she didn't stop.

Her fingers wrapped around the cold brass door handle.

"Julian Finch," Christian's low voice echoed behind her.

Eloise froze. Her hand cramped around the brass handle.

"I heard you've been looking at the script for The Mist," Christian continued, his tone dangerously calm. "Campbell Kirk's project. Very interesting."

Eloise turned her head slowly. Her eyes were wide with shock. She couldn't believe he was tracking her private reading materials.

Christian stood up. His massive frame blocked out the dim light of the room. He walked slowly around the long table, closing the distance between them.

He stopped inches from her. Eloise had to tilt her head back to look at him. The smell of his cologne-cedar and something sharp-filled her nose.

"One word from me," Christian whispered, looking down at her. "Just one word, and you won't get any decent script in Hollywood again. You won't even get a callback for a commercial."

Eloise's blood turned to ice. Her entire body went rigid. She stared at the man standing over her, feeling a deep, paralyzing terror. He wasn't just taking her family's money. He was taking her only escape.

Christian slowly lifted his hand. Eloise flinched, but he just reached out and tucked a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear. His fingers brushed against her skin. They were warm, but the gesture made her stomach churn with fear.

"Go home, Eloise," he said softly. His eyes were sharp like broken glass. "Think about it."

Eloise shoved the door open. She practically ran into the hallway, leaving the private room behind. The moment she hit the main dining area, the tears she had been fighting finally spilled over her cheeks.

Eloise walked blindly down the Manhattan sidewalks. The cold wind whipped her hair across her wet face. She didn't know how far she walked before the black Lincoln Navigator pulled up beside her. The driver got out, gently but firmly guiding her into the back seat.

The car drove straight to the Upper East Side. It pulled through the iron gates of the Brandt family mansion.

Eloise pushed open the heavy mahogany double doors of her father's study. The room smelled of stale cigar smoke and old paper. The air was thick and hard to breathe.

Her father, Marcus, sat slumped in his leather executive chair. He looked like he had aged ten years in a single week. His skin was gray. The massive oak desk in front of him was covered in letters stamped with red PAST DUE warnings.

Genevieve sat on the velvet sofa, her face buried in her hands, sobbing loudly. When she heard the door click shut, her head snapped up. She rushed across the room and grabbed Eloise by the shoulders.

"Why did you provoke him?" Genevieve screamed, her fingers digging into Eloise's skin. "Are you that selfish? Do you want to see us die?"

Eloise felt completely numb. She shoved her mother's hands away and walked over to the desk. She stared at the bank notices.

Marcus slowly lifted his head. His eyes were cloudy and unfocused. "The company accounts were frozen an hour ago, Ellie," he said. His voice was a weak, rattling sound.

He reached into his top drawer. His hand shook violently as he pulled out a white folder. He slid it across the desk toward her.

Eloise picked it up. It was a medical report from Mount Sinai Hospital. She scanned the bold black text. Severe congestive heart failure. Immediate surgical intervention required. Below that was an estimated cost that made her head spin.

"If we lose the company," Marcus whispered, forcing a bitter smile, "we lose the premium insurance. The trust funds are already drained. I can't pay for the surgery next month."

A massive wave of guilt crashed into Eloise's chest, knocking the breath out of her. Her knees went weak. She stumbled backward. Her shoulder hit the tall brass floor lamp standing near the bookshelf.

The lamp tipped over and crashed onto the Persian rug with a loud thud. The glass shade shattered into dozens of pieces. The sound echoed in the quiet room, sounding like the final breaking point of their family.

Genevieve dropped to her knees right in the middle of the broken glass. She wrapped her arms around Eloise's legs. The proud, untouchable society woman was gone.

"Please, Ellie," Genevieve sobbed, burying her face against Eloise's knees. "Please save us. We will be on the street. We will be a joke. Please."

Eloise looked down at her mother crying on the floor. She looked at her father, who looked like a ghost waiting to die. The walls of the study felt like they were shrinking, crushing her ribs.

She closed her eyes. Two hot tears slid down her cheeks, dropping onto her mother's hair.

"What do you need me to do?" Eloise asked. Her voice was completely dead.

Marcus reached across the desk. He held out a thick, black business card with gold foil lettering. It only had a name and a private phone number. Christian Clarke.

"His assistant called the house just after you left the restaurant," Marcus said, his voice trembling. "He said Mr. Clarke is unsatisfied with tonight's negotiation. However, he is willing to give you an opportunity to privately discuss an alternative. This is his private number. Whether you call or not is entirely your choice."

Eloise reached out. She took the black card. The edge of the thick paper was sharp. It sliced a tiny cut into the pad of her index finger. A drop of blood welled up, but she didn't feel the pain.

She didn't say another word. She turned around and walked out of the study, moving like a machine whose power had been cut.

She climbed the grand spiral staircase to the second floor. She walked into her bedroom and shut the door, locking it behind her.

She didn't turn on the lights. She walked straight to her vanity and stared at the mirror. The moonlight coming through the floor-to-ceiling windows illuminated her pale face and hollow eyes.

In the corner of the room, sitting on a velvet chair, was her script for The Mist. It was covered in her handwritten notes and yellow highlighters.

Eloise walked over and dropped to her knees. She picked up the script and hugged it tightly against her chest. She squeezed her eyes shut. The tears came fast and hard now, soaking the thick paper. She thought about the late nights in acting classes, the rejections, the tiny spark of hope she had felt just hours ago.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. The screen lit up the dark room. It was a text from Sloane: Don't forget, 9 AM sharp tomorrow! You're going to kill it!

Eloise stared at the glowing words. Christian's voice echoed in her head. One phone call.

She let out a broken, wet laugh. There was no way out. She slowly stood up. She walked over to her nightstand, opened the bottom drawer, and shoved the script inside. She pushed the drawer shut, burying her dream in the dark.

She picked up her phone. Her thumb hovered over the keypad. Her hand shook so badly she almost dropped the device. She typed in the number from the black card.

Her heart pounded against her ribs, fast and painful. She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed the green call button. She lifted the phone to her ear.

It rang exactly one time.

"I'm listening," Christian's deep, cold voice answered.