Silent Vows: Protected By The Billionaire

The words on the screen were red. Not just red, but a violent, glaring shade that seemed to pulse against the cracked glass of Grace's phone.

NOTICE OF INTENT TO SUE: KIRK GALLERY V. HUNTER CAPITAL. DAMAGES SOUGHT: $50 MILLION.

Grace Kirk stared at the legal document until the digits blurred. A wave of nausea rolled through her stomach, hot and acidic. She pressed her hand against the Formica table of the diner, feeling the sticky residue of maple syrup someone hadn't wiped away. It grounded her, just barely.

Her phone buzzed. The vibration against the table sounded like a drill in the quiet, mid-afternoon lull of the diner.

Dad: Collins Raymond just called. Hunter's lawyers are moving to freeze all your assets. You signed the acquisition papers, Grace. This falls on you. I have a way out, but you have to meet him. Now. Don't disappoint me, or we lose everything. I mean it, Grace.

The air in the diner suddenly felt too thin. Grace tried to form a word, a protest, but her throat closed up, the familiar paralysis taking hold. The pressure built behind her eyes. She wanted to scream. She wanted to throw the phone through the plate-glass window. Instead, she swallowed the bile rising in her throat and placed the phone face down.

The bell above the door jingled. A gust of wind cut through the stale smell of old coffee and frying grease.

Alaric Hunter walked in.

He didn't belong here. That was the first thing Grace's brain registered, even through the panic. He was too tall for the low ceilings, his shoulders too broad for the narrow aisle between the booths. He wore a dark bespoke suit, no logos, just fabric that looked heavy and matte. He looked clinical, not exhausted. There were no dark circles under his eyes, only a chilling intensity that seemed to belong in a boardroom where fortunes were dismantled, not a greasy spoon diner.

He scanned the room, his blue eyes sharp, dissecting the space with a cold efficiency that made Grace shiver. When his gaze landed on her, he paused.

Grace simply stared. She couldn't wave. Her limbs felt like lead.

Alaric approached the booth and slid into the seat opposite her. He moved with a fluid grace that seemed at odds with the cramped space. He didn't touch the table. He kept his hands in his lap, his posture rigid.

"You look like you're about to be deposed," Alaric said, his voice a low, dispassionate hum.

Grace opened her mouth, but only a dry click escaped. The selective mutism was a cage, and stress was the key that locked it.

"I see." He laughed, but it came out as a dry, humorless sound. "No matter. I prefer to do the talking. I have a proposition."

He leaned back, the vinyl of the booth creaking under his weight. He looked impatient. "Go on."

Grace slid her phone across the table, the screen still displaying her father's text.