Chapter 10
Dorian pulled his phone out. He tapped the screen three times.
"It's done," he said, his voice rough. "Transferred to the facility directly."
Ines checked her old phone. The confirmation from the nursing home pinged. Payment Received.
She slumped against the table, the relief making her knees weak.
Dorian watched her. Six thousand dollars. That was the price of her dignity? It was nothing.
He felt a surge of anger. Not at her, but at the situation. At the fact that she had to sell a kiss for medicine.
He swept the breakfast dishes off the table with a violent crash.
"Don't think this makes us even," he snapped.
Ines jumped, eyes wide with fear.
Dorian walked to his briefcase and pulled out a document. He slapped it onto the table.
"Since you need money, and I need a wife. We make a deal."
Ines looked at the paper. MARRIAGE CONTRACT.
"The family trust's board of trustees won't release my controlling shares unless I'm married," Dorian said, pacing the room. "I need someone who looks the part and keeps her mouth shut. You need protection. And money."
He stopped in front of her.
"Sign this, and I move your grandfather to Mount Sinai Private Wing. Silas's network will never touch him again. You get an allowance. You get safety."
Ines stared at him. He knew about her grandfather. He had known all along.
"I have my sources," Dorian said, answering her unasked question. "Don't try to hide things from me."
Ines looked at the contract. It was a prison sentence. But it was a gilded cage where her grandfather would be safe.
She picked up the pen.
She signed her name. Ines Mccall.
Dorian watched the ink dry. He looked satisfied. A cold, predatory satisfaction that made her stomach clench.
"Welcome to hell, Mrs. Mcclain," he said.
He pulled a ring from his pocket—a massive diamond that looked heavy enough to sink a ship—and slid it onto her finger. It was cold.
"Preston will bring clothes," he said, checking his watch. "I have a meeting. Don't leave the apartment."
He grabbed his coat and walked out.
Ines stood alone in the penthouse. The silence was deafening. She looked at the ring. It glittered mockingly. She looked at the contract, a death certificate for her freedom.
She walked to the window and stared down at the city. She could run. She could try to disappear again, to become a ghost in the five boroughs. But the thought died before it could form. Running was a fool's game now. He had found her once when he was barely looking. Now, with the contract signed, he would hunt her with the full force of his empire. He wouldn't just find her; he would cage her for good.
She looked at her hands. He had saved her from Silas, yes. But he had also purchased her. The six thousand dollars, the blank check she had torn, the contract—it was all the same currency. Debt. He had bound her to him with a chain made of her grandfather's life.
A cold clarity washed over her, chilling her more than the morning air. The fear began to recede, replaced by the icy calculation of an analyst. Of Echo.
She couldn't run. So, she would have to fight. Not with her fists, but with her mind. The debt was the chain. The only way to break the chain was to pay it. In full. Every single cent he spent on her, on her grandfather, she would pay it back. Not with his allowance, not with his charity. With her own money. Earned her own way.
She wouldn't be his possession. She would be his equal. An equal who could walk away with a zero balance.
The new mission objective was clear: financial independence. To achieve that, she needed her tools. She needed her life back. The one she had buried in Queens.
Her posture changed. The slump vanished. Her shoulders squared. She walked to the desk where Dorian had left his laptop.
She opened it.
She wasn't just a mute wife. She wasn't just a victim.
She cracked her knuckles. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, bypassing the firewalls with a speed that would have terrified Dorian if he were watching.
She wasn't here to be a vase. She was here to plan a war.
Ines smiled. It was a cold, sharp smile.
Echo was online. And her first target was her own past.
The wind in Queens cut like a serrated knife.
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