Chapter 4 — The Predator in the Living Room

POV: Beatrix

I pulled my eye away from the peephole, my heart hammering wildly against my ribs, it threatened to break completely free.

It wasn't the police.

Standing in my dim, narrow hallway was Nikolai Ashcombe. He wore a sharp, charcoal-grey suit that cost more than everything I owned combined, and filled the entire space, his broad shoulders almost brushing the wallpaper on either side. He looked completely out of place in my run-down apartment building, yet entirely in control.

*Boom. Boom. Boom.*

He knocked one more time, his patience was clearly wearing thin.

With trembling fingers, I unlocked the deadbolt and slowly pulled the door open.

Nikolai didn't wait for an invitation and stepped right past me, his shoes clicking sharply against my floor. Without so much as a word, he walked into the center of my living room and scanned the cramped space with a look of pure detachment.

Closing the door behind him, I pressed my back flat against the wood. I was terrified. Of course I was.

This was Nikolai Ashcombe.

"Mr. Ashcombe," I managed to say, my voice barely above a whisper. "How did you find me?"

"Finding people is very easy when you own half the city," Nikolai replied. His voice was deep, rough, and echoed off the small walls. He finally stopped pacing and turned to face me. "Sit down, Beatrix."

"I'd rather stand," I said, gripping the edge of my kitchen counter for support.

Nikolai’s jaw tightened. He reached into his suit jacket, pulled out a thick envelope, and tossed it onto my coffee table.

"Read it."

I didn't move, just staring at the envelope. "What is this?"

"The press is having a field day. My hockey team is in the middle of a delicate stadium deal, and the investors are skittish," he explained, crossing his arms. "They don't want a scandal, and they certainly don't want to see me linked to a revolving door of gold-digging models. But you... you are completely unexpected. You don't fit the mold. It makes the public think I’ve finally settled down."

"I am not playing games with the press," I said, shaking my head fiercely. "I have enough problems. Just tell them it was a mistake and your daughter grabbed the wrong person."

"Ivy doesn't make mistakes," Nikolai replied sharply, a faint, protective edge flickering in his cold eyes. "And the press will not let this go. They love a narrative. Which brings us to the real problem."

He reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and swiped the screen. Turning it around, he held it out toward me.

It was a playback of the morning entertainment show I had just watched. Julian was still on the screen, looking like an innocent victim while calling me an unstable, dangerous stalker.

"Your ex-boyfriend is very thorough," Nikolai noted. "He is destroying your reputation to cover up his own corporate misconduct."

"He's going to ruin me. I won't even be able to get a job as a secretary after this, let alone a marketing strategist."

Before Nikolai could respond, my cell phone started ringing loudly on the kitchen counter.

I jumped, looking down at the screen. The caller ID flashed *National City Bank - Debt Collection*. My stomach plummeted. I had been dodging their calls all morning.

I reached out to silence it, but Nikolai was faster. His massive hand shot out, snatching the phone off the counter. He hit the green accept button and put it on speaker before I could stop him.

"Beatrix Hayes?" a harsh, angry voice blared from the phone. "This is Mr. Vance from National City Bank. You missed the final payment on the commercial lease for Julian Sports Agency. Since you co-signed the loan, you are personally liable for the remaining forty thousand dollars. If you do not pay by 5:00 PM today, we will seize your personal assets and file a lawsuit."

Tears pricked my eyes. I was so humiliated. I didn't want this terrifying billionaire to see exactly how pathetic my life really was.

Nikolai didn't even blink and leaned closer to the phone.

"This is Nikolai Ashcombe. Cancel that debt immediately, Mr. Vance."

There was a long, stunned silence on the other end of the line.

"M-Mr. Ashcombe?" the bank agent stuttered, completely losing his angry tone. "Sir, I... I can't just cancel a forty-thousand-dollar debt without authorization…"

"I own the holding company that acquired National City Bank last Tuesday," Nikolai interrupted smoothly. "If that debt is not wiped from her record in the next sixty seconds, I will personally see to it that you are fired, blacklisted, and investigated for harassment. Am I clear?"

"Yes, sir! Absolutely, sir! Consider it done," the man panicked.

Nikolai ended the call and tossed my phone back onto the counter. He looked at me, completely unbothered by what he had just done.

"Sign the contract inside that envelope. Three months. Public appearances only. You act as my partner to keep the women, media, and my investors quiet. In return, I will pay you five hundred thousand dollars and clear every single cent of your remaining debt. I'll also hire a legal team to bury your ex-boyfriend in so many lawsuits he’ll be working at a car wash for the next decade."

I stared at him in pure disbelief. "Five hundred thousand?"

"It's pocket change for me," he shrugged. "You need money, protection, and a fresh start. I need a shield. It is a strictly transactional arrangement. Three months, then you walk away."

I looked at the envelope, thinking about the four years I’d wasted and the loans I’d taken out for Julian. I thought about the crushed engagement ring on the carpet and the vicious words of my mother.

"No," I said suddenly.

Nikolai frowned, his dark eyebrows pulling together. "Excuse me?"

"A partnership isn't enough," I told him, finding a sudden burst of courage. "If Julian wants to paint me as an unstable stalker, a fake girlfriend contract won't convince his rich investors. They'll just assume you paid me off. If we are doing this, I want a marriage contract. A legally binding, highly public, fake marriage. It is the only way to make Julian back off completely."

Silence stretched through the room. Nikolai stared at me, his cold eyes calculating. Slowly, a small smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

"A fake marriage," he murmured. "You are smarter than you look, Beatrix. But if you are going to be my wife, there are ground rules."

"Like what?" I asked, crossing my arms.

"Rule one: We will sleep in the same bedroom to convince the staff, but there will be no physical intimacy behind closed doors," Nikolai listed, ticking the rules off on his fingers. "Rule two: You will attend all my public events and smile for the cameras. And rule three, which is the most important... you will not get attached to my daughter. You are temporary. Do not try to act like her real mother."

I scoffed, rolling my eyes. "Trust me, Mr. Ashcombe. The last thing I want right now is to play house or have a man in my life. I just want my revenge and my money."

"Good. Draw a line through the word 'partner' on the contract, write 'wife', and sign it."

I walked over to the table, picked up a pen, and flipped the contract open. I didn't care if it was a trap. My life was already over as it is.

I scratched out the word, wrote in my condition, and signed my name at the bottom in bold, angry strokes.

Nikolai watched me through the whole process. I handed the paper back to him, and his gaze lingered on my face for a second longer than necessary.

"Pack your things. You are moving into my estate today. Ivy can't wait to see you, and the press is already..."

Suddenly, a loud, frantic knocking interrupted him.

*Bang, bang, bang!*

I frowned, looking toward the front door. "Are you expecting someone else?"

"No."

Feeling a cold knot form in my stomach, I walked toward the door. I hesitated for a second before pulling it open.

I never expected to see who was standing on the other side.

Before I could even draw a breath, a hand whipped through the doorway.

*SLAP.*

The sharp, stinging sound echoed through the entire apartment. My head snapped violently to the side, and a searing pain exploded across my cheek.

My mother stood in the doorway, her face twisted in pure rage.