The Billionaire's Choice

The crystal chandeliers in the Grand Ballroom seemed to flicker under the suffocating tension.

Robin didn't look at Dane for even a second. She turned her cool emerald eyes back toward Brandon, who was standing so close his masculine scent of cedar and expensive smoke clouded her senses.

"I don't belong in anyone's sight, Mr. Blackwood," Robin said smoothly, stepping sideways with absolute grace to slip past his broad frame. "And I certainly don't need a watchdog."

Before the elite crowd could recover from the shock of seeing a woman casually dismiss the most terrifying billionaire in the country, Robin’s four-inch heels clicked against the polished floor as she walked straight out of the grand double doors into the cool night air.

Brandon didn't chase after her. He stood tall in the center of the hall, hands resting casually in his tailored pockets, his dark eyes tracking every sway of her hips until her silhouette disappeared into the private elevator. A slow, dangerous smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

Fierce. Untamed. Exactly as deadly as the day she patched his bleeding chest in the northern bunker.

Ten minutes later, inside the soundproofed interior of her armored Maybach, Robin was already back to business.

The gala drama had not distracted her for a single second. She opened her encrypted tablet, resting it on her lap while Vance drove smoothly through the glowing neon streets toward the Grand Horizon Hotel.

"Pull up Nicole's private management agency files," Robin commanded coldly, her long fingers flying across the glowing keyboard with blinding speed.

"Right away, Boss," Vance replied from the front seat.

Lines of green code scrolled rapidly down Robin's screen as she bypassed the state's entertainment database security protocols in less than thirty seconds. Within moments, the hidden truth behind Nicole Sinclair's so-called "top modeling career" was laid bare on the screen.

A cold, mocking laugh slipped past Robin's red lips.

Nicole had not booked a single legitimate luxury contract on her own merit. Every major campaign, magazine cover, and high-fashion runway appearance over the past three years had been funded entirely by Harold Sinclair paying massive secret kickbacks under the table. Worse, Nicole’s latest multi-million-dollar ambassador deal with Luxe Paris was set to be finalized tomorrow morning—backed by a fraudulent promissory note Harold had signed using Sinclair Enterprises' primary operational fund as collateral.

"She built her whole little kingdom on stolen money and fake glory," Robin murmured, her green eyes flashing with icy cruelty. "Let's see how high society treats their golden girl when the checks bounce."

Robin tapped a single command, flagging the contract for an immediate international copyright and financial compliance audit. By tomorrow noon, the Paris headquarters would discover that Nicole's portfolio consisted of stolen design concepts, and Harold's collateral was completely void.

"Send a copy of the audit notice directly to Harold's private fax at 8:00 AM sharp," Robin ordered Vance, locking the screen. "Let him choke on his morning coffee."

"Understood, Boss."

Across the city, high above the rolling mist in the prestigious Northern Hills, sat the ancient Blackwood Ancestral Manor.

The sprawling estate looked like a private fortress of black marble, manicured stone courtyards, and iron gates guarded by armed private security. Inside the grand study, the atmosphere was thick with heavy authority.

Old Master Blackwood sat behind a massive desk carved from solid mahogany. He was in his late seventies, with silver hair and sharp, eagle-like eyes that had ruled the city’s financial empire for half a century.

On the desk in front of him sat a thick, towering stack of gold-embossed folders.

Each folder contained the complete portfolio, medical history, family background, and photographs of the country's most elite, wealthy, and powerful high-society heiresses—daughters of senators, banking moguls, and global real estate tycoons.

The heavy double doors of the study swung open.

Brandon walked in. He had already discarded his suit jacket, his crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the throat with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing the corded muscle and subtle combat scars on his skin. He moved with a lazy, predatory confidence that filled the massive room.

"You're late, Brandon," Old Master Blackwood said, his voice deep and rumbling like thunder. He tapped his wooden cane against the floor. "And I hear you caused a scene at the welcome gala by throwing wine on Young Master Dane."

Brandon walked over to the private bar in the corner without answering. He poured two fingers of vintage scotch into a crystal glass, swirling the amber liquid slowly.

"The boy was touching things that didn't belong to him," Brandon replied casually, taking a slow sip. "He's lucky my man only broke his wrist."

Old Master Blackwood frowned, leaning forward over the desk. He slammed his palm down beside the thick stack of files.

"Enough of your games, Brandon. You turned thirty this year. The board of directors is getting nervous, and our family legacy requires stability. I promised the elders that you would choose a proper, high-society wife by the end of this month."

The old man pushed the stack of golden folders across the polished wood.

"Here are twenty of the finest young women in the country. The daughter of the Minister of Commerce, the heiress to the Golden Eagle Bank, and the granddaughter of Duke Vance. Pick one. You have thirty days to bring a bride to this table, or I will choose for you."

Brandon didn't even look at the files.

He walked over to the desk, his crystal glass in one hand, looking down at his grandfather with a cold, unyielding smirk.

With a single, effortless sweep of his free arm, Brandon struck the entire stack of gold-embossed portfolios.

SWOOSH! THUD!

The thick files went flying through the air, their glossy photographs and private background sheets fluttering down into the open, roaring stone fireplace beside the desk. The flames caught the expensive paper instantly, turning the city’s top twenty heiresses into piles of black ash within seconds.

Old Master Blackwood’s eyes widened in furious shock. He gripped his cane tightly, standing up from his leather chair.

"Brandon! What is the meaning of this insolence?" the old man roared. "Are you refusing to marry?"

Brandon took another calm, measured sip of his whiskey. His mind wasn't on the heiresses. His mind was entirely consumed by the image of a backless black silk dress, porcelain skin, razor-sharp wit, and a pair of lethal, unyielding green eyes that refused to bow to him.

His heart thudded in his chest with dark, possessive hunger.

"I'm not refusing to marry, Grandfather," Brandon said, his deep baritone voice smooth, absolute, and chillingly confident.

He set his empty glass down on the mahogany desk with a firm click.

"Throw those trash portfolios away. I've already chosen my wife. Robin Sinclair will wear my ring within thirty days."