Capital

“Next question.” His eyes locked on her. He was close. Too close. Emily raised the tablet between them. “If your brand—” Scott pressed down on the tablet. Emily backed into the desk. Nowhere left to go. Scott placed his hands on either side of her, caging her in. His face inches from hers. “Scott—” “Next question.” His voice was rough. Emily’s breath caught. Heat flooded her body. “If your brand was a person,” she whispered, “how would you describe her—them?” His eyes dropped to her lips. “Resilient.” His thumb traced her jawline. “Beautiful.” His breath warmed her skin. “Irresistible.” The word hung between them. Emily’s heart pounded. One movement—one inch—and his lips would touch hers. She wanted it. God, she wanted it. “I should go.” Her voice shook. Scott’s jaw clenched. But he didn’t move. “The contract says no physical contact.” His blue eyes burned into hers. “It doesn’t say anything about wanting to.” Emily’s arranged marriage to Ian Hunter was a transaction—his family’s money for her father’s freedom. For three years, she endured his coldness, his cruelty, his mistress. The day his grandmother died, Ian filed for divorce and walked away with everything. Emily’s business collapsed. Ian’s empire grew. Now, she’s desperate enough to make a deal with the devil’s half-brother. Scott Hunter is pitched against his half-brother to claim his billion-dollar inheritance. One of the three requirements is a wife. Emily needs capital to rebuild—and revenge on the man who destroyed her. It shouldn't be. It's unheard of. It's supposed to be a simple contract: one year of marriage, no feelings, no complications. Except Scott can’t stop touching her. And Emily realizes she’s stopped pretending.

"Good evening, Mom. How was your day?" "My day was good, my love. How is yours going?" Her voice was a soothing balm against the stress of the day. "It’s... busy. My boss gave me a mountain of work to finish before tomorrow morning, so I won't be coming home tonight. I’m going to stay late and then head straight back in." "Oh, my dear," she sighed. "Just be careful. Don't get into any trouble." "I won't, Mom. Did you take your medication?" I asked, knowing how she tended to forget when I wasn't there to nag her. "Ah... I’ll take it now." "Mom, please. You need to stay strong for me." "I will, I will. I love you, Annabelle." "Love you too." After I hung up, the silence of the office felt even heavier. The lights were dimmed, except for the glow from my monitor and the soft yellow light spilling from Elias’s office. He was still in there, a silhouette of intense focus as he reviewed the project details. Suddenly, a sharp ping echoed through the quiet room. I jumped slightly, my eyes snapping to my computer screen. Unknown Email. No encrypted address. No profile picture No signature. Whoever sent this, don't want to be traced. "What is this?" I muttered, my skin crawling with a sudden, inexplicable chill. The subject line was written in bold, stark capital letters: BEFORE THE INVESTMENT. My pulse shifted into a frantic rhythm. I hesitated, my mouse hovering over the notification. When I finally clicked, my breath hitched. It wasn't just a message; it was a cache of attached documents, internal financial transfers, offshore account statements, and adjusted revenue projections. I realized instantly that these were different from the official files Elias had given me.

Meu namorado pertencia a elite intocável da capital, com uma fortuna familiar avaliada em dezenas de bilhões. Para me “testar”, ele passou sete anos sem nunca me comprar um único presente, sem gastar um centavo comigo. Até mesmo uma parada em uma loja de conveniência para comprar preservativos precisava ser dividida meio a meio. Então, minha mãe ficou gravemente doente. Pedi dinheiro emprestado a todos os amigos e parentes que pude, mas ainda faltavam dois mil para cobrir os custos da cirurgia. Não importava o quanto eu implorasse, ele se recusou a me emprestar o dinheiro. Organizei o funeral da minha mãe sozinha. Quando voltei para arrumar minhas coisas, encontrei por acaso uma lista de presentes que ele havia comprado para a jovem vizinha. Uma propriedade de luxo privada. Bolsas de grife. Joias no valor de centenas de milhões. Havia também um chat de voz com o amigo dele. — Caleb, é verdade que a Jessica realmente se humilhou e implorou a você por dois mil? Caleb Brooks soltou uma risada baixa e divertida, com um tom preguiçoso e indiferente. — A Nevaeh não estava errada. Qualquer pessoa que saia por aí implorando por dois mil — o que mais ela é, senão uma interesseira? — Estamos juntos há apenas sete anos e ela já está tentando tirar dinheiro de mim. Então essa era a verdade. Sete anos do chamado teste, ao que parecia, tinham sido provocados por nada mais do que algumas palavras manipuladoras de uma jovem vizinha. No entanto, isso já não importava. No momento em que minha mãe faleceu, eu já havia decidido deixá-lo.