Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows of a Manhattan penthouse, New York City glittered like a web of fallen stars. Inside, Julian Carlisle was walking steadily on a treadmill, his back a landscape of perfectly defined muscle gleaming with sweat.
His legs were powerful, showing no sign of paralysis.
His personal assistant, Aaron Sullivan, stood respectfully nearby, holding a towel and a glass of water. Aaron was more than an assistant; he was Julian's shadow, his most trusted lieutenant.
"What did you find?" Julian asked, stepping off the machine. He took the towel, his deep gray eyes as cold as the city skyline.
Aaron consulted his tablet. "Sir, the person who drugged you at the Obsidian Hotel... all signs point to Mr. Donovan's secretary. But there's no direct evidence."
Donovan Carlisle. Julian's older brother.
A humorless smirk touched Julian's lips. "My dear brother. His methods are as clumsy as ever."
"Furthermore," Aaron continued, "the security footage from your floor was professionally wiped before our team could secure it."
Julian's gaze darkened. He remembered a blur in the darkness, that soft, yielding body and that choked sob. He felt a strange pull of responsibility, a need to find the woman from that night.
"About the Hayes family marriage..." Aaron began.
"They want to trade their daughter for a bailout," Julian cut in, his voice dismissive. "I wasn't interested."
"They've changed the bride, sir. It's the elder daughter, Eleanor Hayes, not the originally intended Stella Hayes," Aaron said, as he handed over a photo.
Julian paused, the name striking a chord. He took the photo, his face impassive. "Reason?"
"The official story is that Miss Stella has a heart condition. Our intel suggests Miss Eleanor's position in the family is precarious. This looks more like an expulsion, a transaction."
Julian took a sip of water. The woman in the photo had eyes that were both defiant and fragile, like a stray cat caught in the rain. She unconsciously reminded him of the woman from that night.
A flicker of interest, cold and calculating, sparked within him. He had initially agreed to this sham marriage only to see what Donovan's next move would be.
Now, the game had a new, more interesting player.
He set the glass down and moved to the sleek, custom-built wheelchair that sat waiting. He settled into it, pulling a cashmere blanket over his powerful legs. In an instant, the formidable man vanished, replaced by the broken, bitter invalid the world thought him to be.
"If they're sending a 'gift,'" Julian said, his voice reverting to that flat, emotionless tone, "we'll accept it."
He tapped his fingers on the armrest, a quiet, rhythmic beat.
"Tell Donovan I'm very much 'looking forward' to my new bride." He stressed the words with cutting irony.
"Understood, sir," Aaron said. "The cars are ready to retrieve her from the Hayes residence."
Julian waved him away.
Alone, he wheeled himself to the window, looking down at the river of headlights flowing through the city's arteries.
Eleanor Hayes.
He would see for himself if this woman, thrown into the lion's den by her own family, was here for the money... or for something else entirely.
Outside the Hayes villa, a silent, imposing motorcade of black Rolls-Royces and Cadillacs pulled up to the curb.
The head butler stepped out and rang the doorbell.
Brenda and Richard, their faces plastered with obsequious smiles, rushed to greet him.
Eleanor descended the stairs, carrying a single, small suitcase. She wore a simple white dress, her long brown hair falling over her shoulders. With no makeup, her beauty was stark, almost fragile.
The butler's eyes widened for a fraction of a second before his professional mask slipped back into place. He bowed respectfully. "Miss Hayes. We are here on Mr. Carlisle's orders, to take you home."
The word "home" was a bitter irony.
Eleanor ignored the false farewells of her parents behind her and walked straight to the black Rolls-Royce Phantom.
Before getting in, she glanced back one last time at the house she had lived in for over twenty years. Her eyes held no nostalgia.
Only cold, sharp resolve.
