The bathroom door opened. Gretta emerged, wrapped in a matching white robe, her wet black hair clinging to her cheeks. It gave her a look of fragile beauty that was bizarrely at odds with the cold calculation in her eyes.
Kingsley's gaze was a physical blow. He had already pulled on his trousers and shirt, leaving the top buttons undone, his neck muscles tight and exposed.
"Name your price, Gretta." He sat on the sofa, crossing his legs, trying to reclaim the posture of a negotiation, though the fire in his gut still burned.
She ignored him. She walked to the minibar, poured herself a glass of water, and drank it slowly.
Her deliberate disregard infuriated him. "You think a doctored video can threaten me? The Sterling Group's legal team will have it scrubbed from the internet and have you charged with extortion before you can blink."
"Oh, I know," Gretta said, setting the glass down. She turned to face him. "That's why I have more than one plan."
She walked to the massive floor-to-ceiling window, which overlooked the sprawling city below. "If the video leaks, you're right, you can suppress it. But what if I jump from here?"
Kingsley's breath caught in his throat. He hadn't expected that.
"A young woman, driven to despair after being violated by her future brother-in-law, leaps to her death from the top of the Park Avenue Hotel." Gretta's voice was soft, as if she were narrating a story. "Imagine the headlines in the New York Post tomorrow."
"Even without proof, public sympathy would drown you. Your wedding, your merger... it would all become a massive scandal."
The color drained from Kingsley's face. He realized she wasn't joking. The madness in her eyes was real. She would actually do it.
"What the hell do you want?" For the first time, a tremor of something other than anger entered his voice.
Gretta smiled and walked back toward him, looking down at where he sat. "I don't want to do anything. I just want to correct a mistake."
She leaned in, her hands on the arms of the sofa, trapping him. Their faces were inches apart.
"Because you were always supposed to be mine." She stared into his eyes, her words sharp and precise. "I, Eleanor Ramsey, am your real fiancée. The woman you were meant to marry before Carmelita destroyed everything."
Kingsley was completely lost. Eleanor was the name of Gretta's older sister, the one who had supposedly died in an accident years ago. He had been engaged to Eleanor before her tragic death—a death that had devastated him and driven him into Carmelita's arms. But this woman before him couldn't possibly be Eleanor. Eleanor was dead. He had mourned her.
He shoved her away, disgusted, and shot to his feet. "You'd even use your dead sister? You really are sick."
His words were exactly what she wanted to hear. She needed him to think she was insane. A madwoman was capable of anything illogical, and therefore, anything lethal.
"Sick? Maybe." Gretta's eyes suddenly filled with tears. Large, perfect drops rolled down her cheeks without warning. "I'm sick with love for you, Kingsley!"
She had switched from a cold-blooded blackmailer to a desperate, love-crazed woman in the blink of an eye. The performance was flawless.
"I've loved you since we were children, but everyone only ever saw Carmelita! She doesn't love you! She only loves your money and your status!" she cried, her voice choked with emotion.
Kingsley was caught off guard by the sudden shift, but his revulsion didn't lessen.
"Your love is disgusting," he said coldly.
"Is it?" Gretta wiped her tears and smiled again, a desolate, determined look in her eyes. "Then you'll just have to get used to it."
She picked up her phone again, her thumb hovering over Carmelita's name in her contacts. "What do you think would happen if I sent this little video to my dear sister right now?"
Kingsley's heart seized. He knew Carmelita. She would never tolerate this kind of betrayal. The engagement would be over in an instant.
"Don't!" The word escaped him before he could stop it.
Gretta's finger paused over the send button. She watched the panic finally bloom on his face, a look of pure satisfaction in her eyes.
"Good," she said, lowering the phone. "Now, we can talk about my terms."
Kingsley closed his eyes, taking a long, deep breath. When he opened them again, they were filled with cold, resentful surrender.
He was caught in a madwoman's web, and for now, there was no escape.
"Speak," he bit out.
Gretta walked toward him. She reached out a finger and traced the line of his shirt buttons, feeling his body go rigid at her touch.
"My terms are simple," she whispered, her lips close to his ear, her voice a venomous secret only he could hear. "For the next three months, you will be my secret lover."
Her breath was a hot, damp promise against his skin. "On call. No refusals."
