Chapter 2 - The Obsidian Desk
The private study of Hart House had been my father’s kingdom.
For twenty-four years, that room had smelled of leather-bound books, pipe tobacco, and old paper. But tonight, it smelled of cheap cologne, corporate desperation, and the unmistakable stench of a trap closing.
Malcolm Pryce sat behind my father’s heavy mahogany desk, looking entirely too comfortable in the executive leather chair. At fifty-seven, his silver hair was meticulously pomaded, his eyes small and greedy behind wire-rimmed glasses, and his fingers tapping a rhythmic, impatient tattoo against the polished wood.
Nolan stood nervously by the fireplace, wringing his hands, while I stood near the door, my arms crossed tightly over my chest, wearing my simple white dress like a shroud of armor.
The heavy double doors swung open, and Dominic Vale walked into the study.
He was fully dressed now in a tailored black suit, a crisp white shirt open at the top button, and no tie. He moved with the quiet, devastating grace of a panther entering an enclosure of domestic sheep.
Malcolm Pryce stood up immediately, smoothing down his silk tie, a oily smile stretching across his lined face. "Ah, Dominic. I wasn't aware you were joining us for the family business. Nolan said you were resting after the flight from New York."
Dominic didn't return the smile. He walked past Malcolm without a glance, pulled out the guest chair opposite the desk, and sat down, resting his elbows on the wood, lacing his long fingers together.
"Nolan speaks out of turn," Dominic said smoothly. "Sit down, Malcolm. You're making me seasick."
Malcolm’s smile flickered for a fraction of a second, but he prudently sat back down. "Well, as I was explaining to the boy here, the arrangement is quite simple. Hart Atlantic owes my holding firm eleven point five million dollars, secured by the company's primary dry-dock assets. The loan matures at midnight. Since Hart Atlantic cannot pay, the assets default to me—unless, of course, Evelyn marries me, and we fold the debt into a familial dowry."
He leaned back, looking over at me with a greasy, possessive gleam in his small eyes. "A lovely girl. A bit young, perhaps, but a pristine pedigree. It keeps Hart Atlantic afloat, saves four hundred jobs, and gives me a proper hostess for my winter home in Palm Beach."
"And what about the house?" I asked, my voice cutting through the silence of the room like a shard of glass. "Does the house go to you as well?"
Malcolm chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. "Everything, my dear. The house, the trusts, the subsidiaries. It all rolls into Pryce Industries."
I looked at Nolan, my heart shattering into dust. "You didn't just sell the company. You sold the roof over our heads."
"Evelyn, be reasonable—" Nolan started, taking a step forward.
"Shut up, Nolan," Dominic commanded.
The three words weren't shouted. They were spoken in that low, terrifying register that commanded absolute obedience. Nolan froze, his mouth hanging open, unable to utter another syllable.
Dominic turned his head slowly, fixing his flint-gray eyes on Malcolm Pryce.
"Malcolm," Dominic began, his voice dangerously soft. "How long have you owed the Vale syndicate that six million dollars from the Atlantic City casino development?"
Malcolm’s face drained of color so fast he looked like a corpse under the study lamps. The oily confidence vanished instantly, replaced by a sudden, frantic sheen of cold sweat on his forehead.
"Dominic... that... that account was supposed to be settled next quarter—"
"It was supposed to be settled last month," Dominic corrected, leaning forward, the shadow of his broad shoulders eclipsing the desk. "Instead, you tried to squeeze a desperate boy into trading his sister for a corporate bailout, using assets that are currently tied up in a federal bankruptcy audit—an audit, I might add, that my firm is currently overseeing."
Malcolm stammered, gripping the edges of the desk. "The... the marriage agreement is legal! It’s signed by Nolan as legal guardian and executor of the Hart estate!"
"Nolan isn't the executor," Dominic said calmly, pulling a thin leather folder from inside his jacket and tossing it onto the desk. "According to Henry Hart’s true, unprobated final will—which was deposited with my legal team three days before he died—the entire controlling stake of Hart Atlantic, including this house and all subsidiary trusts, was placed in a discretionary vault under the sole executorship of his daughter, Evelyn Hart."
Malcolm stared at the folder as if it were a venomous snake.
Nolan gasped, his knees buckling until he had to lean against the marble mantlepiece for support. "That... that's impossible! Dad told me I was the sole heir!"
"Your father knew you couldn't manage a lemonade stand, Nolan, let alone an international shipping line," Dominic said without looking at him. He stood up, towering over Malcolm, his presence filling the entire room.
Then, Dominic turned his gaze toward me.
His eyes softened by a fraction—just enough to make my breath catch—before he looked back down at Malcolm Pryce.
"The debt Hart Atlantic owes you is forgiven, Malcolm," Dominic said quietly. "Absorbed into the Vale portfolio as of ten seconds ago. You will pack your bags, leave Boston by morning, and never attempt to trade on Henry Hart’s name again."
Malcolm looked like he wanted to argue, to scream, to bargain, but one look into Dominic’s dead, unblinking eyes convinced him otherwise. He grabbed his briefcase, stumbled backward out of the chair, and bolted from the study, the sound of his hurried footsteps echoing down the grand hallway until the heavy front door slammed shut.
The study fell into a profound, suffocating silence.
Nolan was shaking, sliding down the marble fireplace until he sat in a pathetic heap on the Persian rug. "We're ruined... Pryce is gone, the debt is transferred to the Vale syndicate... Dominic, what are you going to do to us?"
Dominic didn't look at Nolan. He walked slowly around the mahogany desk, stopping three feet in front of me.
The study smelled of old paper and ozone.
May you like
Dominic reached out, his warm, calloused fingers gently brushing against my cheek, tracing the line of my jaw with a possessiveness that sent a violent, electrifying shiver down my spine.
"You're marrying me instead, Evelyn," Dominic whispered.
