I fell silent. His words struck a nerve deep inside me, bypassing my anger and hitting my fear.

“Come with me now,” Julian commanded. “We’ll talk somewhere more suitable. This place reeks of him.”

“I can’t just leave with a stranger.”

“Eleanor,” he cut in, saying my name with a strange familiarity that sent a shiver down my spine. “Your family on the Upper East Side needs money. Your father has a two-million-dollar balloon payment due next month. If it’s not paid, that brownstone—your grandfather’s legacy—will be seized by the bank.”

My blood ran cold. How could he know? My family’s financial troubles were a closely guarded secret, hidden behind layers of pride and denial.

“How do you know that?”

“I know everything,” he answered with breathtaking arrogance. “Come with me, and I’ll give you a solution you never imagined. Or stay here, divorce your husband, and watch your family crumble piece by piece.”

The choice felt impossible. But looking into Julian’s eyes, which were filled with a dark, steely conviction, a glimmer of hope sparked amidst my despair.

I glanced at the open suitcase in the bedroom, then back at Julian.

“Fine,” I said softly. “I’ll go.”

Julian didn’t smile. He just gave a curt nod and turned toward the door, as if he knew from the start that I wouldn’t be able to refuse him. I grabbed my purse, locked the door to the apartment that now felt like a prison, and followed the stranger into the elevator, descending into a storm far greater than the one raging outside.

Chapter 3: The Price of Patience

The drive from Tribeca to the Financial District was eerily silent. I sat in the passenger seat of Julian’s Maybach, the interior smelling of rich leather and power. It was completely soundproof, muffling the city’s chaos into a distant hum. Julian sat beside me, engrossed in a tablet, the blue light reflecting on his sharp features. He hadn’t uttered a word since we left the lobby.

The car pulled up to a private entrance of a glass skyscraper that pierced the clouds. We were whisked up in a private elevator to a penthouse lounge that felt less like a room and more like a fortress of solitude.

Julian led me to a private corner room with glass walls offering a panoramic view of the city—a river of gold flowing through the rain.

“Sit,” he gestured to a plush velvet sofa.

A waiter appeared, ghost-like, placed two tumblers of amber liquid on the black marble table, and vanished.

Julian took a sip, then looked at me directly. “Let’s get straight to the point.”

He reached into his inner suit pocket, pulling out a checkbook and a gold fountain pen. He wrote with quick, slashing strokes, tore out the check, and slid it across the marble toward me.

“Take it.”

I looked at the paper. Then I picked it up. My eyes widened until they hurt. I counted the zeros. Once. Twice.

My hand trembled so violently the check fluttered back onto the table. “What… what is this for?”

“That’s your price,” Julian said flatly. “Or more accurately, the price of your time. That money is enough to clear your family’s debts, buy back their assets, and secure a life of luxury for seven generations.”

“I’m not a prostitute, Mr. Croft,” I hissed, my face burning.

Julian let out a dry, humorless laugh. “I have no interest in your body, Eleanor. I need your status. I need Mark Peterson’s wife.”

He leaned back, crossing his arms. “As I said, Chloe is my wife. Our marriage is a business merger between the Croft and Vanderbilt families. But she violated our prenuptial agreement by having a public affair. And your husband is the fool she chose.”

“Then divorce her! Why involve me?”

“Because in business, timing is everything,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “I am in the middle of a massive acquisition involving Chloe’s family. If a scandal breaks now, my stock tanks, and the deal dies. The losses would be in the billions.”

He leaned forward, his gaze intense. “I need three months. Ninety days to finalize the deal and move my assets. During those ninety days, I need silence. I need you to go home, act like the sweet, oblivious wife, and let them feel safe.”

“You want me to live with him? Sleep next to him? Knowing what he’s doing?”

“It’s strategy, Eleanor,” he said coolly. “If you divorce him now, he plays the victim. He hides his assets. He leaves you with nothing. But if you wait… if you let me orchestrate this… we destroy him. Completely.”