Betrayed Heiress: Marrying The Wall Street Devil

At exactly 11:55 AM the next day, Ina stood on the sidewalk outside Le Bernardin.

She wore a sharply tailored, stark white pantsuit. The severe cut acted as her armor. She took a deep breath, pushing the heavy glass door open, and stepped into the hushed, luxurious atmosphere of the three-Michelin-star restaurant.

The maître d' approached her with a practiced smile. "Welcome, madam. Do you have a reservation?"

"Under Warner," Ina said. Her voice was steady, but her heart hammered against her ribs.

The maître d's posture instantly became deferential. "Right this way, please."

He led her past the crowded main dining room, toward the back of the restaurant. They stopped at a secluded booth, completely shielded from the rest of the room by a tall, carved wooden screen.

Buren sat in the shadows of the booth. He wore a dark charcoal bespoke suit. He was looking down, reading a thick stack of financial acquisition documents.

Hearing her approach, Buren slowly raised his head. His dark, piercing eyes locked onto Ina. The air in the booth instantly grew heavy.

Ina's stomach tightened. She pulled out the chair opposite him and sat down, keeping her spine rigid.

Buren closed his file folder. He tossed it onto the pristine white tablecloth. He leaned back against the leather booth, studying her with the lazy, arrogant gaze of a predator watching its prey.

A waiter silently appeared, placing two glasses of expensive red wine on the table, then vanished.

Buren gestured toward the glass. "Drink."

Ina pushed the wine glass away. "I am not here to socialize. Name your price. What do you want to delete the recording?"

Buren let out a low, dark chuckle. The sound held no humor. "You are in no position to negotiate, Ms. Holman. You have no leverage."

Ina dug her nails into her palms under the table. "If you release that recording, the scandal will hit your company's stock too. It does not benefit you."

Buren did not argue. He simply reached into his suit jacket. He pulled out his sleek black smartphone. He unlocked it with his thumb and tapped the screen.

He placed the phone on the table.

From the speaker, a one-second audio clip played. It was a soft, desperate, unmistakable female moan.

Ina's face drained of all color. A wave of intense, burning shame crashed over her. The sound of her own loss of control echoing in the quiet restaurant was unbearable.

She lunged forward across the table, her hand shooting out to grab the phone.

Buren was faster. He flipped his wrist, easily dodging her hand. In the same fluid motion, his large hand clamped down on her wrist.

His grip was like a steel vise. The heat of his palm burned her cold skin. He forced her arm down, pinning her wrist flat against the table.

Buren leaned forward. His broad chest hovered over the table. His face was inches from hers.

"Do not test my patience," Buren warned. His voice was a dangerous whisper.

His thumb slowly, deliberately stroked the soft skin on the inside of her wrist, right over her racing pulse. He could feel her heart hammering in terror.

"Here are my terms," Buren said. "For the next thirty days, you will be my companion. You will attend events with me when I call. You will be available."

Ina's eyes widened in horror. "You are disgusting. I will never be your mistress."

Buren's eyes darkened. "It is a contract, not an affair. And you do not have the right to refuse."

The pressure on her wrist increased. The humiliation and anger boiled over in Ina's chest.

With a sudden, violent jerk, she ripped her hand out of his grip. A red mark instantly bloomed on her pale skin.

Ina grabbed her water goblet. It was filled with ice water and a slice of lemon.

Without a second thought, she threw the water directly into Buren's face.

The ice cubes hit his cheekbones. The freezing water splashed across his sharp features, dripping down his strong jawline and soaking the collar of his expensive charcoal suit.

The secluded corner fell dead silent.

Buren did not flinch. He did not wipe the water away. His dark eyes locked onto hers, burning with a terrifying, predatory heat.

He slowly pulled a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket. He wiped his jaw.

"You will pay for that," Buren whispered. The promise was absolute.

Ina grabbed her clutch. She turned and practically ran out of the restaurant, her heels clicking frantically against the hardwood floor.

Buren watched her flee. He pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek. A slow, dark smirk curved his lips. The hunt had officially begun.