Married To The Vulture Of Wall Street

Zoe had gone downstairs to bring her car around to the back alley, just in case Preston was still lurking in the front.

Ivy stood in the center of the living room, smoothing the velvet over her hips. The dress fit perfectly. Too perfectly. How did he know her measurements?

The keypad on the front door beeped. An override sequence. The emergency alarm on her phone remained silent. Someone had bypassed her security from the inside.

She froze.

The door swung open.

It wasn't Zoe.

Harris Miller strode into the apartment. Her father. He brought the cold air in with him. Two of his personal security detail flanked him, blocking the exit.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. It was a Pavlovian response. She mentally calculated the distance to the kitchen knives, the weight of the candlestick still in her hand. Threat assessment. The sight of him made her feel small, trapped.

"What have you done?" Harris didn't yell. He never yelled. His voice was a low rumble, vibrating with suppressed rage.

He threw a folder onto the coffee table. It slid across the surface and hit the pizza box.

"Preston called me," Harris said. "He says you married a stranger. He says you've finally snapped."

"I secured the voting rights," Ivy said. Her voice sounded thin to her own ears. "I did what was necessary to protect the company."

Harris walked toward her. He smelled of expensive scotch and old money.

"You ruined the merger," he spat. "The Hayes family is furious. You are an embarrassment, Ivy. A junkie. A liability."

"I'm not a junkie," she said. "And Preston was cheating."

"Men cheat!" Harris roared, losing his composure for a split second. "You look the other way! That is your job!"

He stepped closer. She backed up until her legs hit the sofa.

"I am going to file for an annulment," Harris said. "And then I am filing for an emergency conservatorship. Dr. Aris has already signed the affidavit stating you are a danger to yourself."

Conservatorship. The word was a noose. He was going to lock her away. He was going to take her voice, her money, her life. Her mind raced, cataloging the legal statutes for challenging a fraudulent medical affidavit, the average court processing time, the likelihood of a judge being on his payroll.

"You can't," she whispered.

"I can," Harris said. He reached out to grab her arm. "You're coming with me."

Her phone, sitting on the coffee table, began to ring.

The screen lit up. Unknown Number.

She lunged for it. Harris tried to block her, but she was faster. She hit answer and speakerphone.

"Ivy?"

The voice filled the room. Deep. Calm. Dangerous.

"Dominik," she choked out.

"I'm downstairs," Dominik said. "The car is waiting."

Harris froze. He stared at the phone.

"Who is this?" Harris demanded.

"Hello, Harris," Dominik said. His tone was conversational, terrifyingly polite. "This is your son-in-law."

Harris's face went pale. "Mack."

"You are interfering with a Mack asset," Dominik said, his voice dropping an octave. "And I protect my assets. If you so much as bruise her wrist, I will call in the debt on the 40th Street tower. Tonight. I will bankrupt you before dessert is served."

The silence in the room was absolute. Harris knew. He knew Mack Capital held the distressed debt on the family's crown jewel property.

"Get out of my wife's apartment," Dominik said.

Harris looked at the phone, then at Ivy. His eyes were full of hate, but his hands dropped to his sides. He adjusted his cufflinks.

"We'll discuss this at the board meeting," Harris muttered.

He signaled his men. They turned and marched out.

The door clicked shut.

Ivy sank onto the sofa, her legs giving out.

"Are they gone?" Dominik asked from the phone.

"Yes," she whispered. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me," he said. "Come downstairs. We have a party to crash."