Reborn Embrace: Taming the Possessive Tycoon

The next morning, the doorbell chimed, a shrill, unwelcome sound.

Carolyn opened the door to find Brett Richardson standing there, his face a mask of smug hostility. He was Chandler's executive assistant and Eugenia's most loyal attack dog.

He pushed past her without an invitation, his expensive shoes silent on the marble floor. He carried a leather briefcase and an air of ownership.

"Where's Chandler?" he demanded, his eyes sweeping the apartment as if searching for signs of a struggle. "Or did you manage to drive him away again?"

Carolyn closed the door, a newfound calm settling over her. The fearful, trembling girl from yesterday was gone. She leaned against the door, crossing her arms over her chest. "He's at the office. If you have a message, you can give it to me."

Brett let out a short, derisive laugh. He tossed his briefcase onto the coffee table. "Eugenia collapsed last night. The doctor said it was due to extreme emotional distress."

He advanced on her, using his height to loom over her, casting her in his shadow. "What did you say to Chandler yesterday? He was cold to her. He barely stayed an hour."

Carolyn had to hide a smile. Eugenia's theatrics were as predictable as the sunrise.

She didn't back down. She met his glare head-on. "I just asked him to spend more time with me. Is that a crime?"

Her defiant tone seemed to enrage him. He slammed a hand against the wall next to her head, trapping her. His face was inches from hers, his breath smelling of stale coffee and self-importance. "A woman like you doesn't deserve to be in the same room as him."

He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial, venomous hiss. "Eugenia is the future Mrs. Finch. You are just a toy he's using to pay off your family's debt."

A wave of nausea rolled through her, but she fought it down. Now was not the time for weakness.

A slow, mysterious smile spread across her face. The unexpected expression made Brett pause.

"A toy?" she repeated softly. Her gaze traveled over his angry face before she leaned in, closing the distance until her lips were right next to his ear.

Her whisper was for him alone, but it carried the weight of a bombshell. "Then why did he crush my birth control pills last night and demand that I only have his child?"

Brett's eyes widened in shock. The color drained from his face. The anger was replaced by pure, unadulterated disbelief.

Carolyn pressed her advantage, her voice still a silken whisper. "Tell me, Brett, if I'm carrying the Finch heir, how secure is Eugenia's position as the 'future Mrs. Finch'?"

He recoiled as if she'd struck him, stumbling back a step. His face was a ghastly shade of pale. "You... you're lying! Chandler would never let you have his child!"

Carolyn placed a gentle, protective hand over her own flat stomach, her expression softening into a look of maternal bliss. It was a complete fabrication, but it was beautiful. "Is that so? Why don't you go ask him? See if he's willing to make me get rid of it."

Brett's breathing grew ragged. He was panicking. This was Eugenia's greatest fear. A child would solidify Carolyn's position in a way nothing else could.

He pointed a trembling finger at her. "You vicious bitch. You're trying to kill Eugenia!"

Carolyn's smile vanished, her expression turning to ice. "She started this. Tell her to stop playing her pathetic little games. Otherwise, next time, I'll have Chandler deliver the news to her personally."

Brett's jaw worked, his teeth grinding together. For a moment, she saw murder in his eyes, but he reined it in. He knew better than to touch her. It would only prove her point.

He snatched his briefcase from the table. "We'll see about this," he snarled.

He stormed to the door, wrenched it open, and slammed it shut behind him.

The moment he was gone, Carolyn's strength gave out. She slid down the wall, her body trembling. Her palms were slick with cold sweat. It had been a terrifying gamble.

But it was necessary. To make Eugenia panic. A panicked opponent makes mistakes.

She pushed herself up and walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking down at the endless river of traffic flowing through New York City. Her reflection in the glass was pale but resolute.

Suddenly, a brilliant fork of lightning split the sky. A deafening clap of thunder followed almost immediately, rattling the windows. The sky opened up, and a torrential downpour began.

And then, the lights in the penthouse flickered and died. The entire city plunged into darkness.

The power was out.