The Ruined Heiress's Dark Contract Marriage

On the afternoon of the second day Arthur was away from home, the phone Arthur had prepared for Elsie rang.

It was Chloe Vance, her best friend and business partner. Chloe was in a panic. Fenton had used his remaining leverage to freeze the bank accounts of their boutique design studio in Manhattan.

Knowing Chloe was terrified of losing the business, Elsie decided she had to go sign the emergency authorization papers in person.

Mrs. Gable immediately assigned a driver and a discreet bodyguard to accompany her. Elsie wore a heavy trench coat and dark sunglasses, keeping her head down as she entered the city.

The meeting at the studio was quick. Elsie signed the papers, hugged Chloe, and took the elevator down to the building's lobby. Outside, her driver had parked the bulletproof SUV in the restricted loading zone right by the entrance. Her bodyguard escorted her through the revolving doors, his eyes scanning the busy sidewalk.

Just as Elsie reached for the door handle, the screech of tires shattered the silence.

Two unmarked, black utility vans mounted the curb with terrifying speed, crashing through the decorative planters and violently cutting off their path.

The side doors of the vans slid open. Six massive men wearing black ski masks poured out, gripping heavy-duty stun batons that crackled with blue electricity.

The bodyguard instantly shoved Elsie behind him, drawing his concealed firearm. "Back off!" he roared.

But the attackers didn't hesitate. They swarmed him.

The bodyguard managed to drop two of them with brutal strikes, but a third man swung a stun baton hard into the back of his neck.

The bodyguard convulsed, his eyes rolling back as he collapsed onto the concrete.

Elsie screamed. She spun around, sprinting toward the elevator banks.

A heavy hand grabbed a fistful of her hair, violently yanking her backward. Elsie cried out in pain as she crashed into a solid chest.

A thick rag, reeking of a sickeningly sweet chemical, was clamped brutally over her nose and mouth.

Elsie thrashed wildly. Her heels kicked at the man's shins, but her limbs quickly grew heavy. The edges of her vision turned black.

Right before she lost consciousness, she heard the leader speak into a radio. "Tell Mr. K the package is secured."

Even through the haze of the drug, the faint, lingering scent of a very specific, expensive cigar on the man's coat triggered a horrifying realization. Kelvin.

A wave of pure, freezing terror washed over her, and then the world went entirely dark.

When Elsie slowly dragged her eyes open, she was blinded by a harsh, surgical light.

She tried to move her arms, but thick, leather restraints strapped her wrists and ankles tightly to a freezing metal table. She couldn't move an inch.

The room smelled like bleach mixed with cheap, overpowering cologne.

A haunting, classical symphony echoed through the empty, concrete room. From the shadows, a man stepped into the light.

He was in his fifties, overweight, wearing a velvet smoking jacket. In his hand, he casually tapped a riding crop with a silver skull handle.

Mortimer Graves.

Mortimer walked up to the metal table. He used the tip of the riding crop to lift Elsie's chin, his eyes wide with a sick, manic thrill.

"I can't believe Kelvin actually gave you up," Mortimer clicked his tongue. "Such a beautiful, ruined little thing."

Elsie strained against the leather straps, her heart hammering against her ribs.

"If you touch me," she spat, her voice shaking with rage, "Arthur Michael will kill you."

Mortimer paused. But then, he threw his head back and laughed. It was a wet, ugly sound.

"Arthur Michael?" Mortimer sneered. "You think a billionaire gives a damn about a used-up scandal like you? Word on the street is the big man is tied up with a massive acquisition over in Europe right now, sweetheart. And even if he cared, he's an ocean away. By the time he gets back, you'll be completely broken in."

Mortimer dragged the cold leather of the crop down her cheek. Elsie squeezed her eyes shut, a tear slipping down her face. He was a psychopath. He didn't care about threats.

Mortimer walked over to a stainless steel cart covered in terrifying medical instruments.

He picked up a glass syringe filled with a glowing blue liquid. He flicked the needle with his fingernail.

"This," Mortimer whispered, his eyes gleaming, "will make sure you stay awake and feel absolutely everything for the next six hours."

Elsie stared at the needle approaching her vein. Pure, unadulterated despair crushed her lungs. She thrashed against the straps until the leather cut into her wrists, drawing blood.

The needle was an inch from her skin.

Suddenly, a deafening explosion rocked the underground bunker.

The concrete walls shook violently. Dust rained down from the ceiling. The heavy blast doors at the end of the hall groaned under a massive impact.

Mortimer jumped, dropping the syringe. It shattered on the floor, the blue liquid pooling around his expensive shoes.

Blaring red alarm lights began to spin.

From the hallway outside, the terrifying sound of rapid gunfire erupted, followed by the heavy, sickening thuds of bodies hitting the floor.

Someone was tearing through the bunker's defenses like an enraged, bloodthirsty beast.