The Tycoon's Contract With A Vicious Beauty

Amelie's fingers trembled as she tried to push her upper body off the Persian rug. Warm blood dripped from her forehead, blurring her vision and matting her eyelashes together. Her heart hammered against her ribs so violently it made her chest ache.

Hubert took a step forward. He wore a custom Armani suit, perfectly pressed. His polished Oxford shoe came down hard on Amelie's right hand.

Amelie let out a muffled groan. Her muscles contracted, instinctively trying to pull her hand back, but Hubert shifted his weight, pressing the hard leather sole deeper into her knuckles. The bones in her hand ground together.

Hubert reached into the inner pocket of his jacket. He pulled out a stack of high-definition photographs and threw them directly at Amelie's pale face.

The glossy papers scattered across the expensive rug. Amelie squinted through the blood. The images showed her in highly compromising, intimate positions with a man she had never seen before. Her brain flatlined. The air left her lungs.

"This is a lie," Amelie rasped, shaking her head frantically. "Hubert, someone faked these. You have to believe me."

Hubert bent down and grabbed a fistful of her dark hair. He yanked her head up, forcing her to look at him. There was no warmth in his eyes. Only cold, calculated disgust.

He pulled his phone from his pocket with his free hand and tapped the screen. He shoved it in front of her face. It was a live surveillance feed. Hubert Jr. , their five-year-old son, was running across the playground at a top-tier private kindergarten with full-day care and tight security. A large man in a black suit stood just a few feet away, watching the boy.

Amelie's pupils dilated. Her breathing turned into rapid, shallow gasps. She reached out with her free hand and grabbed the fabric of Hubert's sleeve, her knuckles turning white.

"Sign the divorce papers," Hubert said, his voice completely flat. "Give up your shares in the company and full custody of the boy. If you don't, the man on that screen will put Hubert Jr. in a car, and you will never see him again."

Amelie's stomach dropped to the floor. The psychological dam broke, and hot tears spilled over her cheeks, mixing with the blood. Her throat tightened so much she couldn't speak. She just nodded frantically.

Hubert let go of her hair. He dropped a thick stack of legal documents and a Montblanc pen onto the floor next to her bruised hand.

Amelie picked up the heavy pen. Her fingers shook so badly she could barely grip the metal. She pressed the nib to the paper and signed her name, the ink bleeding into the page.

The heavy oak double doors of the penthouse pushed open. Ara Wilkinson walked into the living room wearing a tailored Chanel suit.

Amelie looked up. A desperate spark of hope flared in her chest at the sight of her younger sister. She reached her bloody hand out toward Ara.

Ara walked right past her, stepping carefully to avoid letting Amelie's blood touch her designer heels.

Ara walked straight to Hubert and threw her arms around his neck. Hubert pulled her in, and they locked lips in a deep, hungry kiss right in front of Amelie.

Amelie's reality shattered. A violent cramp seized her stomach, making her double over. Her fingernails dug into the hardwood floor, scratching the polish.

Ara pulled back from the kiss and crouched down. She used a finger adorned with a massive pigeon-blood ruby ring to tilt Amelie's chin up.

"You really are a stupid stepping stone, Amelie," Ara sneered. "I paid a lot of money to have those photos photoshopped. They look incredibly real, don't they?"

A surge of pure, blinding rage hit Amelie's bloodstream. She lunged forward, trying to grab Ara's throat.

Hubert's foot shot out and kicked Amelie squarely in the stomach. The force sent her flying backward. Her spine slammed into the sharp edge of the glass coffee table.

The impact knocked the wind out of her. Amelie bit down on her lip to keep from screaming, tasting the sharp, metallic flavor of her own blood.

Hubert adjusted his tie, smoothing the silk. "Clean this up," he told Ara, not even looking at Amelie. He turned and walked toward the door.

"Hubert!" Amelie screamed, her vocal cords tearing. "Hubert, please!"

The heavy door clicked shut.

Ara stood up. She reached into her leather handbag and pulled out a syringe filled with a clear liquid. She walked slowly toward Amelie.

Amelie scrambled backward, her hands slipping on her own blood. She pushed herself across the floor until her back hit the cold glass of the floor-to-ceiling window. There was nowhere left to go.

Ara lunged and grabbed Amelie by the throat, pinning her against the glass. She jammed the needle into the vein on Amelie's neck and pushed the plunger down.

A freezing sensation rushed through Amelie's veins. Her limbs grew heavy, instantly losing all motor function. Dark spots danced at the edges of her vision.

"Bring the bag," Ara commanded.

Two large bodyguards stepped into the room. They unfolded a massive black canvas duffel bag. Amelie's eyes rolled back as the men grabbed her limp arms and legs, shoving her body into the dark canvas.

Ara turned on her heel and walked toward the private elevator leading to the garage. The bodyguards zipped the bag shut, plunging Amelie into total darkness, and carried her out.