No Escape: The Billionaire Won't Sign

She could feel his eyes boring into her back, burning a hole through her cheap coat.

The wind cutting through the sliding doors of JFK Terminal 4 didn't just blow.

It bit.

It was a wet, January gray that seeped right through the wool of Beatrix Anderson's coat, a coat that had seen better days three winters ago in Paris.

She stood on the curb, the exhaust fumes of a hundred idling taxis stinging her eyes.

People rushed past her, their shoulders hunched against the cold, dragging rolling suitcases that glided smoothly over the concrete.

Beatrix didn't have that luxury.

Her two suitcases were oversized, scuffed hard-shells that belonged to a different life, a life where porters handled the weight.

Now, one of the wheels on the larger case was jammed.

She gripped the handle, her knuckles turning white, and yanked it toward the curb.

It didn't budge.

She pulled harder, gritting her teeth, feeling the vibration rattle up her arm and settle in her shoulder.

A man in a business suit bumped into her, muttering an annoyance without looking back, his phone pressed to his ear.

Beatrix didn't blink.

She didn't expect an apology.

She had learned over the last three years that apologies were a currency she was no longer rich enough to afford.

A sleek, black Lincoln Navigator pulled up to the curb, its tinted windows reflecting the dreary sky.

It was the Spears family car.

She knew the license plate by heart, just as she knew the driver, a man named Thomas who used to give her candy when she was ten.

The trunk popped open with a hydraulic hiss.

Thomas didn't get out.

Beatrix stared at the open trunk, then at the driver's side door that remained firmly shut.

Message received.

She was the baggage now.

She bent her knees, wrapping her arms around the body of the heavier suitcase.

It was awkward, heavy with books she couldn't bear to leave in Europe.

She heaved it up, her breath hitching as the weight strained her lower back.

The plastic casing scraped against the bumper.

She shoved it in, breathless.

As she reached for the second bag, her index finger caught on the zipper.

Snap.

A sharp, stinging pain shot through her hand.

She looked down.

Her nail had broken deep into the quick, a bead of blood welling up instantly against the pale skin.

She stared at the red drop for a second, watching it tremble.

Then she reached into her pocket, pulled out a tissue, and wrapped her finger tight.

No tears.

Tears were for people who had someone to wipe them away.

She tossed the second bag in, slammed the trunk, and climbed into the back seat.

The interior smelled of leather and a specific, sterile citrus air freshener that Carlyle insisted on.

"Go," she said to the partition.

The car moved instantly.

Beatrix leaned her head back against the seat, closing her eyes.

Her hand throbbed.

She reached into her purse and dry-swallowed a small, white pill.

It wasn't for the pain in her finger.

It was for the tightening in her chest, the anxiety that had been a constant hum in her veins since the email from Silas Vance, Carlyle's lawyer.

The papers are ready for final review.

It was time.

The car merged onto the highway, the Manhattan skyline rising in the distance like a jagged row of broken teeth.

Her phone buzzed in her lap.

She looked down.

It was a text from Dr. Evans at the hospice facility.

Her breathing is more labored today. We increased the morphine. You should come soon.

Beatrix stared at the screen until the backlight timed out and the phone went black.

She placed the phone face down on the leather seat.

She focused on her breathing.

In.

Out.

Become the gray rock.

That was what her therapist in Zurich had taught her.

Don't react. Don't engage. Be boring. Be uninteresting. Be a gray rock, and the narcissist will eventually lose interest and leave you alone.

She was about to face Carlyle Spears.

She needed to be the grayest rock on the planet.

The car navigated the streets of Tribeca, pulling up to a private entrance that screamed quiet wealth.

She got out before Thomas could pretend he wasn't going to open the door.

The elevator ride up to the penthouse was silent, just the hum of machinery lifting her forty stories into the sky.

The retina scanner flashed red, then green.

The doors slid open.

The apartment was exactly as she remembered, yet entirely foreign.

Floor-to-ceiling glass walls.

Polished concrete floors.

Furniture that looked like art but felt like punishment.

It was freezing.

Carlyle kept the temperature at a steady sixty-five degrees. Beatrix shivered, the damp chill from outside clinging to her, amplified by the refrigerated air inside. It was like stepping into a mausoleum.

Alfred, the house manager, was waiting in the foyer.

He held a pair of slippers.

"Welcome home, Mrs. Spears," Alfred said, his voice soft.

There was pity in his eyes.

Beatrix hated it.

"Thank you, Alfred," she said, kicking off her boots.

Her eyes drifted to the side of the console table.

There, neatly aligned, was a pair of nude Louboutins.

Size six.

Beatrix was a size eight.

Gene Golden was a size six. Beatrix felt a physical blow to her stomach, but her face remained a mask. A prop, she thought. Left here on purpose. Gene wouldn't dare leave her things in Carlyle's sterile space unless it was a calculated move to mark her territory. A warning.

She stepped into the slippers and walked into the living room.

Silas Vance was sitting on the white leather sofa, looking uncomfortable.

A stack of documents sat on the glass coffee table, thick and imposing.

"Beatrix," Silas said, standing up. "You look... well."

"I look tired, Silas," she said, her voice flat. "Let's skip the pleasantries."

She walked to the table and picked up a pen.

"Where do I sign?"

Silas blinked. "This is just the preliminary non-disclosure and the asset declaration, Beatrix. Are you sure you don't want to review the addendums? The alimony structure is-"

"I don't care," she interrupted. "I just want it done."

She flipped to the back page, the paper crisp under her fingers.

She signed her name.

Beatrix Anderson.

She didn't use Spears.

"You're making a mistake," Silas murmured. "You could get half. The prenup had holes."

"I don't want his money, Silas. I want out."

The door to the study slammed open.

It wasn't a noise; it was an entrance.

Carlyle Spears stood there.

He was wearing a charcoal three-piece suit that fit him like a second skin, tailored to accentuate the width of his shoulders and the lean taper of his waist.

He smelled of expensive scotch and that sharp, chemical scent of hand sanitizer.

His dark hair was perfectly styled, not a strand out of place.

His eyes, the color of frozen ocean water, swept over the room and landed on her.

He didn't look at her face.

He looked at her coat.

He looked at the fraying hem of her jeans.

He looked at the bandage on her finger.

His lip curled, just a fraction of a millimeter.

"You're late," he said.

His voice was a deep baritone that vibrated in the floorboards.

Beatrix straightened her spine.

"Traffic," she lied.

"Europe didn't teach you punctuality," he scoffed, walking past her to the bar cart.

He didn't look at her as he poured a drink.

"Hello, Carlyle," she said, her voice carefully neutral, devoid of any inflection. The gray rock.

The ice tongs clattered against the crystal glass.

Carlyle froze.

He turned slowly, his eyes narrowing.

"That's all?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous. "Three years, and all I get is 'Hello, Carlyle'?"

"What else is there to say?" she replied, keeping her gaze fixed on the signed papers. "It seems we're here for business."

Carlyle looked at the signed papers, then back at her.

He looked annoyed.

No, he looked disappointed.

He wanted a fight.

He wanted her to beg, or scream, or cry about the shoes in the hallway.

She gave him nothing.

"How is your mother?" he asked, taking a sip of his drink.

He asked it like he was asking about the weather.

"She's fine," Beatrix said.

Another lie.

"Good," Carlyle said. "Because Gene needs the press to be clean next week. No sob stories."

Beatrix felt her fingernails digging into her palms, threatening to break another one.

"I understand."

"There's a charity gala on Friday," Carlyle continued, swirling his glass. "The Foundation needs a united front one last time. You'll attend."

"Is that a request?"

"It's a clause in the contract you just signed without reading," he said, smirking.

Beatrix nodded. "Fine. What time?"

Carlyle stared at her.

He took a step closer, invading her personal space.

She could feel the heat radiating off him, contrasting with the cold room.

He was searching her face, looking for the crack in the mask.

He was looking for the girl who used to follow him around with heart-eyes.

She wasn't there anymore.

"You're dismissed," he said abruptly, turning away. "Go draw a bath. The master suite."

Beatrix blinked.

"Excuse me?"

"Draw a bath," he repeated, his back to her. "I've had a long day, and Alfred always makes the water too hot."

It was a power play.

He was treating her like a servant because he couldn't treat her like a wife.

"Of course, Carlyle," she said softly.

She turned and walked toward the hallway.