No Escape The Billionaire Wont 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.