Chapter 5
His voice cracked from sheer terror and rage, hissing in desperation like a cornered rattlesnake with its head pinned to the dirt.
I sat on the edge of the bed, watching the door—practically hanging off its hinges—with cold detachment. I didn't make a sound.
Right then, my phone screen lit up again.
It was the annual consolidated statement for my special account, doubling as the final settlement notice from the offshore trust.
*[Your account has received a cumulative total of $2,500,000.00 from the designated trust. Funds fully settled. Memo: Bridal Trust endowment, returned in full.]*
$2.5 million. Down to the exact cent.
The pounding on the door suddenly stopped.
Harrison seemed to slump against the wood, his ragged breathing seeping through the crack beneath the door, laced with the unhinged desperation of a man at the end of his rope. "Sloane... open the door. Let's talk. I'll give you half my shares in Vance Holdings—no, all of them! Just pull me through this, and we can start over..."
I ignored his groveling, because right at that second, the doorbell rang.
*Ding-dong.*
The crisp electronic chime cut right through Harrison's heavy panting.
Harrison froze, instinctively glancing over his shoulder.
I stood up, softening my footsteps as I approached the door, and leaned in close to the heavily scratched peephole.
Through the fisheye distortion, there was no sign of Harrison's fuming security detail, nor any thugs from the predatory payday loan collectors.
Under the dim motion-sensor light in the hallway stood a strikingly tall, imposing man.
He was dressed in an immaculate, bespoke black three-piece suit, his tie clip catching a cold silver glint. The face of the top-tier VC titan—always pixelated in the financial press, the legendary phantom who never made public appearances—was now so clear through the peephole that I could see the shadow of his eyelashes.
In his hand, he held a gold-embossed document. The cover boldly read *Prenuptial Gift Agreement*, and the target amount in the bottom right corner was a glaring $2,500,000.
He leaned in slightly, his deep, piercing gaze seeming to look right through the peephole and straight into my eyes.
His lips parted. A low, velvety voice, laced with a hint of intimate warmth, resonated clearly against my eardrums through the door:
"Your Bridal Trust is fully funded, Mrs. Vance. Ready to be my bride?"
