Silent Vows: Protected By The Billionaire

The $50 million lawsuit notice on my phone screen was a violent, pulsing red. My father’s corporate espionage had finally caught up to us, and he was ready to throw me to the wolves to save his own skin. To survive, I signed a contract marriage with the predator himself—Alaric Hunter, the very man currently dismantling my family’s legacy. But the moment we left City Hall, my father turned into a monster. He called the hospital and canceled the private care for my dying mother, moving her to a miserable state ward just to break my spirit for "disobeying" him. "I will find the money," I hissed, even as my throat threatened to close from the paralyzing stress. "You’ll come crawling back when that monster dumps you!" my father roared, leaving me standing in the rain with nothing but a battered suitcase. My ex-boyfriend, the man who actually falsified the documents that framed me, mocked me from his Ferrari, while Alaric’s own business rivals planted hidden cameras in our new penthouse to watch our every move. I was a legal shield, a corporate asset, and a target all at once. I didn't understand why Alaric was suddenly paying my mother’s medical bills in secret or why he looked at me with such chilling intensity. Was I just a tool for his voting shares, or was he the only person in this city who actually wanted me safe? I looked at the files Alaric left on the marble counter, filled with evidence against everyone who had ever hurt me. I was done being the victim of a hostile takeover; it was time to show them what happens when a Hunter’s wife decides to start hunting.

Chapters

Chapter 8

"This," Grace announced, gesturing grandly to a rusted food truck on the corner, "is the best dining experience in New York."

Alaric looked at the paper boat in his hand. The tacos were overflowing with meat and salsa. Grease was already soaking through the cardboard.

"Three dollars," Grace said, taking a massive bite. "Eat."

Alaric took a tentative bite. The flavor exploded in his mouth-spicy, savory, fresh. It was, annoyingly, better than the wagyu beef he'd had at the gala last week.

They sat on a wooden bench nearby. The street was loud, alive with music and chatter.

"My mom used to bring me here," Grace said, her voice softening. "Before the gallery went under. I want to buy it back one day. The gallery, I mean."

Alaric watched her. The neon sign reflected in her eyes. "You will," he said quietly.

A low, aggressive rumble cut through the air. A bright red Ferrari screeched to a halt at the curb, double-parking illegally.

The door opened. Tyler Brock stepped out, wearing sunglasses at night. A flashy blonde slid out the passenger side.

Grace froze, her taco halfway to her mouth.

"Well, well," the blonde's shrill voice cut through the noise. "Look who it is. Eating trash on the street."

Tyler sauntered over, sneering. He looked at Alaric, taking in the perfectly tailored but deliberately understated suit. "So this is him? The new money?"

Alaric didn't stand up. He wiped his mouth with a napkin, his movements slow and deliberate. "Can I help you?"

The blonde looked Alaric up and down. Even in a simple suit, his face was symmetrical, his jawline sharp. She licked her lips. "You're kinda cute for a guy slumming it. Shame you picked a loser. Her dad is finished, you know."

Grace stood up, stepping between them. "Leave us alone, Tyler."

Tyler laughed. "Grace, come on. Look at this guy. Does he even make in a year what I paid for the rims on that car?"

Alaric glanced at the Ferrari. It was the entry-level model. He had three in his garage that he let the interns drive.

He stood up then. He towered over Tyler.

"That's a 488, right?" Alaric asked.

Tyler puffed out his chest. "Yeah. Jealous?"

"Not really," Alaric said calmly. "The transmission on that model is notorious for slipping in second gear. And those rims? They're aftermarket. Cheap alloy. You're going to crack one on a pothole."

Tyler blinked. "What do you know? You push paper."

"I read prospectuses," Alaric lied effortlessly. "And I know that your front left tire is underinflated. It's a blowout waiting to happen."

Tyler scoffed. "Let's go, babe. I can't stand the smell of poverty."

"You'll be hearing from my lawyer about the harassment," Grace called out.

"Yeah, yeah," Tyler waved her off. "Enjoy your tacos."

The Ferrari roared to life and peeled away, leaving a cloud of exhaust.

Grace was shaking. Alaric reached out, his hand warm and heavy on her shoulder.

"Ignore them," he said. "He's an idiot. And that tire really is going to blow."

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