Ruthless Billionaire

The black coffee burned the back of her throat, but Harlow barely felt it.

Harlow stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of their Tribeca penthouse, staring blindly at the Manhattan skyline. Her fingers swiped across her phone screen, double-checking the quarterly financial reports for Marks Capital.

Then, a push notification dropped down from the top of the screen.

It was from JPMorgan. A joint trust account alert.

She blinked, her thumb hovering over the glass.

$50,000,000.00 USD has been successfully transferred to: Crista Reid.

The air in her lungs vanished.

A block of ice formed in her stomach, sending a violent, freezing shockwave through her veins. Her fingertips instantly went numb.

Fifty million dollars. Cleared. Gone.

She tapped the notification, her hands shaking so hard she almost dropped the phone. The screen loaded the transaction details. It was their joint trust. The emergency fund. The one that legally required both of their digital signatures to move a single cent.

Barrett had forged her signature.

A sickening wave of nausea hit her. She swallowed hard, fighting the urge to throw up the coffee.

She dialed Barrett's private number.

One ring. Two rings. Three rings.

"You have reached the voicemail of-"

He sent her to voicemail.

She bit down on the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper. She hung up and dialed the main line for the president's office at Marks Capital.

"Marks Capital, how may I direct your call?" the receptionist answered.

"Put me through to the main boardroom," she said, her voice sounding like it belonged to a stranger. Cold. Hollow.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, Mr. Marks is in a core investment committee meeting. He cannot be disturbed-"

"Override code: Nightingale-Seven-Alpha," she cut her off.

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end. As a co-founder, her internal security clearance was absolute.

The system clicked. The line forced its way directly into the boardroom's speakerphone.

The background noise of a dozen Wall Street executives discussing a merger filled her ear.

"Barrett," she said.

Her voice echoed through the massive room on the other end. The chatter instantly died.

"Harlow?" Barrett's voice crackled through the speaker. He sounded furious. "What the hell are you doing? I'm in the middle of a board meeting."

"Where is the fifty million dollars from the joint trust?" she asked.

Dead silence in the boardroom.

"Harlow, this is highly inappropriate," Barrett snapped, his tone dripping with condescension. "It's a temporary reallocation for bridge financing. We will discuss this at home."

"Bridge financing?" She gripped the edge of the marble kitchen island. "Since when is a woman named Crista Reid a bridge loan provider?"

Someone in the boardroom coughed. Another person let out a low, muffled laugh.

"Enough," Barrett barked, his voice turning vicious. "You don't understand how Wall Street works, Harlow. Stop acting like a hysterical housewife."

Her fingernails dug into the marble.

"You forged my signature," she pushed out.

"I made a business decision!" he yelled, playing to his audience of executives. "You're living in a penthouse I pay for. You work a job I gave you. Don't embarrass yourself by pretending you understand high-level capital movement. Now get off this line before I cut up your supplementary credit cards."