The Billionaire Hit Woman

The towering Sloane Estate rose like a monolith against the roiling heavens, its gothic spires plunging into the low-flying clouds. Rain lashed the stained-glass windows, shattered rainbows spraying across marble floors. Elliot Sloane stepped from his black Bentley, the wind howling, his expertly tailored coat blowing around his knees. He did not even pause to pull an umbrella over his head. The weather mirrored as gloomy and morose as his demeanor.

Within, the air was electric with tension. The estate's opulent drawing room was filled with the Sloane family's inner circle, all gathered for the reading of the deceased billionaire Alistair Sloane's will. Elliot's stepmother, Evelyn, sat perched on the edge of a velvet chaise, her red lips curled into a thin, self-satisfied smile. beside her, his half-brother Lucas was sitting with an air of haughty indifference, fingers drumming slowly against the armrest. They exchanged a glance, their eyes glittering with hope. They knew the will would be theirs.

Elliot sat at the head of the table, his expression blank. His ice-blue eyes, razor-sharp, scanned the room, observing every little detail-the tightening of Evelyn's fingers on her purse, the flicker of Lucas's jaw when their eyes crossed. He did not say a word, his silence a weapon honed through years of working in the harsh terrain of corporate empires.

The family's attorney, Mr. Harold Whitaker, entered, his new shoes clicking against the marble floor. In his hand, he held a leather-bound paper whose edges were worn from years of usage. The room fell silent as he adjusted his reading glasses and began to read.

"I, Alistair Sloane, being of sound mind and body, do hereby declare this to be my last will and testament..."

Elliot's gaze remained fixed on the attorney, his posture rigid. He was always his granddad's favorite, the one set to come into Sloane money. But as Whitaker continued, the room hung with expectation.

"To my grandson, Elliot Sloane, I leave the majority of my shares in Sloane Industries, and the CEO position. But." Whitaker paused, looking at Elliot. "There is one condition."

Elliot's jaw tightened, but otherwise he did not reveal his discomfort. Evelyn leaned forward, her smile widening.

"Elliot has six months from the date of my death to marry," Whitaker continued, his voice even. "If he does not, his stock will be transferred to the other beneficiaries, and he will lose control of the company."

The table burst into murmurs. Evelyn's grin was self-satisfied, and Lucas let out a low, derisive laugh. Elliot, however, did not alter his expression. His fists beneath the table tightened into hard balls, his knuckles pale. Marriage? The word felt like a betrayal. His grandfather got his stance on love, on commitment. Why would he go and do that?

Whitaker cleared his throat, silencing the room. "The will also provides that the marriage be real. Any attempt to circumvent this provision by a sham or contractual marriage will instantly invalidate it."

Elliot's head spun. This wasn't a stipulation-it was a trap. His grandfather was always a strategist, a man who played the long game. But this... this was on a personal level.

As the meeting adjourned, Evelyn approached Elliot, her heels clicking sharply against the floor. "Well, Elliot," she purred, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "I suppose you'll have to find yourself a wife. Or... perhaps you'll finally step aside and let someone more... capable take the reins."

Elliot turned to face her; his expression cold. "Don't get ahead of yourself, Evelyn. This changes nothing."

Her smile faltered for a fraction of a second before she recovered, her eyes narrowing. "We'll see."

As she walked away, Elliot's mind was already calculating. He would find a way to outmaneuver this. He always did.

Elliot's Private Anguish

Elliot's penthouse is located in Verdant Heights, a sprawling metropolis located in the heart of New York. Renowned for its glistening skyscrapers, frenetic financial quarter, and dramatic contrasts of lavish opulence and gritty urban existence, Verdant Heights is a city of aspiration and intrigue. Lying between the winding Hudson River and the distant, misty Catskill Mountains, it's a city where money is power and the skyline is a monument to the aspirations-and brutality-of its architects. The irony of the city's name was actually taken from the green parks which are dotted everywhere across its terrain, although hidden from sight most of the time behind the steel and glass giants which line its horizon. It's a place where money is lost and made, and where Elliot Sloane's penthouse is a declaration of his mastery over it all.

The penthouse was quiet, aside from the far-off hum of the city below. Elliot stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows, his reflection staring back at him like a ghost. The storm had moved on, leaving the skyline to glimmer with man-made light. In his hand, he held a crystal glass of whiskey, the amber liquid showing off the light of the city.

With a savage, jerky motion, he hurled the glass against the wall. It shattered, dissipating its scream of sound into the empty air. Marriage. The word burned in his mind like a red-hot iron. He had lived an eternity avoiding it, erecting fences so high that no one could jump over them. And now his grandfather had knocked them all down with words.

He collapsed into a leather armchair, hands over his head. Forgotten memories began rising to the surface.

Twenty Years Ago

Sloane mansion was quiet, a quiet that felt heavy, suffocating. Ten-year-old Elliot sat on top of the stairs; his knees pulled up to his chest. His parents' bitter shouts came from below.

I don't know why I married you!" his father bellowed; his voice hoarse from fury. "It was never for love. It was always for money!"