The Perfect Victim: Playing The Billionaire's Game

Ashton stood before them, the wind whipping her loose hair across her face. She wore a

m button. The metal was

kled. It wasn't human; it was the f

es," Ashton said. "Regarding t

ccepting visitors. L

andfather, smelling of pipe tobacco and old books, patiently explaining the theories scribbled in its margins. He had groomed her to take over a financial empire, not to b

that Isadore, a known micromanager, monitored

he silence stretched,

vibrated through the ground.

gravel driveway. The estate was immaculate-manicured hedges, sharp lines, a ma

down with professional detachment, checking her pockets

way,"

h monochromatic art. He opened a se

ned every wall. In the center of the room, behind a desk

ing documents, his pen moving

he didn't speak. She knew men like Isadore. They viewe

in the corner ticked.

she locked her knees and stared a

in the quiet room. He looked up. His eyes were colde

e was deep, devoid of warmth. "T

the edge of his desk. She kept her hand on t

creaking. "You want an invite to the gala? O

e steady. "And I don't want your money. I need acc

e only sign of surprise he

e tapped the cover, "is the only source material I can't f

eeves rolled up, revealing forearms that were unexpectedly muscular for a

his eyes scanning the handwr

her, "or if you touch anything other than the

ood, Mr.

is chair and igno

d a random book, but her eyes weren't on the text. S

water. Every time his phone buzzed with a specific ringto

s clipped. "No, I don't care about the fl

without say

ting a little faster. He didn't lov

d purple. Thunder rumbled, low a

lan formed in her mind. It was dangerous, but she was already in