/1/125266/coverbig.jpg?v=986b14aef7d32f0fcec4557a97344678)
Eleanor Baldwin sold her body and her future to the most ruthless billionaire in New York, Sebastian Vanderbilt. She didn't do it for love, but to destroy the Sterling family, who had driven her father to his death. She signed a brutal non-disclosure agreement, becoming Sebastian's around-the-clock personal assistant and his exclusive, tightly controlled property. Her new life was a nightmare of humiliation. She endured scalding coffee thrown by his jealous relatives, worked herself into physical collapse, and suffered severe panic attacks in the dark. Yet, Sebastian only treated her like a possession. When her ex-boyfriend Craig Sterling-the very man who ruined her family-cornered her on the street begging her to use Sebastian's wealth to save his bankrupt company, Sebastian misunderstood everything. Assuming she was just a gold digger, he threw a seven-figure check at her face. "Is this enough to buy off your past?" he sneered. Eleanor was suffocating. She had sacrificed her dignity and endured his cold possessiveness just to avenge her parents. But to him, her deep trauma and desperate struggle were nothing more than a cheap transaction. She didn't want his charity; she wanted justice. Dropping Craig's antique ring down a city sewer grate, Eleanor turned her back on her abusers forever. But as she tried to walk away, Sebastian forced an unlimited black card into her trembling hand, permanently sealing the doors to her gilded cage.
Contents
The Price of His Contract Chapter 1 The Devil's Down Payment
Eleanor Baldwin woke to the unnatural quiet of a hotel room that cost more per night than her first apartment's annual rent.
The space beside her in the vast bed was cold.
She sat up, letting the heavy cotton sheet gather around her waist. Her body ached with a dull, blunt soreness-a physical reminder of the transaction. She brushed the feeling aside. Pain was just part of the price.
She scanned the room. A tuxedo jacket tossed on the carpet. Her own simple black dress crumpled beside it. Two empty glasses sitting on the nightstand.
Outside, the New York skyline was barely visible through the morning haze, but the Vanderbilt tower stood out clear against the grey sky. Eleanor watched it. She wasn't awed by the height, and she didn't feel anything for the man she'd just spent the night with. Last night hadn't been passion, and it hadn't been a mistake. It was just the entry fee.
The sound of a door opening pulled her attention.
Sebastian Vanderbilt emerged from the bathroom, a silk robe loosely tied at his waist. He was already showered, his dark hair damp, his jaw freshly shaven. His eyes, a startling ice-blue, were completely unreadable.
He didn't look at her.
He walked to the minibar, pouring himself a glass of water. The muscles in his back flexed as he lifted the glass, his throat working as he drank it all in one go. He let the silence hang between them, heavy and cold.
Eleanor spoke into the void, her voice steady, betraying nothing. "Mr. Vanderbilt, I believe we had an agreement."
He finally turned his gaze on her. It wasn't the look a man gives a woman he just spent the night with. It was the look of an appraiser examining a piece of art he might, or might not, acquire. A dismissive, assessing glance.
A small, humorless smile touched his lips. "Agreement?" he scoffed. "You mean the transaction."
He crossed the room, stopping at the foot of the bed. He looked down at her, a king surveying a conquered territory. From his robe pocket, he pulled a business card and tossed it onto the sheet in front of her.
"Call my assistant. He'll handle the 'payment'."
Eleanor didn't look at the card. Her gaze remained locked on his. "My price is not monetary."
A flicker of genuine interest crossed his face, replacing his earlier dismissive coldness.
"I want a job," she said, each word a carefully placed stone. "At the Vanderbilt Group. A position close to you."
The interest vanished, replaced by mocking amusement. "A gold digger with ambition. A refreshing, if predictable, combination."
Sebastian pressed a button on the sleek bedside intercom. "Deron. Bring in the executive assistant non-disclosure agreement."
A soft knock came at the door seconds later. It opened to reveal a man in a perfectly tailored suit. Foster Deron, Sebastian's chief assistant. He held a stark white document, a pen, and a small ink pad, his expression as blank as a fresh sheet of paper. He had clearly been waiting on standby.
Deron approached the bed, placing the document onto the sheet beside her knee with a soft thud.
"You want access? This is the price," Sebastian said, settling back into an armchair and crossing his legs elegantly.
Eleanor picked up the file. The cover bore three letters that felt like a brand: NDA. Non-Disclosure Agreement.
She flipped through the pages. The clauses were brutal. It wasn't just about last night. It was about her future. She was to become his personal assistant, on call 24/7. She would be required to obey all his "reasonable" commands, a term so vague it was terrifying.
The final clause was the true humiliation. He could terminate the agreement at any time, for any reason, while she was entitled to nothing but the position itself.
Deron extended the pen without a word. "Ms. Baldwin, if you would."
Sebastian tapped a single, impatient finger against his watch face. "Sign it," his voice was soft, but carried the weight of a death sentence. "And the door to my world opens. Refuse, and you'll find every door in New York closed to you. Permanently."
A chill, colder than the air-conditioned room, crept over her skin. It wasn't a threat. It was a statement of fact.
An image flashed in her mind: the smarmy, pitying faces of Craig Sterling and his family at her parents' funeral. The memory of her father's broken body on the pavement after his company, driven to ruin by the Sterlings, collapsed.
The memory burned away the last shred of hesitation. She had planned this for months. She had clawed her way into this room. This was the only path forward.
She took the pen. The metal was cold against her skin.
Without a shred of hesitation, she uncapped it and signed her name on the last page: Eleanor Baldwin.
She looked up, meeting Sebastian's gaze. Her own was a mixture of defiance and total surrender. "When do I start, boss?"
A slow, cold smile spread across Sebastian's lips. The smile of a predator who had just watched its prey walk willingly into the trap.
"Deron will show you your new office," he said. "And your new life."
Deron handed her a garment bag and a key card. "A new wardrobe has been selected for you. Your personal belongings will be delivered to your new apartment by noon."
She understood then. From the moment the ink dried, she had ceased to own her life.
Eleanor walked into the marble bathroom. She saw the faint bruises on her skin in the mirror, the marks of the bargain she'd made. She turned the water on, as cold as it would go, and washed herself, scrubbing away the feeling of his touch, scrubbing away the last remnants of the woman she used to be.
When she emerged, she was transformed. The tailored, severe suit fit her like a second skin. Her long hair was twisted into a tight, uncompromising bun.
The girl who had walked into this suite last night was gone.
View More Comments on App
Other books by Polly
More/1/122145/coverbig.jpg?v=f6b70c01902c570ef84eda6dc743e39e)
The Alpha's Regret: His Defiant Mate
WerewolfThe Moon Goddess sent me a vision. A warning so vivid it felt lived, every detail seared into my soul like a brand. In that vision, I thought I was the luckiest wolf when the powerful Alpha Xander was revealed as my fated mate. But my fragile, sweet-scented Omega sister, Celestine, used her innocent tears to climb right into his bed. She used my protection as a shield to steal my mate, while my parents turned a blind eye, praising her for securing our family's political alliance. When I finally protested, Xander threw me into a freezing stone dungeon. No one came to save me. I lay on the damp floor, the agony of a torn mate bond bleeding my life force away until I died alone in the dark. When I woke from the dream, gasping and drenched in cold sweat, the damp dungeon was gone, replaced by the soft velvet of the manor's grand hall. The Mating Ceremony was about to begin—the very night the vision had shown me. Alpha Xander stepped through the grand archway, his oppressive aura demanding my submission. But the Moon Goddess had shown me where submission led. This time, I stood tall, looked him dead in the eye, and spoke the ultimate taboo. "I, Seraphina, do reject you, Alpha Xander. You are not my mate."
/1/107270/coverbig.jpg?v=470502897e35b74a4503af64a9fe23eb)
My Son's Death, His Cruel Betrayal
ModernFor seven years, I gave up my life as a genius engineer to be the perfect wife for my husband, Jonathan, a U.S. Senator. But when our five-year-old son drowned, he didn't comfort me. He comforted his adopted sister, Hailey, and blamed me for our son's death. At the wake, he stood by as his family beat me, calling me a murderer. He watched them shove my head into a freezing pond, forcing me to feel the same terror our son felt in his last moments. His protection was always for Hailey, never for me. Then I learned the horrifying truth. Jonathan was there when our son fell in the water. He saw him struggling, but he chose to comfort a panicking Hailey first. He let our son die. So I filed for divorce in secret and vanished into a classified research project. But when he tracked me down, begging for a second chance in front of his new colleagues, I played a recording for everyone to hear. It was Hailey's voice, gleefully admitting that Jonathan had chosen her over his own dying child.
/0/98559/coverbig.jpg?v=3fd6e3442fd44926c9877b596d4a6423)
The Heiress My Husband Cast Away
MafiaMy little brother’s heart monitor was screaming its final warning. I called my husband, Dante Volkov, the ruthless underworld king whose life I’d saved years ago. He had promised to send his elite medical team. “I’m handling an emergency,” he snapped, then hung up. An hour later, my brother was dead. I found out what Dante’s “emergency” was from his mistress’s social media. He had sent his team of world-class surgeons to deliver her cat’s kittens. My brother died for a litter of cats. When Dante finally called, he didn't even apologize. I could hear her voice in the background, asking him to come back to bed. He even forgot my brother was dead, offering to buy him a new toy to replace the one his mistress deliberately crushed. This was the man who had promised to protect me, to make my high school tormentors pay. Now, he was holding that very tormentor, Seraphina, in his arms. Then came the final blow: a call from the clerk's office revealed our seven-year marriage was a sham. The certificate was a forgery. I was never his wife. I was just a possession he was tired of. After he left me to die in a car crash for Seraphina, I made one call. I texted a rival mob heir I hadn't spoken to in years: "I need to disappear. I'm calling it in."
/1/102080/coverbig.jpg?v=8e73245c151a4f40c90475d936ef0f64)
Six Years Trapped In A Broken Vow
ModernAliyah Pollard POV: For six years, my husband, Chase, refused to divorce me, gaslighting me while he built a new family with his mistress, Faye. After 99 failed attempts, I was ready for my 100th try. But the man I met in the park wasn't my cold, cheating husband. It was Chase from ten years ago-eighteen, idealistic, and still madly in love with me. He didn't understand why I looked so sad, why I flinched from his touch. He didn't know about the affair, the miscarriage Faye caused, or the child they now had together. He saw the divorce papers and his world shattered. "I would never hurt you, Aliyah," he cried, his young eyes filled with genuine anguish. "I love you." His pain was a stark contrast to the cruelty of the man he would become. The older Chase had sneered, "You're mine, Aliyah. Who would want you?" But this boy, this pure version of my husband, saw my suffering and didn't hesitate. He took the pen, his hand shaking, and signed the papers his future self had refused for years. "If this is what you need," he whispered, "I'll do it."
/0/82851/coverbig.jpg?v=70481950541134f8f647dd406e698cf2)
The Neglected Wife's Maine Escape
RomanceMy world shattered when the call came: my beloved father was gone. But even as grief consumed me, my husband, Mark, dealt a cruel blow. He skipped the funeral, prioritizing his "friend" Tiffany-a woman whose endless dramas always seemed to come first. Returning home from Maine, heartbroken and exhausted, he casually asked me to cook chicken soup for Tiffany because she was "not feeling well." That was the moment I realized I wasn't just a wife or a grieving daughter; I was merely his live-in chef for another woman. Then, Tiffany began to appear everywhere. She took over my desk at my old job, openly supported by Mark, who claimed I wasn't "using it much anyway." She even clung to him at my own farewell party, while Mark made endless excuses for her sensitive needs. The casual contempt in Mark's eyes, his constant choice of her over my profound pain, was the final, cold confirmation: I was utterly discarded, an inconvenience in my own life. How could he be so blind? So utterly consumed by someone else's petty crises while my entire world fell apart? Why did he never see the depth of my despair, or the silent resolve hardening within me? But their casual cruelty became my catalyst. That night, instead of mourning what was lost, I meticulously planned my escape. I printed divorce papers, discreetly tucking them beneath some mundane volunteer forms. The very next day, I had Mark sign them, unknowingly sealing his own fate as he rushed off to Tiffany's latest "emergency." I left without a word, driving towards Maine, towards my father's dream, and a new life he could no longer ruin.
/1/124427/coverbig.jpg?v=c365fae3e5b3a46a6bd6c738c81a1e4c)
The Homeless Man I Saved Was Actually a Billionaire
ModernDebora Finley was once a star prosecutor in the D.A.'s office. Now, she hauled heavy black bags as a city garbage collector. Three years ago, her fiancé Brandon drove drunk and killed an heiress. To save himself, he framed Debora, letting her take the fall while he climbed the corporate ladder. When Debora screamed her innocence from behind the prison glass, Brandon didn't just silence her. "You ruined everything!" He pinned her wrist to the metal counter and brought his expensive shoe down hard, shattering the very hand she used to fight for justice. After three years of hell, she was finally released, only to be entirely discarded by her own flesh and blood. Her father slapped her and kicked her out into the cold night, while her sister lured her to a hotel penthouse, locking her inside with a predatory director as a trade for an investment. "Looks like you need to be taught a lesson." Pinned to the sofa with whiskey being forced down her throat, Debora felt the icy grip of absolute despair. She didn't understand why her pursuit of justice was rewarded with a ruined hand, a prison cell, and the utter betrayal of everyone she ever loved. Just as her vision began to blur, a deafening crash echoed through the room. The heavy suite door was ripped entirely off its hinges. Standing in the doorway was the silent, homeless man she had taken in off the streets just days ago. The man who was secretly Gideon Camacho, the ruthless billionaire titan of Wall Street—and the fiancé of the woman Debora was framed for killing. And right now, his eyes were burning with a promise of murder.
