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Married To The Vulture Of Wall Street
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Married To The Vulture Of Wall Street Novel Cover

Married To The Vulture Of Wall Street

I had exactly forty-five minutes to get married, or I would lose the voting shares needed to stop my father from laundering millions through our family foundation. Everything was riding on this one legal signature at the City Clerk’s office. But just as I reached the front of the line, my phone buzzed with a high-definition photo of my fiancé, Preston, tangled in sheets with a junior associate at a SoHo hotel. The man I was about to tie my life to was a fraud, and my deadline was ticking toward zero. When I shoved the evidence in his face, he didn't even flinch. Instead, he gripped my wrist until the bone ground together, whispering that I was just a "junkie" fresh out of a Swiss clinic and that no one else would ever marry a liability with a personality disorder. My father was already standing by with a fraudulent medical affidavit, ready to force me into a conservatorship and strip me of my freedom the moment the clock hit 5 PM. They had spent years using my fake "instability" as a leash, treating me like a broken doll while they bled the company dry. I was the only one with the evidence to take them down, yet I was being discarded like a sunk cost by the very men who were supposed to protect me. I looked at Preston’s smug face and realized I didn't need a husband; I needed a predator. I scanned the room and spotted Dominik Mack, the "Vulture of Wall Street," a man who specialized in hostile takeovers and stripping men like my father of everything they owned. I walked straight up to the most dangerous man in New York and offered him a business transaction. "Do you want to get married?" I asked. He looked at my trembling hands, then at the man chasing me, and adjusted his collar with clinical detachment. "Deal," he said. I didn't just find a groom; I found an accomplice. This wasn't a wedding anymore—it was a declaration of war.
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Chapter 7

Two hours later, the pizza box on the table was half empty. The room smelled of pepperoni and ozone.

Zoe hit the enter key with unnecessary force. "Impossible."

Ivy was on the treadmill in the corner, running at a steady pace. It was the only way to burn off the cortisol. "What?"

"He's clean," Zoe said. "Too clean. It's synthetic."

Ivy slowed the machine to a walk. "Explain."

"Harvard Business. Goldman Sachs. Founded Mack Capital. That's the resume. But there's no... life. No speeding tickets. No ex-girlfriends on Instagram. No embarrassing college photos. His digital footprint is manicured."

Ivy wiped sweat from her forehead with a towel. "So he's paranoid."

"Or hiding something huge," Zoe said. "I tried to ping the Mack Capital internal server. I hit a firewall that felt like military grade. If I push harder, they'll trace me."

"Don't," Ivy said. "I can't afford a cyber-crime charge."

Zoe clicked a folder. "I found one thing. Dark web archive. It's a partial image."

She pulled up a grainy photo. It was low resolution. A young man standing in the snow, smoking. He looked hollowed out. Behind him was a building with a distinctive clock tower.

Ivy stepped off the treadmill. She walked closer to the screen.

Her heart skipped a beat.

She knew that clock tower. The Clinic of St. Jude in Zurich. The place her father sent her to "dry out" when she was nineteen, even though she had never touched a drug in her life. It was where she was first recruited, where her 'illness' became the perfect cover.

"He was there," she whispered.

"Patient or visitor?" Zoe asked.

"I don't know."

The buzzer rang. Not the lobby buzzer. The apartment door.

Zoe jumped up. "Preston got in?"

Ivy grabbed a heavy brass candlestick from the table. She walked to the door and looked through the peephole.

It wasn't Preston. It was a courier in a uniform, holding a massive black box.

She opened the door. "Yes?"

"Delivery for Mrs. Mack," the courier said.

Ivy signed for it. She dragged the box inside.

"Bomb?" Zoe asked, peering over the sofa.

Ivy cut the tape. She lifted the lid.

Inside, nestled in layers of tissue paper, was a dress. It was midnight blue velvet, structured and severe, with a slit that went up to the thigh. It was armor disguised as fashion.

There was a card.

The Miller Foundation Gala. Tonight. 8 PM. Wear this.

Her father's gala. The one she was explicitly banned from attending.

"He's taking you?" Zoe whistled. "That's a declaration of war. He's marching you right back into the lion's den."

Ivy ran her hand over the velvet. It was soft, but the construction was rigid. He knew. He knew she needed protection.

"Zoe," Ivy said, lifting the dress. "Get the makeup kit. We're going to war."

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