Chapter 5
Charlotte's POV:
I took a breath and steadied myself. When I spoke again, my voice had shed its earlier casualness—sharper now, with the cool edge of someone who meant business.
"Mr. Gray, the Windsor Group has the resources to enter any market and secure the best connections in record time."
"But investing in the entertainment industry requires more than deep pockets. It takes vision and the right team."
"Short-form streaming content is taking over, and the traditional box office is on life support. No matter how much capital the Windsor Group has, I doubt you're looking to throw it away."
The moment the words left my mouth, my stomach dropped.
Breaking down market prospects was one thing. But that last line had edged dangerously close to a threat.
Still—without it, I doubted I'd ever get a foot in the door with Robert.
I was still mentally bracing myself when that low, magnetic voice came through the line: "Ms. York, I can give you fifteen minutes. I have a dinner engagement tonight."
Robert. It was actually Robert.
I glanced at my watch. 5:15. Getting to the Windsor Group without hitting traffic would take at least thirty minutes. There wasn't a second to waste.
"I'll be there on time."
I hung up, grabbed the painting, and flew out the door. The drive over was nothing short of reckless. Somehow, I made it to the Windsor Group's executive floor by 5:40.
Damon escorted me into the CEO's office.
That's when I saw him.
He was wearing a deep navy suit, seated behind a broad mahogany desk—tall, composed, radiating the kind of quiet authority that didn't need to announce itself.
One look, and my heart slammed against my ribs.
He was even better-looking in person. That kind of presence—the kind that came from building a billion-dollar empire—wasn't something you could fake.
"Mr. Windsor, it's a pleasure. I'm Charlotte from the Scott Group." I set the gift on his desk. "Our president asked me to bring this for you."
He didn't glance at it. Those dark, unreadable eyes settled on me with a weight that was almost physical.
"Ms. York." His voice was calm. "I think we both know I didn't agree to see you because of a gift."
It was because of what I'd said. The part that had skirted the line.
My pulse jumped. I kept my expression steady and pressed forward. "Mr. Windsor, if you're serious about entering the entertainment world, then you already know how it works. Visibility is everything. If you're not generating buzz, nothing else matters."
"Take this as an example—if you stepped in front of a camera, the industry would lose its mind. Opportunities would pour in. Markets would shift."
"But of course, that's beneath someone in your position." I let that land before continuing. "And a brand-new talent agency? It would struggle to sign anyone with real drawing power."
"For new capital entering this space, partnering with an established company is the smartest play. It's the only way to build real roots."
I'd done my homework on the Windsor Group's expansion strategy when I was researching Robert's interests. He had his sights set on entertainment, and the Scott Group had a solid track record in the industry. A partnership made sense for both sides.
Robert gave a slight nod. "You make a fair point, Ms. York. But I'm sure you're also aware that plenty of companies are already lining up to work with us. And any talent with half a brain knows where the real money is."
He wasn't wrong. At the end of the day, visibility came down to capital—and no one had more of it than the Windsor Group.
I smiled and reached into the box, drawing out the painting. "You're absolutely right, Mr. Windsor. But at your level, a partnership isn't just about strategy. It should also feel right." I held the canvas toward him. "So I took a chance and painted something for you."
He narrowed his eyes slightly, studying the piece. Then his gaze shifted to me. "You're the artist?"
"I am."
I'd decided to paint for him the moment I learned he'd attended my solo exhibition last month. Someone at his level, walking into a gallery showing my work—he had to be genuinely interested.
And if he was interested in my art, I'd have the upper hand the moment we met.
I was right. The conversation opened up after that.
By the time I left, Robert had a favorable impression of the Scott Group. Whether the deal actually closed was up to them—my job was done.
"Ms. York, I'm quite taken with your work. Would you do me the honor of joining me for dinner?"
I paused.
Didn't he just say he had plans tonight?
Men. Especially powerful ones. You couldn't believe a word they said.
Still, this wasn't someone I could afford to brush off. I smiled and nodded. "Since you're extending the invitation personally, Mr. Windsor, it would be rude to decline."
We walked out of the office together. The moment the elevator doors closed behind us, my phone buzzed—a message from the moving company.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Windsor—something's come up. I'm afraid I'll have to take a rain check on dinner."
A flicker of genuine regret crossed my mind. Dinner with someone like him could teach you things no business school ever would.
Then, just before the words fully left my mouth, I pivoted. "Actually—let me make it up to you. Dinner's on me, another time. And I'll bring a new piece to show you."
I kept my voice easy. Inside, I was holding my breath.
I'd dangled the bait twice now. But honestly? I wasn't sure it would work. Men like Robert had access to the finest art in the world. Why would he care about mine?
"Alright. Another time." The corner of Robert's mouth curved—just barely. "Coordinate with my assistant."
"It's a date."
I gave my phone a small wave, stepped out of the elevator, and walked away quickly.
Robert's POV:
Damon pulled the car door open, a puzzled look on his face. "Mr. Windsor, are you sure Ms. York wasn't playing hard to get? Dinner with you is something most people would kill for. She agreed, and then just... walked away."
I settled into the back seat, eyes half-lidded. "She wasn't."
Charlotte York. After graduation, she'd joined the Scott Group and built something remarkable alongside Owen—ushering in a new era for the company.
Then Owen died. And she stepped back. Faded into the background, as though she'd never been at the center of any of it.
I hadn't expected to see her here.
The sharp, bright-eyed girl I remembered had changed. Something in her had quieted.
I found myself smiling faintly, thinking back to the industry summit years ago—the way she'd stood at that podium, talking about the future like she already owned it.
Then my eyes snapped to the parking garage window.
The person being shoved into that van—
That was her.
"Follow them. Now."
Someone had the nerve to pull this in the Windsor Group's own underground garage.
They had a death wish.
Charlotte's POV:
The moment the bag came down over my head and rough hands dragged me toward the van, every muscle in my body locked up. My mind was screaming—but underneath the panic, one thought cut through clean: 'No one's coming. You have to get yourself out.'
"What do you want? Ransom?" My voice came out steadier than I felt. "My family won't pay—so skip the middleman. Tell me your number. We can settle this right now—"
I was thrown into the back seat.
My lower back crashed into the armrest. The pain detonated up my spine, and tears burst from my eyes before I could stop them. The rest of my sentence died in my throat.
A man's rough laugh filled the van. "Whether your family gives a damn about you? Not my problem. But those hands of yours?" A pause. "They're not going to make it."
My hands.
I forced myself to breathe through the pain and think.
The world knew me as a painter. Destroying my hands meant destroying everything I was.
Names flashed through my mind. I pushed them away.
It didn't matter who was behind this. What mattered was getting out.
"Damaging my hands is assault. That's a felony." I kept my voice level. "What do you actually walk away with? Nothing worth the risk."
"Here's a better deal—I'll pay you double. Right now. You walk away clean, no charges, more money than you're getting for this job."
"So. What do you say?"
