The Midnight Grand Hotel stood as a quiet monolith against the skyline, its high-rise building wrapped in a golden glow of light. It was the kind of place where fortunes were made and lost in a glass of whiskey, a refuge for the elite who gathered in whispered cliques to shape the world to their benefit.

Hudson Carter stepped out of his shiny black car, barely giving a moment's notice to the stunning glass entranceway towering above him. His driver, a man of advanced age who had worked for the Carter family for decades, caught his eye in the backview mirror and nodded in recognition.

"Good luck, sir."

Hudson breathed out. "Yeah. I'll need it."

As he stepped through the doors, the aroma of high-end cologne and newly trimmed roses enveloped him. The gentle buzz of conversation blended with the distant sound of a pianist playing softly in the reception area. Waiters in pristine uniforms glided through the crowd, their trays laden with glasses of wine and dainty hors d'oeuvres.

All that did not count to him.

His dad had made his move, so now it was his turn to play along.

The restaurant was upstairs, a cozy refuge with floor-to-ceiling windows that gave a stunning view of the city below. Naturally, it was already booked—his father never left anything to chance.

And next to the window, sitting was Eleanor Whitmore.

She was definitely lovely. Her dark brown hair cascaded over her shoulder in flowing waves, and the emerald-green sheath dress she had on was plain and elegant. But it was her eyes that hit him the hardest—keen and clever, they mirrored his own fatigue back at him.

She was just as unhappy with it as he.

She turned her head to one side as he came nearer, giving him a polite but reserved smile. "Hudson Calloway, I suppose?"

Hudson grinned as he pulled out his chair and sat down. "That's me. And you are Eleanor."

"In person," she added, setting her wine glass aside. "Let me take a guess—you were blackmailed into this little arrangement too?"

Hudson smiled a bitter smile. "It's not exactly volunteered, actually. My father gave me two choices: marry you or lose my business. And I'm not yet prepared to give up my firm, so here I am."

Eleanor raised an eyebrow. "Ah, so you're driven by the money."

"Oh, pretend like you didn't know any better," replied Hudson, rocking back in his chair with amusement. "You're not exactly here for pure altruism."

Eleanor released a gentle sigh, stirring the wine in her glass before taking a slow sip. "My father wants a union of your empire and mine. I'm certain yours does too."

Hudson snorted. "Of course. Because where profit is concerned, love just doesn't cut it."

There was a moment of silence between them. The candlelight flickered on the table, creating whimsical shadows on the spotless white tablecloth.

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Then Eleanor took a deep breath and leaned forward, hand on chin. "If we're honest, I have to say—I thought about standing you up tonight. About just leaving and making my father's life miserable."

Hudson grinned, his smile unmistakable. "Why didn't you?"

Eleanor smiled ironically. "Because, unfortunately, my bank accounts are still tied up in my family's empire. And I rather like the life I lead."

Hudson gave a nod of confirmation. "Ah, so we're both in golden cages. How poetic." She tapped a perfectly manicured nail against her wine glass and regarded him sternly. "So tell me, Calloway. If we do proceed with this absurd arrangement, how do you see it playing out, exactly?"

Hudson exhaled softly, his glass lifted but untouched. "We meet expectations. We get married, we make our fathers happy, we give smiles for the pictures. But in private? We live our own lives."

Eleanor hummed reflectively, weighing his words. "No love. No real commitment."

Hudson smiled. "Did you really think otherwise?"

For an instant, she glared at him before finally shaking her head. "No. I suppose I didn't."

And then—

BANG!

A loud gunshot echoed in the hotel.

The restaurant's erstwhile-refined atmosphere shattered instantly. Chatting ceased. The pianist's fingers hung frozen over the keyboard.

Then the screams erupted.

From the ground floor, close to the reception, screams of panic rang out. The body of a security guard crashed onto the marble floor with a nauseating thud. More shots rang out—hasty, relentless.

Hudson gripped the glass tighter, his gaze flicking in the direction of the sound.

"What the hell—" Eleanor's voice faltered. Her hand trembled slightly as she reached for the table.

Hudson was on his feet.

"Don't move!"

A voice sounded through the hotel's speakers—deep, commanding, and charged with a disturbing stillness.

Hudson's glance shifted to the balcony that opened into the lobby. That was when he noticed them—black-clad men in tactical clothing, heavily armed, fanning out like specters. A dozen or more of them, locking down doors, overpowering guests.

Then—

SLAM.

The principal doors clanged shut behind with a foreboding sound. The electronic mechanisms activated.

The hotel had become an isolated prison.

Hudson's jaw tightened. Shit.

Eleanor's voice was little more than a whisper. "This isn't a robbery, is it?"

Hudson was quiet, his thoughts already racing as he weighed the options.

No exits. No way out. A hostage situation. And he and Eleanor were trapped right in the middle of it.