His Kept Canary Ruled Wall Street Chapter 2

"Where am I going?"

I glanced down at the boarding pass. An obscure island republic in the South Pacific whose name sounded like a luxury resort chain.

Alexander explained that the climate was pleasant, the beaches were quiet, and more importantly, the jurisdiction had no bilateral extradition treaty or mutual legal assistance pact with the United States.

I bypassed the legal implications entirely. "Are there department stores?"

The corporate attorney inside the library stared at me like I was an alien species.

Alexander, however, merely kept his steady gaze on me, answering with endless patience. "There are boutiques."

"Can I get limited-edition pieces flown in?"

"I'll have private couriers deliver them every quarter."

"And what about my monthly allowance?"

Charlotte, having just come up the stairs, caught the tail end of that question.

She lunged forward, ripped the documents out of my hands, and threw them onto the parquet floor with a resounding slap.

"Giselle! Is money literally the only concept your brain can process?" she screamed, tears of sheer fury spilling down her cheeks. "Our father has been forced out of the company he built! Robert and Anthony are sitting in a federal detention center! Alexander is emptying his final personal accounts just to set up a lifeline for "you"! And you're standing here bargaining for pocket money?"

I leaned lightly against the doorframe, neither flustered nor apologetic.

Alexander’s eyes turned glacial as he looked at his sister. "Pick it up."

"Alexander!"

"I told you," he said, his tone dropping an octave, "pick it up. Now."

Trembling with humiliation and grief, Charlotte knelt down and gathered the scattered papers. She shoved them back into my chest, her voice trembling in a hissed whisper.

"You love money so much? Take it and run. Run as far as you can, and don't you dare come back to drag my brother down with you."

Alexander took a menacing step toward her, but I reached out, my fingers lightly catching the cuff of his sleeve.

In truth, I wasn't offended. Nor was I particularly worried. The Carlisle empire was vast; empires don't crumble overnight unless someone deliberately pulls the foundation pins. And more importantly, I was Alexander Carlisle’s prize canary. The sacred duty of a canary is to look dazzling, spend lavishly, and remain blissfully unbothered by the storms outside the gilded cage.

"I'll go pack," I murmured obligingly.

The walk-in dressing suite spanned two whole wings of the second floor, overflowing with three years' worth of Alexander’s indulgence. Couture gowns, bespoke tailoring, walls of shoes, and safes filled with high jewelry.

I selected a dozen of the rarest Hermès and Chanel trunks, packing the most valuable loose diamonds, emeralds, and platinum pieces from the wall safe.

I had just zipped the last leather case when a violent metallic bang echoed from downstairs.

I walked out onto the second-floor gallery. Below, half a dozen men in dark suits and federal marshals were inventorying the Carlisle gallery. Massive impressionist canvases were being unhooked from the walls; blue security seals were being slapped across the glass doors of the subterranean wine cellar.

Margaret Carlisle tried to step in front of a marble bust, but her husband caught her arm, pulling her back.

"Let them take it, Margaret," Thomas Carlisle said, his voice sounding like dry autumn leaves scraping across pavement. "Technically, the collection belongs to the corporate balance sheet."

The front doors swung open, and Alexander entered, followed by two men in razor-sharp charcoal suits.

One of them handed Alexander a thick leather-bound dossier.

"Eight o'clock tonight, Mr. Carlisle. The Pinnacle Club," the man said, his tone carrying the oily confidence of someone holding all the cards. "The authorized representatives of all twelve syndicates will be waiting for you. This is your final opportunity to resolve the restructuring before the formal bankruptcy filing."

The man's gaze wandered past Alexander's shoulder, drifting upward until it landed on me leaning over the mezzanine railing.

He looked me up and down, a slow, greasy smile spreading across his face. "Ah. The famous Miss Monroe. Still here."

Alexander shifted smoothly, blocking the man's field of vision entirely. "Are your eyes finished wandering?"

The man chuckled, adjusting his cufflink. "Don't take it personally, Carlisle. Our principals have merely heard rumors about your exquisite taste in companions. If tonight's closing goes smoothly... well, my employer wouldn't mind taking over the maintenance costs for a beauty like that."

Alexander’s left fist moved so fast the air cracked.

The punch connected square with the man's bridge, snapping bone. Blood erupted, spraying across the pale limestone floor as the man crashed backward over an umbrella stand.

Pandemonium erupted. Alexander's private security detail lunged forward, pinning the second envoy against the wainscoting before he could reach into his jacket.

The bloodied man scrambled to his feet, wiping his shattered nose on his sleeve. Instead of raging, he spat a red glob onto the Persian rug and laughed.

"Keep swinging, Carlisle! See where that bravado gets you when the clock runs out! If you aren't seated at the Pinnacle Club by eight o'clock sharp, the indictment against your brothers expands to racketeering and treason. They won't just be doing five years in a white-collar camp. They'll die in a federal penitentiary."

After the two men were thrown out, Alexander stood alone in the center of the foyer, his knuckles dripping crimson onto the floor.

Margaret was weeping into her hands. Thomas had his eyes closed, his shoulders curved inward in total defeat.

Alexander turned around, wiping his bleeding hand with a linen handkerchief. His voice was completely flat.

"The flight has been moved up," he told his head of security, Gabriel. "Take her to Teterboro right now."

He ordered Gabriel to escort me, while he turned toward his own waiting town car.

I slipped into the leather backseat of the SUV, watching Alexander's taillights disappear into the gathering twilight.

Gabriel started the engine. "Miss Monroe, Mr. Carlisle has ensured that every account in the destination trust is fully funded. You will be very comfortable."

"Where is Alexander going?" I asked.

Gabriel kept his eyes fixed forward. Silence hung heavy in the cabin.

A small, cold realization took root in my chest. Alexander wasn't going to negotiate. He was walking into an execution chamber to trade himself for his family—and for me.

I looked at Gabriel through the rearview mirror. "Turn the car around."

"Miss Monroe, Mr. Carlisle gave explicit orders—"

"If you don't turn this car around right now," I said, my voice completely devoid of its usual playful lilt, "I will open this door at sixty miles an hour."

Gabriel glanced back, caught the terrifying stillness in my eyes, and hit the brakes.