The Billionaire CEO & Her Golden Retriever

Thud.

I grabbed Tristan by his custom silk tie and slammed him hard against the hallway wall, closing the distance until our noses were practically touching.

He was my prey.

Ow, ow, ow! Elara, take it easy! This shirt is limited edition! His flawlessly sculpted face scrunched into a pathetic wince.

Sixty seconds ago, this idiot had been hiding behind a pair of pretentious designer shades, smugly announcing his grand master plan to me. He was dropping out of our elite prep school to chase Hollywood stardom.

I ripped those stupid sunglasses right off his face and rolled my wrists. Give a spoiled brat an inch, and he tries to take the whole damn estate.

It was time to remind this moron exactly what a black belt could do.

Chapter 1

During our junior year at the prep school, I took my eyes off Tristan for one second to attend an international academic summit. The idiot used that exact window to audition for a reality TV show.

The day after I flew back, he strutted into the classroom wearing designer sunglasses. He sauntered over to my desk, one hand stuffed casually into his pocket, the other arrogantly adjusting the shades. He definitely spent at least half an hour practicing that exact pose in front of a mirror.

"Elara," he announced. "Top-tier talent agencies are practically begging to sign me right now."

I didn't even blink. I kept my eyes locked on my tablet, reviewing the cross-border merger and acquisition contracts for Xinrong Group's next quarter.

"I've figured it out. Starting today, I'm taking control of my destiny. I'm going to conquer Hollywood."

The tip of my Apple Pencil struck the tempered glass of the screen.

Hard.

"Therefore, I'll be droptaking a temporary leave of absence. To pave my golden road to stardom."

I tossed the stylus aside. I took a slow, deep breath, closed my eyes, and began mentally constructing a ruthless corporate takeover strategy just to calm my nerves.

I knew exactly what this moron actually wanted: to drop out completely. He also knew I would never sign off on that.

So, he pivoted to his backup plana leave of absence. He was probably standing there, secretly congratulating himself on his brilliant compromise, assuming it would save him from my wrath.

I opened my eyes and curled my index finger at him.

"Elara? You're actually agreeing?" Tristan leaned in, a dazzling, self-satisfied smile spreading across his ridiculously flawless face.

Idiots never sense the danger lurking right in front of them.

I crossed my arms, my gaze turning icy as his perfectly styled head moved right into the strike zone. Perfect angle. Perfect height.

My hand shot out. I ripped the obnoxious shades off his face and flicked him hard right in the center of his forehead.

Smack!

The sharp sound echoed through the silent room. The guy sitting in the front row flinched, his face turning a deep shade of purple as he choked back a laugh.

"Get back to your seat and read The Wall Street Journal!" I issued the command with absolute zero warmth.

Tristan clutched the rapidly forming welt on his forehead. Moisture instantly pooled in his eyes. His tear ducts were obnoxiously overactive; I was convinced he was a water fountain in a past life. He stared at my completely unapologetic face.

The realization finally hit him: his grand negotiation had failed spectacularly.

Yet, he still tried to salvage the wreckage.

"Fine, no leave of absence," he muttered, aggressively rubbing his head. "But I am not reading the financial news. And you have to play Uno with me tonight."

Audacious. Trying to bargain with me?

I slammed my portfolio shut. I grabbed him by the collar of his uniform and dragged him right out the classroom door, shoving him into the deserted corner of the hallway. "You still want to negotiate?"

"Hey, hey, hey! Elara, take it easy! This shirt is brand new! Limited edition!"

"I'll limit your lifespan." I grabbed his custom silk tie, twisting the fabric around my knuckles, and slammed him hard against the hallway wall. I stepped directly into his space, closing the gap until our noses were practically touching.

Tristan feared absolutely nothing in this worldexcept for me, staring him down with the cold, calculating eyes of a predator cornering its exclusive prey. It was my ultimate weapon to force his absolute submission.

"I won't I won't do it again" he gasped out. "Elara, let me go" His face burned crimson, his chest heaving as he struggled for air under the suffocating tension.

Five minutes later, I released my grip, casually smoothing out the lapels of his uniform jacket.

His legs gave out. He slid down the wall, hitting the floor with a dazed, glassy look in his eyes.

I grabbed him by the back of his neck like a misbehaving puppy, hauled him back into the classroom, and shoved him into his chair.

He sat perfectly still, staring up at me with wide, innocent eyes. The faint flush on his cheeks and the unshed tears shimmering in his eyes made him look infuriatingly pathetic and appealing.

I let out a scoff, looking away. Amateur. He couldn't even handle a little intimidation, and he thought he could survive the brutal meat grinder of the entertainment industry?

But for some reason, an annoying heat prickled in the center of my own chest. Damn it. His stupidity was highly contagious.

I immediately flipped open my corporate law textbook. I needed the cold, sterile logic of legal codes to disinfect my brain. I should have known the second I laid eyes on him that he was going to be a massive liability.

I was eight years old when my parents died in a car crash.

I came from the absolute bottom. My junkie mother was supposedly some exiled, distant relative of Tristan's prestigious family. My greedy guardian had the sheer audacity to drag me to their doorstep, forcefully dumping me into this ultra-wealthy, top-tier estate like I was a bag of garbage.

"Just give her scraps. We can't afford to keep another mouth fed."

Chapter 2

My greedy guardian rubbed her hands together and shoved me forward. "The kid's smart. Top of her class. She can keep Tristan company."

The estate's grand foyer was obscenely luxurious, dozens of times larger than the leaky, beat-up trailer I used to live in. Directly above, a priceless Baccarat crystal chandelier blazed with blinding light, making my eyes sting.

But I needed to stay. I forced my eyes wide open, feigning absolute innocence. The fierce glare of the chandelier burned into my retinas, causing actual tears to stream down my face.

Tristan's parents exchanged a look as they watched the tears cascade down my cheeks. His mother crouched down to my eye level. "Sweetheart, what's your name?"

"Elara," I said, keeping my voice small.

"How old are you?"

"Eight."

"What grade are you in?"

"Third grade."

His parents exchanged another glance. This time, they smiled.

"She's in the same grade as Tristan. Perfect. They can keep each other company."

His mother smoothed a hand over my hair, then stood up and faced my guardian. "We'll keep her."

My guardian practically groveled in gratitude before bolting out the heavy oak doors, leaving me standing completely alone in the center of the massive foyer.

That was the exact moment Tristan made his grand entrance.

The little brat, decked out in a miniature tailored suit and a silk bowtie, came clattering down the sweeping mahogany staircase. He circled me three times like a shark inspecting a minnow. Then he stopped dead in his tracks and shoved a piece of plastic into my hands.

I took it, staring at it in sheer disbelief.

"This is my absolute favorite, limited-edition superhero action figure, Jacqueline Vassar," he declared, puffing out his chest. "You're a girl, so from now on, he's your exclusive bodyguard."

I couldn't care less about this Jacqueline whatever-the-hell. My survival instincts screamed at me to chuck the plastic toy right back at his smug little face.

But it was my first day in the estate. I had to bury my cold, calculating nature. I needed a flawless mask.

My mouth twitched. I channeled the pathetic, shy demeanor of the little girls back in the trailer park when boys offered them stale candy. I ducked my head, pitching my voice into a sickeningly sweet whisper.

"Thank you, Tristan."

Gag. I thoroughly disgusted myself.

Tristan beamed, flashing a wide, toothy grin missing a front incisor. "You're welcome! I've got your back from now on!"

That night, they put me in a bedroom drowning in pastel pinks. I sank into the massive, cloud-like mattress. I had never slept on anything so ridiculously soft. It felt like I had fallen headfirst into a pile of pure money.

But resting right on the pillow next to mine was Tristan's bodyguard, Jacqueline Vassar.

Normally, the sheer absurdity of the situation would keep me wide awake, but I absolutely refused to look at that stupid toy. I forced my eyes shut, crossed my arms flat over my chest like a corpse, and faked sleep.

The heavy door clicked open.

My eyes squeezed tighter. My fists clenched under the duvet, muscles coiling, ready to launch a preemptive strike.

The door only cracked open an inch before clicking shut again.

In the pitch black, my eyes snapped open. I strained my ears. Soft, muffled footsteps padded just outside the door, followed by his mother's hushed whisper.

"She's asleep. Poor thing you can just tell she's been through hell."

Then, his father's low baritone. "Yeah. I'll get her enrolled in the private academy tomorrow. We'll put her in Tristan's class so they can look out for each other."

"Oh, remind me. I have a contact on the Disney board of directors. I'll have them send over a custom princess wardrobe. Little girls usually love that stuff."

His mother chuckled softly. "Sounds perfect. She's so quiet and well-behaved."

"Absolutely adorable. She'll be a good grounding influence on Tristan."

The footsteps faded down the long hallway. I stared up at the dark ceiling, unblinking.

I had grown up viewing the world through a lens of pure ice. When Tristan shoved that toy at me, I genuinely thought this entire family consisted of absolute morons. Why else would they take in a piece of garbage from a distant, exiled bloodline with zero actual relation to them? And with zero defenses up.

But now, I reconsidered. They weren't bad people.

I fortified my mental walls, completely erasing any lingering guilt about manipulating them with a fake persona.

This family was just ridiculously, foolishly naive.

Chapter 3

I was going to study relentlessly, claw my way to the top of the food chain, and become the ruthless mastermind this foolish, naive family needed for protection.

Monday morning, I sat beside Tristan in the back of the family's town car on the way to our private academy.

Tristan didn't shut up the entire ride. "Our campus is massive! We have an Olympic-sized swimming pool! And our own observatory!"

He leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Oh, by the way, our homeroom teacher is a total nightmare. Watch your back"

I gave vague nods of acknowledgment, my brain already busy calculating the exact probabilities of the entrance exam matrix.

When we arrived, the faculty escorted Tristan to class and corralled me into a private testing suite.

Three elite instructors sat across the mahogany table, sliding a massive entrance exam toward me. "Take your time. No need to be nervous."

I took the pen and finished it in twenty minutes flat.

The instructor grading my paper raised her meticulously plucked eyebrows higher and higher. Finally, she looked up at me. "You did all of this yourself?"

"Yes," I said smoothly. "I did it right under your nose."

Another instructor slid a fourth-grade paper across the table. Perfect score.

Fifth grade. Perfect score.

Sixth grade. Perfect score.

The teachers exchanged bewildered glances.

One of the instructors sprinted out of the room, returning moments later out of breath. He shoved a massive packet of advanced mathematics in front of me. "Try this."

I took it and filled out the answers with blinding speed, but I deliberately left the last few complex calculus equations blank.

The instructors swarmed around the table, staring at my answer sheet and collectively gasping in shock. They whispered feverishly behind my back.

"Good God, the first section is flawless!"

"Why did she leave these blank?"

They turned back to me, but before they could even formulate the question, I delivered my deadpan response. "Because I just finished the high school AP curriculum, and I've only skimmed the first two pages of the college-level calculus textbook."

Their faces froze in absolute disbelief.

They immediately summoned the headmaster. He was an older man with kind eyes, and he studied me intently. "Child, would you like to skip grades? With your intellect, we could place you directly in the upper school."

I remembered his mother's wordsabout putting me in Tristan's class so we could watch out for each other.

I shook my head. "No thank you, Headmaster."

I added a perfectly calculated excuse. "To be honest, the questions on your exams are quite basic, which is why I got them all right. If they were any harder, I probably wouldn't know the answers."

Absolute bullshit. Give me one week, and I'd ace their most advanced college-prep matrices with my eyes closed.

The truth was, during my first two days after moving into this Beverly Hills mansion, I spent the entire night locked inside their three-story private panoramic library, speed-reading through the entire curriculum of this elite prep school. I just happened to have an eidetic memory.

But I wasn't about to broadcast that. A smart player hides her hand. I learned that the hard way back in the slums; the kid who flashes her candy is the first one to get mugged.

The headmaster looked at me thoughtfully. "Very well. You'll remain in the third grade for now. If you need anything at all, my door is always open."

And just like that, I became Tristan's classmate.

The longer I lived at the estate, the more I realized his parents were absolute workaholics, flying around the globe on business trips three hundred days a year.

But his mother treated me like gold. Every time she returned, she showered me with extravagant gifts: stunning custom lace dresses, intricate pearl hair clips, and dazzling diamond brooches. None for Tristan.

He protested vehemently. "Mom! Where's my stuff?"

His mother barely glanced at him. "Elara is a girl; of course she gets gifts. What does a boy need with presents?"

Tristan's lower lip jutted out, tears threatening to spill.

But the very next second, the moment he saw me walk down the stairs, he completely forgot his grievance.

He practically vibrated with excitement, ripping open my gift boxes and holding the pieces up against me. "Elara, you'd look amazing in this! And this one too!"

I've never given a single damn about fashion or playing dress-up.

But since arriving at the estate, I had carefully buried my true nature. I never showed a hint of impatience. I was destined to be the ruthless mastermind running the show. If a dark boss trying to control the world couldn't even control her own micro-expressions, what was the point?

But some variables were entirely out of my control. Like Tristan getting shaken down for cash by street thugs.

Chapter 4

After school that day, a group of street thugs blocked Tristan's path, holding out their hands for cash.

Tristan blinked those incredibly beautiful but utterly idiotic eyes of his and actually reached for his wallet.

I walked over and clamped my hand down on his wrist. "Starting today," I said, snatching Tristan's wallet right out of his hand in front of the thugs, "I manage his allowance."

The lead thug glared at me. "Back off, little girl. Mind your own business."

"Touch one hair on his head," I said, yanking Tristan behind me and fixing them with a dead-eyed stare. "And I guarantee you won't walk out of this neighborhood alive."

Things got ugly.

When the rusted baseball bat swung at my head, my muscle memory took over. I dodged sideways and delivered a vicious backhand elbow strike straight to his jaw.

He screamed and hit the concrete hard. But I got careless. Another thug swung, and his heavy metal ring scraped across my forehead.

I underestimated their numbers. Warm liquid immediately dripped down my brow.

Bad news: I needed three stitches. Good news: Tristan obediently handed over his allowance from then on, and the street trash never dared to approach us for cash again as long as I was around.

His mother stared at the gauze taped to my forehead. She sighed heavily and immediately offered to hire me a security detail.

I turned her down. "No. I want to learn kickboxing and Krav Maga."

She blinked in surprise, then smiled. "Alright."

She enrolled me in the city's most elite mixed martial arts club and hired a private coach.

From that day on, I trained three times a week. Tristan sometimes hung over the edge of the sparring mat, watching. Every time I got slammed to the mat and forced myself back up, his fists clenched in panic.

"Elara, does it hurt?" When the session ended, he trotted over to hand me a bottle of water.

"No," I said. "It hurts less than pinning you against the wall."

He flushed bright red.

Time flew. During my junior year of college, I flew to Boston with my mentor to attend an exclusive, closed-door Ivy League academic gala. I was only gone for a week.

The day after I got back, Tristan showed up at my door, practically in tears. He gripped a crumpled photocopy of a contract in his fist. "Elara, they trapped me the breach of contract penalty is astronomical"

I scanned the document, my blood instantly boiling.

This absolute idiot had been sweet-talked by some street-level talent scout. He signed it without even reading the fine print, and they took the original copy.

The clauses were packed tight, hiding blatant traps right in plain sight: a seventy-thirty splitseventy percent for the agency. A five-million-dollar penalty for breach of contract. A ten-year lock-in period, followed by a three-year non-compete clause in the entertainment industry.

"Did you even read this before signing?" I asked, gripping the paper so hard my knuckles turned white.

"I I did" Tristan's voice shrank to a whisper. "But he said it was standard. He said everyone signs it"

"And you believed him?" I slammed the papers down on the desk. "Where is your brain, Tristan? Did you leave it at the country club?"

He shrank back, moisture pooling in his eyes.

I took a deep breath. "Take me there. I want to meet these people face-to-face."

We arrived at the agency's corporate building. The ground floor lobby had security turnstiles. The receptionist barely gave us a glance, completely ignoring us.

I don't play by the rules. I stepped back, eyed the turnstile, took a running start, and launched myself into the air.

Crash!

I didn't make it. Just as I was about to clear the barrier, a team of heavy-set security guards rushed out, gripping stun batons.

I slammed on the brakes. Tristan, who had been charging right behind me, slammed face-first into my back. He clutched his eye, howling in pain.

"Elara! Ah, hell, that hurts!"

I whipped around, grabbed his wrist, and bolted.

We sprinted for two blocks before I finally stopped to check if anyone was following us. I stood there panting, looking at Tristan. His eye was bright red. His nose was red.

He stared down at me with pathetic, puppy-dog eyes. "Elara it hurts."

Chapter 5

I resigned myself to blowing cool air into his eye and rubbing his nose, indulging his pathetic demands for comfort. Brute force and direct negotiation were clearly off the table. I shot one last, venomous glare at the corporate building over my shoulder. Then, I grabbed Tristan by the wrist and dragged him straight into the elite academic bookstore next door.

I slammed my hand on the counter. "LSAT prep guides. The complete set. And throw in your top-tier commercial contract law case studies."

The owner chuckled around the unlit cigar in his mouth, ducking under the counter to grab the heavy volumes. "Well look at you. Someone knows their stuff."

Tristan blinked his wide, clueless eyes. "Huh?"

"Shut up." I hoisted the massive stack of heavy textbooks and shoved them hard into his chest. "Starting today, I am tutoring you for admission into an Ivy League law school. The second you get your law license, we are going to exploit every single loophole in that contract and sue this trash agency into bankruptcy."

"B-but"

"No buts." I pinned him with a lethal stare. "Either you get into law school, or I call your mother right now and tell her you got scammed into signing your life away."

Tristan shrank into himself, his shoulders practically touching his ears.

For the next entire year, balancing my own aggressive coursework, I became Tristan's round-the-clock dictator. Every morning at 6:00 AM sharp, I dragged him out of his silk sheets to memorize complex legal precedents. At midnight, when we got back, I grabbed my tablet to drill him on logic games and contract loopholes.

Tristan wasn't actually stupid. He was just disgustingly lazy and had the attention span of a goldfish. I unleashed absolute hell on him.

Failed to memorize a statute? Write it out ten times.

Got a practice question wrong? Do fifty more of the exact same type.

Zoned out? I shoved him against the wall and exploited his ticklish ribs until he couldn't breathe.

Over that year, Tristan dropped fifteen pounds, dark circles permanently bruising the skin under his perfect eyes. But in the end, he secured admission and landed a junior associate position at a top-tier Wall Street law firm right out of the gate.

When we returned to that agency, we didn't have to jump any turnstiles. The receptionist practically escorted us in.

The agency executive took one look at the cease-and-desist letter stamped with the Ivy League law sealand the five elite Wall Street litigation attorneys standing directly behind meand his face turned a sickly shade of green. Under the crushing, multi-million-dollar weight of a legal team billing thousands per hour, that fraudulent slave contract instantly turned into useless scrap paper.

Stepping out of the corporate building, Tristan let out a massive sigh of relief. "Finally free"

I cut my eyes at him. "Don't celebrate just yet. The associate evaluation period at a top-tier Wall Street firm is absolutely brutal. If you don't land enough major cases, it'll leave a fatal stain on your resume."

Tristan blinked. "Oh."

I accelerated my coursework and graduated a full year early. Right before commencement, Professor Bartholomew called me into his office, practically begging me to stay.

"Elara, stay for your postgraduate! Be my final, definitive protg! I can fast-track you straight to your Ph.D.!"

The professor looked ready to shed actual tears. "The papers you published as an undergrad are already lightyears ahead of what most graduate students produce!"

"Grind under my wing for another five years, and I guarantee you'll be the undisputed rising star of the academic world! A guaranteed titan!"

I waved a dismissive hand. I had zero interest. "Professor, you can be the titan. I'll just sit back and clap for you."

Professor Bartholomew studied my unimpressed expression and switched to bribery. "My youngest protg gets extreme privileges. Every single one of my senior alumni will be in your back pocket."

He launched into an exhausted rant about the vicious factions and cliques tearing the academic world apart, desperately trying to sell me on the idea that his specific faction was the ultimate blue-chip investment. Once their faction leader secured a Nobel Prize nomination and took a seat on the National Supreme Science Committee, he would instantly gain total control over the entire academic world's resources.

A massive headache throbbed behind my temples. "Professor, I"

"Let me finish!" He cut me off, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

"I have a direct line to Director Prescott on the Academic Review Board. The man slept in the bunk right above me in college."

"At the last alumni gala, I strategically force-fed him scotch until he blacked out, and I successfully extracted his current home address."

I stared at him. "Right."

"If you don't secure a tenured position after graduation, or if you don't get that ten-million-dollar grant from the National Science Foundation, I will personally march right up to that hypocrite's private golf club and his luxury villa, and I will unfurl a massive protest banner right at his front gate!"

The professor's face flushed red with unhinged excitement. "And I'll scream it at the top of my lungs! I'll tell the whole world that the bastard Director failed to raise his kid! I'll expose how his brainless, tyrannical daughter used her father's academic monopoly to forcefully claim my innocent, pure, helpless, and incredibly handsome son!"

Chapter 6

"Professor Bartholomew that's borderline extortion," I deadpanned.

"I absolutely am not!" The professor puffed out his chest. "How can it be extortion when it involves the sacred pursuit of academia?"

"That hypocrite lives in the top-tier wealthy enclave of the Hamptons. I've already done my reconnaissance; the heavy hitters from the Science Committee all own luxury villas at that private golf club. All I have to do is pick the time of their high-society weekend gatherings, march right up to those heavily guarded wrought-iron gates, and unfurl a massive banner to cause an absolute scene."

"Knowing that hypocritical bastard's obsession with his pristine public image, I'll have him completely at my mercy!"

I pressed two fingers against my throbbing temples.

The professor continued his unhinged rant, his eyes practically sparkling with delusion. "He'll be forced to drag me inside just to shut me up. And then, he will have no choice but to concede to every single one of my demandsreasonable or otherwise."

Listening to this deranged master plan, I realized he was completely lost in his own fantasy. To stop him from spiraling entirely into a criminal mastermind arc, I ruthlessly cut him off. I pointed out the glaring flaw. "How exactly do you plan on getting past the Hamptons security gates?"

He smirked. He revealed that ever since that alumni gala, he had spent the last three years secretly feeding premium wagyu beef to the estate's imported guard dogs. Now, the moment those vicious dogs saw him, they treated him like their actual mother, practically wagging their tails and pulling the security lever for him with their teeth.

He patted my shoulder, assuring me that with this ultimate trump card, securing that ten-million-dollar grant and my tenured professorship was practically guaranteed. Hell, even a Nobel Prize nomination wasn't entirely out of the question. His scheme was absolutely foolproof.

A chill ran down my spine. I had severely underestimated him. Three years of calculated briberyand he was fully prepared to keep feeding those dogs indefinitely. The old man had been plotting this exact blackmail scenario for years.

I rolled my eyes at his blatant disregard for basic ethics and his wildly unrealistic overestimation of human decency. I kept my mouth shut.

Right at that moment, the heavy mahogany door swung open.

The professor's allegedly innocent, pure, and helpless sonGideonstrolled in. He had clearly been standing in the hallway, eavesdropping on our entire unhinged conversation.

The second he stepped inside, he leaned against the doorframe, clutching his stomach and laughing like an absolute maniac