Betrayed Heiress: Marrying The Wall Street Devil

Ina Holman sat at the dimly lit mahogany bar of The Plaza Hotel.

She dug her manicured nails into her palms. The sharp sting grounded her.

She was a Holman. The Holman family, once the undisputed royalty of New York real estate, was now drowning in massive corporate debt. Her toxic, on-and-off entanglement with her ex-boyfriend, Faron Levine, the heir to the Levine banking empire, was a strict business transaction. He was dangling the promise of a renewed alliance, which was the only financial lifeline keeping her father from declaring bankruptcy.

Tonight, she was not here for herself. She was wearing her best friend Clementine's tight black dress. Clementine had begged Ina to stand in for her on a crucial matchmaking meeting aimed at a family alliance, because Clementine's family held significant, terrifying leverage over the Holmans' remaining assets. If Ina refused, the fallout would instantly crush her father's fragile empire. "He knows what you look like," Clementine had whispered over the phone. "He'll be expecting you. Just have one drink, pretend to be me, and get out." The weight of her family's survival rested heavily on her shoulders, leaving Ina with no choice but to obey.

She picked up a plastic swizzle stick and boredly stirred the green olive in her empty martini glass. The jazz music playing from the corner stage felt too loud.

The bartender, a man in a crisp white vest, walked over. He slid a heavy crystal glass across the polished wood. The liquid inside was a glowing, unnatural neon blue.

"From the gentleman at the end of the bar, miss," the bartender said.

Ina glanced down the bar, but the shadows were too thick. She assumed it was Clementine's potential suitor trying to be charming. She did not want to be here. She wanted to go home to her Tribeca apartment. But to maintain the polite facade required of a Holman, she picked up the glass.

She took a small sip.

The liquid burned. It slid down her throat like liquid fire.

Within ten seconds, a violent, unnatural heat erupted in her stomach.

Ina frowned. She put the glass down. She pressed the back of her cold hand against her cheek. Her skin was burning. It felt like she had a severe fever.

Her vision suddenly blurred. The edges of the bar warped. The slow jazz music stretched out, sounding like a distorted underwater echo.

She realized instantly that the drink was spiked.

Panic seized her chest. Her heart hammered violently against her ribs. She pushed herself off the barstool.

The wooden chair scraped loudly against the thick carpet.

Her legs felt like jelly. They buckled. She reached out and gripped the edge of the mahogany bar, her knuckles turning white. She had to get out of the public eye. If a Holman was seen stumbling drunk or drugged in The Plaza, the scandal would give the Levine family an excuse to cancel the potential alliance.

She grabbed her silver clutch. She stumbled away from the bar, pushing past a group of businessmen. She did not head for the main lobby. She veered toward the private elevator bank reserved for the VIP penthouse suites.

The elevator doors were closing. Ina threw her body forward and squeezed through the gap.

She hit the cold metal wall of the elevator car and slid down. She gasped for air. Her lungs burned. The drug was moving through her bloodstream fast, melting her rational thoughts into a puddle of raw, burning lust.

The elevator chimed. It stopped at the top floor. The doors slid open.

Ina tried to stand, but her balance was completely gone. She pitched forward, falling out of the elevator.

She did not hit the floor.

Two strong, hard arms caught her.

Her face crashed against a solid chest covered in expensive wool. Her nose was instantly filled with the sharp, cold scent of cedarwood and mint.

Ina blinked her heavy eyelids. She looked up.

She met a pair of eyes as dark and cold as a frozen lake. It was Buren Warner. He was the apex predator of Wall Street. A billionaire who bought and destroyed companies for sport. He was a man the Holman family could not even afford to speak to.

Buren looked down at the woman in his arms. His thick eyebrows pulled together. He felt the unnatural, radiating heat coming off her skin. He saw her dilated pupils and flushed neck. He knew immediately she had been drugged.

The chemical fire in Ina's veins destroyed her last shred of sanity.

She grabbed the knot of his silk tie. She pulled him down. She pressed her boiling face against his chest, whimpering.

Down the long hallway, the distinct sound of heavy footsteps echoed. Then, the mechanical click-whir of camera shutters. Paparazzi.

Buren's eyes narrowed. His jaw ticked. He hated the press.

He wrapped one massive arm around Ina's waist, lifting her off the ground. He pulled a black keycard from his pocket, swiped it against the door behind him, and pushed it open.

They fell inside the presidential suite.

Buren kicked the heavy mahogany door shut. The loud thud completely cut off the noise from the hallway.

Ina clung to him like a drowning woman. Her hands frantically pulled at his jacket. She fumbled with the buttons of his crisp white dress shirt, tearing one off.

Buren grabbed her wrists. His grip was like iron.

"Look at me," Buren commanded. His voice was a low, rough rumble in his chest. "Know who you are touching."

Ina could not hear him. The drug demanded physical contact. She stood on her tiptoes. She pressed her hot, wet lips against his throat, right over his pulse point.

Buren's breathing hitched. His rigid control snapped.

He spun her around and pinned her against the cold wall of the entryway.

Before he let the instinct take over, Buren's Wall Street paranoia kicked in. He reached into his pocket with one hand. He pulled out his phone, hit the audio record button, and placed it face-down on the console table. He needed proof that she initiated this, in case this was a corporate trap.

Then, he crushed his mouth against hers.

Clothes were torn and dropped on the marble floor. They did not make it to the bedroom immediately. They tangled together from the entryway, to the living room rug, and finally crashed onto the massive velvet bed.

The night was a blur of skin, heat, and absolute loss of control.

Hours later, the neon lights of Manhattan faded.

The harsh morning sun pierced through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The light stabbed Ina's eyes.

She groaned. She slowly opened her eyes.

Her head pounded with a vicious hangover. Every muscle in her thighs and back ached. She sucked in a sharp breath as the memories of the night flooded her brain. The heat. The tearing of clothes. The cedarwood scent.

She turned her head.

A strange man was sleeping next to her. He was lying on his stomach, his broad, muscular back exposed. Long, angry red scratch marks trailed down his shoulder blades. Marks she had made.

Ina clamped her hands over her mouth. She forced the scream back down her throat.

She rolled off the edge of the bed. Her bare feet hit the cold floor.

Her phone, lying on the carpet, lit up.

It was a text message from Faron Levine, her ex-boyfriend.

Where are you? I know you didn't go home last night.

Ina's stomach dropped into a bottomless pit. A wave of pure terror washed over her. She was in a strange hotel room with a man she didn't know. Faron was tracking her. If Faron caught her here, the reconciliation would end. Her father would be ruined. This was a trap. She was sure of it.

Loud, violent banging echoed through the suite.

"Ina! Open the door!" Faron's voice roared from the hallway.

Another voice, rough and professional, followed. "Hotel management, open this door immediately, or we will breach the lock." It was a private investigator. Faron had brought a team.

Ina shivered violently. Goosebumps erupted all over her naked arms. She scrambled across the carpet and picked up her black dress. It was ripped straight down the side seam. It was completely unwearable. She dropped it.

The noise woke the man in the bed.

Buren slowly opened his eyes. He pushed the heavy duvet aside and sat up. His broad chest and defined abdominal muscles were on full display.

Ina backed away in panic. Her heel caught the leg of the velvet sofa. She stumbled and let out a muffled gasp.

Buren turned his head. His dark eyes locked onto her. They were cold, calculating, and entirely awake. He did not look panicked. He reached over to the nightstand, picked up a heavy Patek Philippe watch, and strapped it onto his wrist.

The electronic lock on the front door beeped. A green light flashed. The manager had swiped a master keycard.

Ina's lungs seized. She spun around. She saw a men's white custom-tailored dress shirt draped over the back of the sofa. She grabbed it and shoved her arms through the sleeves. She hastily buttoned the middle three buttons.

The shirt was massive. The hem barely reached her mid-thigh, acting as a fragile shield for her dignity.

Buren stood up. He walked barefoot across the plush carpet toward the entryway.

The heavy mahogany door was pushed open a crack.

Buren stepped forward. He used his wide, muscular shoulder to slam against the doorframe, blocking the gap entirely.

Ina did not wait. She sprinted toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. She unlatched the heavy glass door and slid it open.

The freezing autumn wind of Manhattan whipped into the heated room. Ina's teeth chattered instantly.

She climbed over the stone balcony railing. She stepped onto the cold, rusted iron grates of the hotel's exterior fire escape.

Inside the suite, Faron tried to shove his head through the gap in the door. "Ina! I know you are in there!"

Buren stared down at Faron. His expression was absolute ice. "Watch your mouth."

The private investigator raised a camera with a long lens, trying to blindly snap a photo into the room.

Buren's hand shot out. He grabbed the camera lens and shoved it downward with brutal force. The strap dug into the investigator's neck.

The sheer, suffocating aura of a Wall Street apex predator rolled off Buren. Faron and the investigator physically stepped back. They did not know exactly who was in the shadows of the room, but the power radiating from the man blocking the door was terrifying.

"There is no one here by that name," Buren said. His voice was flat and deadly.

He slammed the door shut and engaged the deadbolt.

Outside, Ina heard the door slam. Her heart beat so fast it hurt her chest. She gripped the freezing iron railings and began to climb down the fire escape.

The rusted metal tore at the soft skin of her palms. She bit her lower lip so hard she tasted copper. She could not make a sound.

She reached the landing on the second floor. The ladder to the alley was broken. She looked down. There was a large green dumpster with a closed plastic lid right below her.

She took a breath and jumped.

She landed hard on the plastic lid. Her knees slammed into the solid surface. A sharp, blinding pain shot up her legs. Tears pricked her eyes.

She ignored the pain. She rolled off the dumpster and sprinted out of the alleyway.

She reached the edge of Fifth Avenue. A yellow taxi was passing by. Ina waved her arms frantically.

The taxi screeched to a halt. Ina threw herself into the backseat and slammed the door.

The driver looked in the rearview mirror. He stared at the disheveled woman wearing nothing but an oversized men's dress shirt.

"Tribeca," Ina gasped, wrapping her arms around her shivering body. "Just drive."

Thirty minutes later, the taxi pulled up to her apartment building in Tribeca. Ina threw a crumpled fifty-dollar bill at the driver and ran inside.

She locked her apartment door behind her. She walked straight into the bathroom, turned the shower to the hottest setting, and stood under the spray. She scrubbed her skin until it was red, trying to wash away the smell of cedarwood and the memory of her own loss of control.

After the shower, she wrapped a towel around her body. She stood in front of the fogged mirror.

Her eyes drifted down to the marble counter. The white dress shirt she had worn was lying there.

She reached out and picked it up. She looked at the French cuffs.

Stitched into the crisp white fabric with dark navy thread were two letters: B. W.

Ina's brain short-circuited. A loud ringing filled her ears.

B. W. Buren Warner.

Her stomach violently cramped. She had not just slept with a stranger. She had slept with the most ruthless, dangerous man in New York.

The sharp, aggressive buzz of the apartment doorbell echoed through the hallway.

Ina flinched. She snatched the white B. W. shirt off the counter. She ran to her laundry basket and shoved the shirt deep under a pile of dirty towels.

She ran to her closet. Her neck and collarbones were covered in dark purple bruises from Buren's mouth. She grabbed a thick, black cashmere turtleneck sweater and pulled it over her head. The high collar hid the evidence completely.

She took three deep breaths, forcing her racing heart to slow down. She walked to the entryway and pulled the door open.

Faron Levine stood in the hallway. His expensive tailored suit was wrinkled. His face was dark with anger. His eyes swept over Ina's body like a police scanner.

"Where were you last night?" Faron demanded. His voice dripped with fake concern. "Why didn't you answer your phone?"

Ina dug her nails deep into her palms. The pain kept her voice steady. "I drank too much at the charity gala. I crashed at Clementine's apartment."

Faron sneered. He took a step forward, invading her personal space. He leaned in, sniffing the air around her, trying to find the scent of another man.

Ina locked her knees. She refused to step back. She stared directly into his eyes.

Faron's gaze dropped to the edge of her turtleneck. He raised his hand, his fingers reaching out to pull the fabric down.

Ina jerked her head back. "Watch your hands, Faron," she warned, her tone freezing.

Before Faron could force the issue, a loud, specialized notification chime erupted from his suit pocket.

Faron frowned. He pulled out his phone and tapped the screen.

Ina watched his face. A flicker of confusion crossed his features. The dark anger shifted into something more calculating. He stared at the screen, his thumb hovering over the image.

Ina shifted her eyes. She caught a glimpse of his screen. It was a push notification from Page Six, the most notorious gossip column in New York.

The bold headline read: WALL STREET TITAN'S LATE NIGHT RENDEZVOUS.

Below the text was a grainy paparazzi photo. It showed Buren Warner walking out of the side entrance of The Plaza Hotel. He was using his large wool overcoat to shield a woman's face from the cameras. The caption identified the woman as socialite Alex Stone.

Faron studied the photo for a long moment. His jaw tightened. He knew Ina had been inside that hotel-his private investigator had confirmed the elevator log. But seeing Buren Warner's name changed the calculation. A direct confrontation with Warner was suicide, even for the Levine family. If Warner had been the one in that suite, and if he had gone to such lengths to hide the woman's identity, then pushing this further would only bring a predator's attention onto Faron himself.

He took a slow breath, forcing his shoulders to relax. He needed to retreat-for now. He would find another way to destroy Ina.

Faron's face instantly transformed. The angry interrogator vanished. He put on the mask of a loving, devoted partner.

"I am so sorry, darling," Faron said, opening his arms. "I was just out of my mind with worry."

He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Ina.

Ina's face was pressed against his shoulder. Her nose was instantly hit with the heavy, spicy scent of his signature Tom Ford cologne. But as he pulled back slightly, her eyes caught something else. Resting on the lapel of his immaculate suit was a single, distinct strand of coarse, dyed blond hair. At that exact moment, a faint, lingering scent brushed past her senses-the acrid, cheap smell of a sweet vape pen, completely at odds with Faron's usual pristine circles. The realization hit her like a physical blow. Details that definitely did not belong to Faron.

Her stomach violently heaved. Acid burned the back of her throat.

Ina shoved both hands against Faron's chest and pushed him away with all her strength. She clamped a hand over her mouth and gagged loudly.

Faron stumbled back. His fake smile dropped. A flash of genuine panic crossed his eyes. "Ina? What is wrong?"

"Hangover," Ina gasped, pointing toward the door. "My stomach is killing me. Please leave. I need to sleep."

Faron did not want to push his luck. He needed this reconciliation to look perfect to the public. "Of course. Rest well. I will call you later." He turned and walked out.

Ina slammed the door and locked the deadbolt.

Her legs gave out. She slid down the wooden door until she hit the floor.

She pulled her own phone from her pocket. She opened the Page Six website and found the photo of Buren.

She zoomed in on the woman huddled under Buren's coat. The woman's face was hidden, but a small piece of her dress hem was visible. The fabric was black.

Ina's breathing stopped. She knew Alex Stone. She had seen Alex's Instagram post from last night. Alex had been wearing a bright red dress.

The woman in the photo was not Alex Stone.

Ina's brain connected the dots. Buren had deliberately called the paparazzi. He had used Alex Stone's name as a decoy. He had orchestrated a fake news scandal to draw all the attention away from the presidential suite, completely erasing Ina's presence from the scene.

Buren Warner had saved her.

Ina stared at Buren's sharp profile in the photo. A freezing chill crawled up her spine.

Men like Buren did not do favors for free. They did not protect people out of kindness. They only protected their investments.

Why did he go to such extreme lengths to cover her tracks? What did he want from her?

Before she could process the terror, her phone erupted with a blaring, emergency ringtone.

Ina jumped. She looked at the screen. It was her father, Reginald Holman.