Claimed By The Ruthless Billionaire Boss

The heavy silk of the haute couture wedding dress felt like a straightjacket.

Cordelia stood in the center of the Plaza Hotel's VIP dressing room. She pulled a deep breath into her lungs, trying to ease the tight pressure in her chest.

Tonight was her engagement party. It was supposed to be the night she secured her future.

On the polished mahogany vanity, her backup work phone suddenly lit up. The harsh white glare cut through the dim, warm lighting of the room.

Cordelia frowned. Only her private assistant, Rosa, had this number.

She walked over and picked up the device. Her thumb swiped across the screen.

It wasn't a text from Rosa. It was an anonymous, encrypted email. The subject line was empty. The only content was a cloud video link that required no password.

A cold prickle of unease crawled up the back of her neck.

She tapped the link. The screen buffered for a second before a high-definition security feed filled the display.

The time stamp in the corner indicated the footage was from exactly one hour ago. The location was the penthouse suite of this very hotel.

Cordelia's breath hitched.

On the screen, her fiancé, Julian, was pushed against the edge of a king-sized bed. His hands were tangled in the blonde hair of the woman straddling him.

The woman threw her head back and laughed.

It was Isabelle. Cordelia's stepsister.

"Julian, stop," Isabelle moaned in the video, her voice echoing through the phone's small speaker. "What if Cordelia comes up here?"

"She won't," Julian panted, his mouth moving down Isabelle's neck. "She's busy playing the perfect bride. Besides, you said you took care of her staff."

"I did." Isabelle smirked, looking down at him. "A hundred thousand dollars was all it took for Marlene to send Rosa away on a fake errand. We have the whole floor to ourselves."

Cordelia's stomach violently dropped.

A wave of pure, acidic nausea rushed up her throat. She clamped a hand over her mouth, swallowing down the bile.

Her heart kicked into a frantic, painful rhythm against her ribs.

She stared at the screen. Her fingers gripped the edges of the phone so tightly that her knuckles turned a stark, bone-white. The metal casing dug into her palm, but she couldn't feel the pain.

Four years of building a relationship. Four years of compromising her own architectural firm to support his family's business.

All of it was a lie.

The shock only lasted for ten seconds. Then, the cold set in.

It started in her fingertips and spread through her veins like ice water, freezing the nausea and replacing it with a sharp, absolute fury.

Cordelia didn't cry. She didn't scream.

She tapped the screen, copied the video file, and opened her messaging app. She found the contact for the AV technician working the ballroom tonight-a college student she had personally sponsored two years ago.

She pasted the file and typed a single sentence: Play this on the main screens when I give the signal. Lock the booth.

She hit send.

Cordelia dropped the phone into her designer clutch. She turned around, her posture rigid, and walked toward the heavy oak door.

She grabbed the brass handle and pulled it open.

Marlene, her trusted housekeeper of five years, was standing right outside.

"Miss Cordelia!" Marlene jumped slightly, then quickly plastered a warm, practiced smile on her face. "You look absolutely breathtaking. Are you ready to go down?"

Cordelia stared at her. Her eyes were dead, stripping the older woman down to nothing.

"A hundred thousand dollars," Cordelia said. Her voice was flat, devoid of any human emotion.

Marlene's fake smile froze. The color instantly drained from her face, leaving her looking like a corpse. "I... I don't know what you mean, Miss."

"You took a hundred thousand dollars from Isabelle to leave me isolated tonight." Cordelia stepped closer. "You're fired, Marlene. Pack your things and leave my property by midnight. My lawyers will contact you in the morning regarding the breach of your NDA."

"Miss, please, let me explain-"

Cordelia didn't wait. She walked right past the trembling woman.

Her high heels clicked against the marble floor of the hallway. Each step was a hammer striking a nail into the coffin of her past life.

She reached the grand double doors of the main ballroom. The muffled sound of applause bled through the thick wood.

Cordelia pushed the doors open.

The blinding light of the crystal chandeliers hit her eyes. The ballroom was packed with hundreds of New York's elite.

Up on the main stage, Julian was holding a microphone. He wore a custom tuxedo, looking every bit the perfect, devoted fiancé.

"Cordelia is my rock," Julian said to the crowd, placing a hand over his heart. "I am the luckiest man alive to make her my wife."

High above the crowd, in the shadowed VIP balcony on the second floor, a man sat in a leather armchair.

Justice Duncan swirled the amber liquid in his crystal whiskey glass. His dark, predatory eyes locked onto Cordelia the second she entered the room.

He slowly reached up and adjusted his platinum cufflink, his gaze never leaving her rigid frame.

Down below, Julian spotted her. He smiled brightly and walked down the steps of the stage, extending his hand toward her.

"There she is," Julian announced through the mic. "My beautiful bride."

Cordelia kept walking.

When Julian reached for her fingers, she smoothly shifted her weight and stepped around him. She didn't even look at him.

She felt the confusion ripple through the crowd. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Isabelle standing near the front row, a smug, victorious smirk playing on her lips.

Cordelia walked straight up the stairs and stopped in the dead center of the stage.

She turned around to face the sea of guests. She reached out and snatched the microphone right out of Julian's hand as he hurried up behind her.

"Cordelia, what are you doing?" Julian whispered, his smile straining.

Cordelia ignored him. She raised her free hand in the air.

She snapped her fingers.

The massive LED screens behind the stage, which had been displaying their engagement photos, suddenly went black.

A second later, the high-definition security footage flashed onto the screens.

The top-tier surround sound system blasted Isabelle's moans into every corner of the silent ballroom.

"Julian, stop... What if Cordelia comes up here?"

The entire room collectively gasped. The sound sucked the air out of the massive space.

Dead silence followed, broken only by the disgusting, wet sounds of the betrayal echoing from the speakers. Then, the room exploded into chaotic whispers and shouts.

Julian's face turned the color of wet ash. He spun around, staring at the screen in pure horror.

"Turn it off!" Julian screamed, waving his arms frantically at the AV booth in the back. "Cut the power! Now!"

No one in the booth moved. The video kept playing.

In the front row, Isabelle shrieked. She threw her hands over her face and tried to duck behind her mother, Eleanor, but the flashes of a dozen paparazzi cameras had already found her.

Alistair, Cordelia's father, rushed toward the stage. His face was purple with rage.

"Cordelia! Shut this down right now!" Alistair roared over the noise. "Think about the family's reputation! You are ruining everything!"

Cordelia looked down at her father. A cold, humorless laugh escaped her lips.

She opened her clutch. She pulled out a thick stack of legal documents.

It was the prenuptial agreement. A contract worth hundreds of millions, tying her firm to Julian's sinking family business.

Cordelia held the papers up to the microphone.

She gripped the top of the stack and pulled her hands apart.

The sharp, violent sound of thick paper tearing ripped through the speakers.

She tore the contract in half. Then she put the pieces together and tore them again.

Her knuckles were white. Her breathing was steady.

She threw her hands up. The shredded pieces of the prenup fluttered down like dirty snow, landing on Julian's shoulders and hair.

"The engagement is canceled," Cordelia spoke into the mic, her voice cutting through the chaos like a steel blade. "And as per the infidelity clause in the draft you just watched me destroy, my legal team will be seizing your family's remaining liquid assets by tomorrow morning."

Julian fell to his knees, his hands grabbing at the torn pieces of paper on the floor.

Cordelia reached for her left hand. She grabbed the massive diamond ring on her finger and yanked it off.

She threw it hard. The heavy metal hit Julian squarely in the chest and bounced off, rolling away into the shadows.

Cordelia dropped the microphone. It hit the stage with a loud, piercing feedback screech.

She turned her back on the stage, the screaming crowd, and her ruined family. She walked toward the exit, her spine completely straight.

The gossip reporters at the back of the room surged forward like a pack of starving wolves, blocking the main doors.

Up in the VIP balcony, Justice Duncan set his whiskey glass down on the table. The glass made a sharp clink.

He looked at the head of his security detail standing in the shadows behind him.

"Clear the floor," Justice ordered. His voice was low, rough, and absolute. "Get her out of there."

The blinding white flashes of the cameras stabbed into Cordelia's eyes.

She squinted, raising a hand to shield her face as she pushed through the heavy doors into the hotel lobby. The reporters swarmed her, shoving microphones practically into her mouth.

"Cordelia! Did you know about the affair before tonight?"

"Are you really suing the groom's family?"

The noise was deafening. The air in the lobby grew hot and suffocating, thick with the smell of cheap cologne and sweat.

Suddenly, a heavy hand clamped down on her wrist.

The grip was brutal, digging into her delicate skin. Cordelia gasped as she was violently yanked backward.

She stumbled in her heels and looked up. It was her father, Alistair.

His eyes were bloodshot, the veins in his neck bulging against his tight collar.

"You stupid, arrogant girl," Alistair hissed, his saliva hitting her cheek. "Do you have any idea what you just did? You just destroyed our reputation in front of every major investor in the city! Our partners will be pulling out by morning! You are going to march back in there and tell them it was a deepfake!"

"Let go of me," Cordelia demanded. Her stomach twisted at the smell of scotch on his breath.

Before Alistair could respond, Eleanor, her stepmother, pushed through the crowd. Her face was twisted in an ugly snarl.

Eleanor raised her hand high, aiming a vicious slap right at Cordelia's face to create a distraction for the cameras.

Cordelia's reflexes kicked in.

She didn't flinch. She shot her free arm up and caught Eleanor's forearm mid-swing.

The impact sent a shockwave up Cordelia's elbow. She gripped Eleanor's wrist tightly and shoved her backward with all her strength.

Eleanor stumbled in her gown and crashed into a potted fern.

"Don't you ever touch me again," Cordelia warned, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

"Cordelia! Wait!"

Julian burst through the doors. He was sweating profusely, his bowtie hanging loose around his neck. He shoved a reporter aside and lunged at Cordelia, wrapping his arms around her waist.

"Please, baby, please," Julian begged, his voice cracking. He buried his face in her shoulder. "I'll do anything. I'll send Isabelle to Europe tonight. You'll never have to see her again. Just don't leave me."

The physical contact made Cordelia's skin crawl. The smell of his sweat mixed with Isabelle's perfume hit her nose, making her throat burn with bile.

She planted her hands on his chest and shoved him off.

As Julian stumbled back, Cordelia swung her hand.

Smack.

The slap was incredibly loud. It echoed through the massive lobby, silencing the shouting reporters for one stunned second.

Julian's head snapped to the side. A bright red handprint bloomed across his pale cheek.

The camera shutters went into a frenzy, capturing the exact moment of impact.

Julian slowly turned his head back. The pathetic, begging look in his eyes was gone. It was replaced by a dark, venomous rage.

"You bitch," Julian spat, rubbing his jaw. "You think you can walk away from me? I will use every connection my family has. I will blackball your architectural firm so fast you won't be able to design a doghouse in this city."

Cordelia stood her ground, but her heart hammered against her ribs. She knew he wasn't bluffing. Her firm was her life's work, and he had the power to crush it.

Suddenly, the temperature in the lobby seemed to plummet.

A heavy, synchronized sound of footsteps echoed from the grand staircase.

Four men dressed in identical, impeccably tailored black suits descended into the lobby. They moved with terrifying efficiency, stepping into the crowd of reporters and physically shoving them apart.

They cut through the mob like a hot knife through butter, creating a wide, empty path.

Then, he appeared.

Justice Duncan stepped out of the shadows of the stairwell. He wore a custom three-piece suit that screamed old money and absolute power. His posture was relaxed, but his presence suffocated the room.

He didn't walk; he glided, his dark eyes fixed entirely on Cordelia.

Alistair saw him and instantly let go of Cordelia's wrist. The older man physically shrank, his arrogant posture crumbling.

"Mr... Mr. Duncan," Alistair stammered, his voice trembling. "We didn't know you were attending."

Justice didn't even glance at Alistair. He didn't look at Julian. To the most powerful man on Wall Street, they were nothing but dust on the floor.

Justice stopped right in front of Cordelia.

He was a full head taller than her. He looked down, his gaze tracing the angry red mark on her wrist where her father had grabbed her, then moving to her flushed cheeks.

He reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a dark silk handkerchief.

Justice reached out and gently took Cordelia's right hand-the hand she had used to slap Julian.

Cordelia's breath hitched. His fingers were warm and slightly rough.

Justice slowly, deliberately wiped the palm of her hand with the silk fabric.

"You shouldn't dirty your hands on trash," Justice said. His voice was a low, magnetic rumble that sent a shiver straight down Cordelia's spine.

Julian's face turned purple with humiliation. He opened his mouth to yell, but one look from Justice's dead, black eyes pinned him to the floor. Julian swallowed hard, completely paralyzed by the sheer weight of Justice's capital dominance.

Justice dropped the handkerchief onto the marble floor.

He turned his head slightly, finally addressing the sea of cameras. He didn't raise his voice, but it carried to the back of the room.

"Miss Nguyen is under my protection as of this moment," Justice announced.

The reporters stared at him in stunned silence. No one dared to take a picture.

"Three months ago, at the charity gala, Miss Nguyen did the Duncan family a favor," Justice continued smoothly, feeding them a perfect, impenetrable lie. "The Duncan family always pays its debts."

The reporters exchanged nervous glances. No one questioned the King of Wall Street. Slowly, they lowered their cameras.

Justice turned back to Cordelia. He raised his large hand and placed it firmly on the small of her back.

The heat of his palm burned right through the silk of her wedding dress.

"Walk with me," Justice murmured, his lips brushing dangerously close to her ear. It wasn't a request. It was a command.

Cordelia's mind raced. She looked at her furious father and her humiliated ex-fiancé. She knew this was her only clean exit.

She nodded once.

Justice guided her toward the glass doors. His bodyguards formed an impenetrable wall around them.

Outside, a torrential downpour had started. The rain lashed against the pavement.

The bodyguards instantly popped open massive black umbrellas, completely shielding Cordelia and Justice from the storm and the prying eyes of the street.

A sleek, armored Maybach was idling at the curb.

Justice reached out and opened the heavy rear door himself. He shielded her head with his hand as she slid into the plush leather interior.

He got in after her and the door slammed shut, instantly cutting off the sound of the rain and the sirens.

The cabin was dead silent. It smelled faintly of expensive cedar and rain.

The Maybach pulled away from the curb smoothly, leaving the Plaza Hotel and her toxic family disappearing into the rearview mirror.

Cordelia sat stiffly against the door, her adrenaline crashing. Her hands began to shake.

Justice reached over to the built-in bar console. He poured a glass of room-temperature water and held it out to her.

Cordelia took it, her fingers brushing against his.

She looked up. Justice was watching her. His eyes were deep, unreadable, and intensely focused on her face.

He had saved her. But as she stared into his dark eyes, her stomach tightened with a new, entirely different kind of fear.

She had just escaped a pack of wolves, only to willingly climb into the cage of a tiger.

The Maybach glided silently into the private underground garage of the tallest residential skyscraper in Manhattan.

The exclusive elevator doors opened directly into Justice's penthouse.

Cordelia stepped out, her heels sinking into the thick, imported rug. The space was massive, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a panoramic view of the storm raging over the city.

She clutched the glass of water he had given her in the car. Her knuckles were white again.

"Thank you for getting me out of there," Cordelia said, her voice tight. She stayed near the elevator, refusing to move further into his territory. "How exactly do you expect me to repay this favor, Mr. Duncan?"

Justice walked past her toward the windows. He unbuttoned his suit jacket with one hand, his movements slow and deliberate.

He turned around and picked up a thick manila folder from a glass coffee table.

He tossed it. The folder slid across the smooth glass and stopped right at the edge, inches from Cordelia.

The seal of the most ruthless law firm in New York was stamped on the cover.

"I need a wife," Justice said. His tone was as cold and sterile as a surgeon's scalpel. "Someone with a spotless background. Someone who looks perfect in front of the cameras."

Cordelia's lungs forgot how to pull in air. She stared at the folder, then up at him. "Excuse me?"

"Open it," he commanded.

Cordelia set the water glass down. Her fingers trembled slightly as she broke the seal and pulled out the thick stack of papers.

It was a marriage contract.

Her eyes scanned the bold print. The terms were brutal but incredibly lucrative. A five-year marriage. In exchange, he would legally force her father to release her mother's trust fund to her, and he would inject fifty million dollars into her architectural firm by tomorrow morning.

Cordelia felt a bitter laugh bubble up in her throat. "This is absurd. You are Justice Duncan. You could have any woman in the world. Why do you need a contract marriage?"

Justice reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He pulled out a glossy photograph and dropped it onto the table next to the contract.

"Because of him," Justice said.

Cordelia looked down.

It was a picture of a little boy, no older than four. He was wearing a tiny tailored suit. He had jet-black hair and striking, icy blue eyes. But it was his expression that caught her off guard-he looked entirely too serious, too guarded for a child.

"My heir. Leo," Justice stated, his voice devoid of any paternal warmth. "The family trust dictates that I must provide a stable, two-parent household for him before my thirty-fifth birthday, or I forfeit my voting rights on the board. He needs a mother. You need protection and capital. It is a mutually beneficial transaction."

The moment Cordelia's eyes locked onto the boy's face in the photo, a violent, physical reaction tore through her body.

Her chest tightened so painfully she gasped. A sharp, inexplicable ache bloomed right behind her ribs. Her fingers twitched, an overwhelming urge to reach out and touch the glossy paper washing over her.

She swallowed hard, forcing the bizarre emotion down. She couldn't let him see her crack.

"Marriage isn't a business transaction to me," Cordelia said, her voice shaking slightly. She dropped the contract back onto the table. "I need time to think."

Justice didn't argue. He didn't push.

He simply reached into his pocket, pulled out an unlimited black titanium credit card, and placed it on top of the contract.

"My driver will take you to a secure penthouse I own in Tribeca," Justice said, turning his back to her to look out at the rain. "Take the night."

Cordelia didn't touch the card. She turned and pressed the elevator button.

The ride down to the garage felt like descending into a grave.

As the elevator dropped, a sudden, violent wave of dizziness hit her. The walls seemed to spin. Her stomach lurched, much worse than the nausea she felt at the hotel.

She clamped a hand over her mouth, leaning heavily against the cold metal wall.

She thought it was just the adrenaline crashing, the stress of the ruined engagement. But as the nausea persisted, a cold dread began to pool in her gut.

The elevator doors opened. The driver was waiting by the Maybach.

"Miss Nguyen, to Tribeca?" the driver asked respectfully.

Cordelia shook her head, swallowing the bile. "No. Take me to the Upper East Side. Dr. Aris's private clinic."

The clinic was completely empty at this hour. The sterile smell of rubbing alcohol and bleach made Cordelia's stomach churn even more.

She sat in the private waiting room, her arms wrapped tightly around her waist. They had drawn her blood twenty minutes ago.

The door clicked open. Dr. Aris, an older woman with kind eyes, walked in holding a tablet.

She smiled. "Congratulations, Cordelia."

Cordelia's brain short-circuited. "What?"

"Your HCG levels are very high," Dr. Aris said, turning the tablet to show her the graph. "Based on the HCG levels, you are roughly six weeks pregnant. The fetal development looks perfectly normal."

Six weeks.

The words hit Cordelia like a physical blow to the head. The room tilted.

A loud ringing started in her ears, drowning out the doctor's voice.

Six weeks ago.

Her memory violently ripped her back to a business trip in Las Vegas. She had been desperate to secure an investor for her firm. She had drank too much champagne at the casino bar.

She remembered stumbling into a dark hotel suite. She remembered a man.

She couldn't see his face in the dark, but she remembered his scent. Cedar and rain. She remembered the sheer size of him, the rough texture of his hands, the absolute, terrifying dominance in the way he touched her.

The scent. The hands.

Cordelia stopped breathing.

The silhouette of the man in the dark Vegas room perfectly, horrifyingly aligned with the man who had just handed her a marriage contract thirty minutes ago.

Justice Duncan.

Cordelia slapped her hand over her mouth to muffle a sob. She fell back into the chair, her legs completely giving out.

She had just rejected a marriage proposal from the most dangerous man in the city. And she was carrying his child.

She grabbed the printout of the lab results, crushing the paper in her fist until her nails cut into her palm. Panic, thick and suffocating, dragged her under.

Suddenly, the silence of the clinic was shattered by a sharp vibration.

Her phone was buzzing in her clutch.

Cordelia jumped. She reached in with trembling fingers and pulled it out.

The caller ID flashed brightly on the screen.

Justice Duncan.

He shouldn't have this number. She had never given it to him.

Cordelia stared at the screen, her heart hammering against her throat. She took three deep, ragged breaths, trying to force her vocal cords to work.

She swiped to answer and pressed the phone to her ear.

"Hello?" she whispered.

"Have you signed the contract yet, Cordelia?" Justice's deep, cold voice vibrated through the speaker. He sounded completely calm, a stark contrast to her spiraling panic. "Did you really think you could walk into a clinic on the Upper East Side without my knowledge? Dr. Aris is an old family friend. Her private practice has been quietly funded by Duncan Capital for a decade. She keeps me thoroughly informed."