Healed By The Ruthless Billionaire's Touch

Abigail pushed through the heavy glass doors of Vance Media headquarters. Her heels clicked sharply against the pristine marble floor.

She gripped the leather folder in her right hand. Inside was the finalized investment contract. It was a lifeline for the company, and she couldn't wait to see the look on Preston's face.

The receptionist at the front desk jerked upright. Her eyes widened in a sudden, frantic panic.

She opened her mouth, her hand reaching for the desk phone.

Abigail noticed the erratic movement. She offered a warm smile and waved her hand, signaling that no announcement was necessary.

She bypassed the desk and walked straight to the executive elevator. The receptionist found her voice, half-standing. "Ms. Bruce, wait, you can't-!"

Abigail stopped dead. She slowly turned her head. She locked eyes with the terrified girl and delivered a single, ice-cold glare that promised absolute professional destruction if she spoke another word. The receptionist swallowed hard, her hand dropping away from the phone, paralyzed by the sheer authority radiating from Abigail.

Abigail swiped her keycard. The doors slid shut, cutting off the receptionist's pale, defeated face.

The elevator chimed at the top floor. The doors parted.

The hallway was dead silent. The heavy blinds of the CEO's office were pulled tight, blocking out the California sun.

Abigail walked over the thick carpet. She stopped in front of Preston's solid mahogany door.

She raised her knuckles to knock.

A sound leaked through the narrow crack of the door.

It was a wet, breathless moan.

Abigail's knuckles froze in the air. Her lungs stopped expanding.

"Preston..."

The voice was sweet. Too sweet. It belonged to Lorelai Thorne, the agency's top-tier actress. The woman Preston publicly claimed as his stepsister.

Abigail's stomach dropped. A cold sweat broke out across her neck.

She leaned forward. Her body moved without her permission. She pressed her ear near the cold wood.

"Someone will see us," Lorelai giggled, her tone dripping with raw invitation.

"Let them," Preston's voice rumbled. It was the same voice that whispered he loved Abigail every night. "As long as I have that scarred, ugly bitch playing the perfect shield, no one will ever suspect a thing."

The words hit Abigail like a physical blow to the chest.

A sharp, violent spike of pain erupted in her left cheek. The thick, jagged scar tissue burned as if someone had pressed a lit match against her skin.

She bit down on her lower lip. Hard.

The metallic taste of blood flooded her mouth. It forced her to swallow her own scream.

The crushing weight of sadness vanished. It was instantly replaced by a cold, clinical numbness. Her brain shifted into a terrifying state of absolute clarity.

She placed her palm flat against the wood. She pushed the door open just a fraction of an inch.

Her eyes adjusted to the dim light.

A custom-made couture gown lay discarded on the Persian rug. Preston's silk tie was tangled in the tulle.

On the leather sofa, Preston was pinning Lorelai down. Their bodies moved together in a frantic, disgusting rhythm.

Abigail didn't blink. Her chest rose and fell in slow, measured breaths.

She pulled her hand back. She let the door settle back into its frame without making a single sound.

She turned away from the office. Her steps were lighter now. More calculated.

She walked down the corridor toward the security and monitoring room.

She typed her co-founder master passcode into the keypad. The heavy metal door clicked open.

The security guard on duty immediately sat up, his hand hovering over his radio. "Ms. Bruce? What are you doing down here?"

Abigail didn't miss a beat. She channeled every ounce of her executive authority, her voice slicing through the quiet room. "We have a potential data breach in the executive suite network. I need you to go physically check the server room on floor three. Right now. I'll monitor the floor feeds from here."

The guard hesitated for a fraction of a second, but her co-founder status carried absolute weight. "Yes, ma'am." He grabbed his flashlight and hurried out the door.

The moment the heavy metal door clicked shut behind him, Abigail stepped past the empty desk. She slid into the main console chair.

Her fingers flew across the keyboard. She pulled up the hidden camera feed for the CEO's office.

The screen flickered to life. It displayed a crystal-clear, high-definition view of the sofa.

She stared at the monitor. She watched the man she was supposed to marry. She felt absolutely nothing. They looked like two dead bodies to her.

She reached into her designer bag and pulled out a silver, encrypted USB drive.

She shoved it into the server port.

The progress bar appeared on the screen. It crawled forward.

Abigail kept her eyes locked on the door. Her palms were slick with cold sweat. The nerve endings in her face throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache.

A sharp beep signaled the download was complete. The sound was deafening in the quiet room.

She yanked the USB drive out.

Her fingers danced over the keys one last time. She wiped her access logs clean. She erased every digital footprint of her presence in the system.

Abigail slipped out of the security room. She bypassed the main lobby entirely, taking the service elevator down to the basement garage.

She walked out into the blinding Los Angeles sunlight.

She squinted. She turned around and stared up at the massive Vance Media logo bolted to the side of the glass building.

Her fingers curled tightly around the silver USB drive in her pocket. The sharp metal edges bit into her skin.

She had just signed their death warrants.

Abigail sat in the driver's seat of her Porsche.

Her hands gripped the leather steering wheel so hard her knuckles turned a stark, bone-white.

The phone on the passenger seat vibrated. The screen lit up.

Preston.

Bile rose in the back of her throat. Her stomach twisted into a violent knot. The urge to vomit was overwhelming.

She closed her eyes. She forced her facial muscles to relax. She took a deep, shuddering breath.

She tapped the speaker button.

"Hey, beautiful," Preston's voice filled the car. It was smooth, warm, and sickeningly gentle. "How was the trip? Did you land the investment?"

Abigail swallowed the acid in her throat.

"Everything went perfectly," she said. Her voice was steady. Professional. "I'm on my way back to the office right now."

"Wait, don't come in just yet," Preston interrupted. His tone shifted. It became urgent.

"Why?"

"I need a massive favor. You need to call Julian Finch. Right now."

Abigail stared at the dashboard. Julian Finch was Hollywood's most elusive director. He was her personal contact.

"Julian is casting for 'Echoes of the Dark'," Preston continued. "Lorelai needs that lead role, Abigail. You have to make it happen."

Abigail let three seconds of dead silence pass.

"Preston, Lorelai doesn't have the acting chops for a Finch movie. It's a heavy drama. She'll be eaten alive on set."

Preston's voice dropped an octave. The warmth vanished. The manipulative, authoritative edge bled through.

"She is my sister, Abigail. She is family. And soon, she'll be your family, too. We don't hold back resources from family."

The scar on Abigail's left cheek pulsed with a sharp, stabbing pain.

She looked up at the rearview mirror. She stared at the jagged, angry red tissue that ruined her face.

A cold smile stretched across her lips.

"Fine," Abigail said. "But a favor from Julian costs. Are you willing to give up ten percent of the company's backend profits for the fourth quarter to secure this?"

"Yes," Preston answered instantly. He didn't even hesitate.

"That's a lot of money, Preston."

"I don't care," he snapped. "As long as Lorelai gets what she wants, I'll pay whatever it takes. Just get it done."

The absolute desperation in his voice solidified everything. Lorelai was his priority. Abigail was just a tool.

The ice in her veins froze solid.

"Okay," Abigail softened her voice, faking a sigh of defeat. "I'll go see Julian this afternoon."

"You're the best, Abby. Truly. The perfect partner."

Before the call disconnected, Abigail heard a faint, breathy giggle in the background.

The line went dead.

The silence in the car was suffocating.

Abigail slammed her foot down on the gas pedal.

The Porsche roared to life, tearing down the Los Angeles freeway. She rolled the windows down. The wind whipped her hair across her face, stinging her cheeks.

She pulled into the private garage of her apartment building.

She walked through her front door and hurled her car keys onto the entryway console. They hit the wood with a loud crack.

She marched straight to the liquor cabinet.

She grabbed a bottle of neat whiskey, poured a generous measure into a crystal glass, and threw it back.

The alcohol burned a fiery trail down her throat. It numbed the shaking in her hands.

She walked over to the marble kitchen island. She pulled the silver USB drive from her pocket and set it down.

It sat there, gleaming under the pendant lights. A loaded gun.

She opened her laptop.

She navigated to the internal PR coordination portal for the Star Awards.

As the senior crisis consultant for the event, she had a backdoor login credential to the live broadcast routing system.

She pulled up the minute-by-minute run of show.

Her eyes scanned the spreadsheet until they locked onto the 9:45 PM slot.

Best Actress in a Leading Role.

Lorelai Thorne was the frontrunner.

The corner of Abigail's mouth twitched upward.

She opened the administrative broadcast terminal. As the senior crisis consultant for the event, she possessed the emergency override credentials designed to cut the feed in case of a live disaster. She didn't need to write complex code; she just needed to redirect the feed. Her fingers began to fly across the keys, re-routing the emergency broadcast protocol to pull from the hidden video file she had just uploaded. She set a delayed execution timer.

She was going to give them the biggest audience they had ever had.

The Star Awards bathed the Dolby Theatre in blinding white light.

Camera flashes exploded like strobe lights across the red carpet.

Abigail sat in a VIP box on the second tier. The lights inside the booth were turned off.

She wore a high-necked, long-sleeved black gown. Her dark hair was swept to the left, deliberately hiding the scar on her cheek.

She looked down at the floor.

Preston and Lorelai were sitting in the front row. Lorelai wore a glittering, custom-made dress. Preston had his arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders. The perfect, supportive brother.

The ceremony dragged on. The television ratings hit their absolute peak.

A veteran actor walked up to the microphone on the main stage.

"And now, the award for Best Actress in a Leading Role."

Abigail opened the small laptop resting on her knees. The blue light illuminated her cold, unblinking eyes.

She hit the enter key.

The pre-programmed override deployed. It seamlessly hijacked the control room's mainframe using her high-level security clearance.

Behind the presenter, the massive LED screen split into four boxes to show the nominees.

When it was Lorelai's turn, the screen violently glitched.

A loud, piercing screech of static ripped through the theater's sound system.

The audience gasped. People shifted in their seats.

In the control booth, technicians were screaming, slamming their fists against locked keyboards.

Abigail's code had frozen the master override.

The LED screen went black for a fraction of a second.

Then, the high-definition security footage from Preston's office filled the massive display.

Preston and Lorelai were on the screen. Naked. Tangled together on the leather sofa.

The audio was pristine.

"As long as I have that scarred, ugly bitch playing the perfect shield..."

Preston's voice boomed through the Dolby Theatre's state-of-the-art surround sound.

The entire auditorium went dead silent. Two thousand people stopped breathing at the exact same time.

Then, the room exploded.

Screams, gasps, and shouts tore through the air.

Down in the front row, all the blood drained from Lorelai's face. She looked like a corpse. She threw her hands over her face and tried to slide down into her seat.

Preston leaped to his feet. His face was purple with rage. He pointed at the stage, screaming at the producers to cut the feed.

Every single camera in the room whipped away from the stage. The red recording lights zeroed in on Preston and Lorelai.

Abigail's phone vibrated against her leg. Twitter had just crashed.

She sat in the dark box. She watched the absolute destruction of their lives.

She picked up a crystal flute of champagne from the side table and took a slow sip.

Her phone began to ring endlessly. PR executives, journalists, board members.

She switched the phone to airplane mode.

Security guards rushed down the aisles, but it was too late. The paparazzi had already swarmed the front row, trapping the fake siblings in a cage of flashing lights.

Abigail closed her laptop. She pulled the connector cable out and shoved the machine into her bag.

She stood up. She didn't look back.

She pushed open the door of the VIP box and walked down the private exit corridor.

She stepped out into the back alley of the theater. The cool night air hit her face.

She expected to feel triumphant. Instead, a hollow, gaping emptiness clawed at her chest.

A sudden, vicious spike of pain shot through her left cheek.

The nerve endings in her scar screamed. It was a blinding, agonizing throb.

Abigail gasped. She slammed her hand over her face, leaning her weight against the rough brick wall.

Her knees buckled slightly. She needed to numb this. She needed alcohol. Now.

She lifted her head and looked across the street.

The Grand Elysium Hotel loomed against the night sky.

Abigail pulled her coat tight around her shoulders and walked toward the underground bar.