Married To The Ruthless Disgraced Billionaire

The heavy iron door of Danbury Federal Correctional Institution slammed shut behind me. The sharp metallic clang vibrated through the soles of my ill-fitting shoes, traveling straight up my spine.

The harsh autumn sun hit my face, instantly blinding me. I threw my hand up to shield my eyes, a wave of intense vertigo making my stomach pitch.

"Move it," a guard barked.

He shoved a clear plastic bag of my personal belongings into my chest. The sharp, heat-sealed edge of the plastic sliced across the back of my hand. A thin line of blood welled up. The sting was sharp, but I bit down hard on my lower lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

I looked down through the cheap plastic. One outdated dress. A twenty-dollar bill. That was it. That was the sum total of my existence. A massive, suffocating weight dropped onto my chest, squeezing my lungs until I couldn't pull in a full breath.

I scanned the empty visitor parking lot. The asphalt was cracked and vacant. No sleek black town cars. No Schroeder family driver waiting with a polite nod.

Nothing.

The cold realization seeped into my bones, freezing me from the inside out. I was entirely, utterly abandoned.

A biting autumn wind whipped across the lot, slicing right through the thin fabric of my dress. I wrapped my arms tightly around my ribs, trying to hold my own body heat, but violent shivers wracked my frame.

I started walking. The Greyhound bus station was two miles away. With every step, the stiff leather of my old shoes ground into my heels. Blisters formed and popped, sending shooting, white-hot pain up my calves.

I pulled out my outdated cell phone, my fingers stiff and clumsy from the cold. I dialed the number of the woman I used to call my best friend. The screen lit up, casting a pathetic glow, before an automated voice informed me the number had been disconnected.

My thumb hovered over the keypad. I killed the screen. The last thread of my fantasy snapped.

A sleek silver sedan slowed down as it drove past me on the shoulder. The passenger window rolled down, and a woman in designer sunglasses peered out. I recognized her vaguely from the country club my family used to own. She pulled her phone out, snapping a quick photo of my pathetic, shivering state, a cruel, mocking smirk twisting her lips before the car sped off. The blatant humiliation cut deeper than the cold, a stark reminder that I was nothing but a spectacle to the world I once belonged to.

I stopped walking. I closed my eyes, took a ragged breath, and forced the burning sensation in my tear ducts to recede. Crying was a luxury I couldn't afford.

When I finally limped up to the ticket counter, the clerk took one look at my damp, ruined dress and my bruised face. His upper lip curled in obvious disgust. I lowered the brim of my cheap cap, the humiliation burning my cheeks like acid.

I took the very last seat on the bus. The man next to me reeked of stale beer and unwashed clothes. The pungent smell made bile rise in my throat. I turned my head away, burying my nose deep into the collar of my damp dress, breathing through the thin fabric just to filter the foul air.

The Manhattan skyline eventually bled into view. The towering glass monoliths of Wall Street pierced the gray clouds. Memories of charity galas and penthouse suites-my life before the fraud conviction-flashed behind my eyes. A dull, suffocating ache bloomed in the center of my chest.

As the bus crawled through Times Square, a massive digital billboard flashed red. Breaking news.

"KAYDEN WASHINGTON OUSTED FROM BOARD OF DIRECTORS."

My eyes snapped wide open. My pupils dilated.

The screen showed raw footage of Kayden, the untouchable heir to the Washington empire, being physically dragged out of his own building by security guards. His suit was rumpled. His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated rage.

A harsh, cynical laugh scraped its way out of my throat. The universe had a sick sense of humor.

The bus hissed to a stop at a rundown downtown terminal. I grabbed my plastic bag and pushed my way off. The dense crowd of commuters slammed their shoulders into me, knocking me backward. I stumbled, barely catching my balance.

I found a cheap motel two blocks away. The lobby smelled like bleach and despair.

"Credit card for the authorization hold," the bored clerk demanded, not looking up.

I dug into my pocket, my fingers brushing against lint, and pulled out the crumpled twenty-dollar bill.

"Cash only," I rasped.

The clerk finally looked up. His eyes hardened. "Get out before I call the cops."

He shooed me out the glass doors just as the sky ripped open. A torrential downpour hit the pavement. Within seconds, my clothes were plastered to my skin. The cold was agonizing.

I ducked under the rotting awning of a corner store. My shaking fingers reached up to my neck, tracing the cold metal of my silver cross necklace. The only thing of value I had left. My stomach cramped violently with hunger.

I pushed off the brick wall and walked into the pawn shop next door, the neon 'OPEN' sign buzzing like an angry hornet.

The owner leaned over the glass counter. His greedy eyes scanned the necklace, then trailed down my soaked, clinging dress. He threw out a number so insultingly low it felt like a physical slap to the face.

"It's worth ten times that," I said, my voice shaking with cold and fury.

He tossed the necklace back onto the scratched glass. "Take it or leave it, sweetheart."

I swallowed the massive lump of pride lodged in my throat. My eyes burned. I took the few crumpled bills he handed me and walked out into the rain.

The moment I stepped into the dark alley beside the shop, three men stepped out from the shadows. The glowing cherry of a cigarette illuminated their malicious grins. Their eyes were locked on the cash in my hand.

I shoved the money down the front of my bra. I backed up until my spine hit the slick, wet brick wall. I dropped into a defensive stance. Five years in federal prison had stripped away the heiress and left an animal.

The leader lunged, his filthy hand reaching for the collar of my dress.

I didn't hesitate. I drove my knee upward with brutal force, connecting directly with his groin.

He let out a strangled, high-pitched scream and collapsed onto the wet asphalt, vomiting.

The other two men froze, then their faces twisted in rage. The sharp snick of switchblades echoed in the narrow alley. The steel caught the dim streetlights.

I clenched my fists so hard my fingernails broke the skin of my palms. Warm blood pooled in my hands.

Suddenly, a massive black Range Rover slammed on its brakes, sending a wave of dirty puddle water over the thugs' boots. The blinding high beams flipped on, washing the alley in harsh white light.

The driver's side door flew open. A wild-haired man leaped out. I didn't know him, but he moved with a terrifying, manic energy. He was swinging a titanium golf club and laughing hysterically, a sound that echoed off the brick walls like a warning siren.

The thugs took one look at the crazy man with the club and bolted down the alley.

The tinted rear window of the SUV rolled down with a smooth mechanical hum.

Kayden Washington sat in the shadows. His face was a mask of dark, brooding aggression. His deep-set eyes locked onto me, tracking my rapid breathing like a predator analyzing wounded prey.

"You're going to freeze to death out here," Kayden said. His voice was a low, gravelly rumble that cut right through the sound of the pouring rain.

He reached out the window. Pinched between his index and middle finger was a white plastic keycard.

"I need a shield for the media," he said, his tone leaving absolutely no room for negotiation. "You need a roof."

I stared at the keycard. The rain plastered my hair to my face. My lungs burned.

I stepped forward and snatched the card from his fingers. The sharp plastic edge dragged across the fresh cut on my palm, sending a jolt of pain up my arm.

I watched the red taillights of the Range Rover disappear into the storm. I gripped the card tightly. If I was going to survive, I had to make a deal with the devil.

The white keycard Kayden had given me was slick with rain. I turned it over in my fingers. On the back, someone had scrawled an address in permanent marker. Brooklyn.

I took a bus and walked five blocks, my wet shoes squeaking with every step. The Brooklyn apartment building looked like it was held together by graffiti and black mold.

I stood in front of the battered metal security door. I swiped the keycard through the reader. A green light blinked, and the lock clicked open.

I climbed three flights of stairs. The hallway smelled of mold and stale cigarettes. I found the apartment number and pressed the faulty doorbell with my numb, bleeding fingers.

The door was yanked open. A man stood there with wild hair sticking up in every direction. He looked me up and down, his eyes wide and unblinking, before letting out a high-pitched, mocking snort.

"Josef," a low voice called from inside the apartment. Kayden. "Let her in."

So that was his name. Josef.

I ignored him. I pushed my shoulder past his chest and forced my way inside.

The heavy stench of cheap cigars and stale coffee hit the back of my throat. I coughed, my lungs protesting the thick air.

Through the dim lighting of the cramped living room, I saw Kayden. He was standing in front of a massive whiteboard covered in complex financial algorithms. His broad back was to me, his posture radiating a lethal, coiled focus.

He turned around. His dark eyes swept over my shivering, dripping frame. He grabbed a clean towel from the back of a chair and threw it directly at my face. The heavy cotton hit me with a soft thud. It was a rough gesture, but the fabric was dry.

I pulled the towel off my face, scrubbed my wet hair, and dropped onto the sagging, torn sofa.

"What are the terms?" I demanded, looking straight into his eyes.

Kayden walked over. He towered over me, the sheer physical mass of him making the small room feel suffocating.

"You play my gold-digging fiancée," he said, his voice flat. "You keep the media off my back and block the arranged marriages my family is trying to force on me."

I let out a harsh, bitter laugh. "And what exactly do I get? Because I don't work for IOUs."

Kayden leaned down. He planted both hands on the back of the sofa, trapping me between his arms. His face was inches from mine. He smelled like expensive scotch and raw danger.

"I will find out exactly who framed you for the corporate fraud," he whispered, his breath hot against my cold cheek.

My heart physically skipped a beat. A jolt of adrenaline shot straight to my fingertips. I forced my face to remain entirely blank.

"I want a hundred thousand dollars. Cash. Upfront," I said, my voice steady despite the hammering in my chest.

Kayden raised a single, dark eyebrow. He looked mildly surprised by my audacity, but he didn't argue. He pulled a sleek black phone from his pocket, tapped the screen a few times, and routed the money through a hidden offshore account.

My cheap phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out. A bank notification flashed across the cracked screen. The phone was ancient, but the prepaid balance hadn't run out yet. The money was there. The tension in my neck muscles finally released.

"We need ground rules," I said, sitting up straighter.

In the cramped kitchen, Josef started violently slamming pots and pans into the sink. The deafening crash of metal on metal made my skull throb.

I snapped. I grabbed a green apple from the coffee table and hurled it with terrifying precision. It smashed directly into the wooden doorframe, inches from Josef's head, exploding into chunks.

"Shut up!" I screamed, my vocal cords tearing.

Josef blinked, looked at the smashed apple, and went completely silent.

Kayden's eyes darkened with a flash of genuine approval. He picked up a printed Non-Disclosure Agreement from the table and handed it to me along with a heavy metal pen.

The pen scratched loudly against the thick paper as I signed my name.

Before I could hand it back, a deafening crash shook the entire apartment. Someone was kicking the front door with enough force to make the plaster rain down from the ceiling in a fine white dust.

Kayden's eyes turned to ice. He grabbed my upper arm and shoved me hard behind his back.

Josef let out a gleeful chirp and slid a solid aluminum baseball bat from under the sofa.

The deadbolt splintered. The door flew open, slamming into the wall.

Three massive men stepped into the room. They wore cheap suits, but the Washington family security pins on their lapels gleamed in the dim light.

The lead thug sneered, revealing a gold tooth. "Look at the stray dog in his little pound. Benji sent us to clear out this property."

Kayden stared at them. There was no fear in his eyes. Only the cold, empty look of a man staring at corpses.

The thug took a step forward, reaching out to shove Kayden's chest.

I didn't think. The prison instincts took over. I darted out from behind Kayden, grabbed the heavy glass ashtray off the table, and smashed it down onto the edge of the coffee table.

The glass shattered with a violent crack. I gripped the jagged base, the sharp edges biting into my palm, and pointed the bloody, broken glass directly at the thug's throat.

"Get the hell out of my house," I snarled, my eyes wide and feral.

The thugs froze. They looked at the crazy woman bleeding onto the floor, genuinely unnerved.

That second of hesitation was all Josef needed. He lunged like a rabid dog, swinging the bat in a brutal arc. The sickening crack of breaking ribs echoed through the room as the lead thug collapsed, screaming.

Kayden moved with terrifying speed. He snatched a telescopic baton from the second thug's belt, flipped it open with a flick of his wrist, and drove the steel tip directly into the side of the man's neck. The thug's eyes rolled back, and he dropped like a stone.

The third man looked at his bleeding partners, turned, and sprinted down the hallway.

Kayden tossed the baton onto the floor. He turned slowly, his chest heaving slightly, and looked at me.

I was still holding the broken glass. My hands were shaking so violently I could barely keep my grip. I dropped the glass. It shattered into smaller pieces on the rug. I took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing oxygen back into my brain.

I looked up at Kayden. "I want hazard pay added to the contract."

The corner of Kayden's mouth twitched upward in a dark, almost imperceptible smirk. He took the signed NDA from my trembling hand.

"Pleasure doing business with you," he murmured.

He pointed a long finger toward the only bedroom down the narrow hall. "That one has a lock. It's yours."

The battered Range Rover pulled up to the curb in front of the towering glass facade of the Washington Group headquarters.

I looked down at my hand. The cuts from the broken glass were shallow but raw. Back at the apartment, before we left, I had rinsed them under cold tap water and wrapped a strip of torn bedsheet around my palm. The makeshift bandage was hidden inside the sleeve of the dark sweater Kayden had silently handed me-his, by the smell of cedar and smoke, but clean. It hung loose on my frame, but it was better than my ruined dress.

I flexed my fingers. A dull ache shot through the wound, but the bleeding had stopped. I tucked my injured hand into my pocket, keeping it out of sight.

The moment the tires stopped, the media descended. They swarmed the car like sharks smelling blood in the water.

I pushed my door open. A wall of blinding white camera flashes exploded in my face. The intense light seared my retinas, forcing me to squeeze my eyes shut.

Microphones were shoved aggressively toward my face. The reporters screamed questions, their voices blending into a deafening, malicious roar.

Kayden stepped out of the driver's side. He moved around the hood with long, predatory strides. Without a word, his large hand clamped firmly around my waist. He pulled me flush against his side, using his own body to shield me from the crushing weight of the crowd.

Even through the fabric of my dress, his palm felt branding-iron hot. My spine went rigid.

A female gossip reporter shoved her recorder inches from my mouth. "Christa! How does it feel to go from a Schroeder heiress to a convicted fraudster sleeping with a disgraced billionaire? Are you just desperate for cash?"

The words hit exactly where they were meant to. All the blood drained from my face. My stomach plummeted. My fingers curled inward, grabbing a fistful of Kayden's suit jacket, holding on like it was a lifeline. The motion pulled at the cut on my palm, sending a sharp sting up my arm, but I ignored it.

Kayden stopped walking. The temperature in the air seemed to drop ten degrees. He turned his head and pinned the reporter with a stare so lethally cold that the shouting around us instantly died down.

I took a sharp breath. The humiliation burned, but the anger burned hotter. I lifted my chin, forcing a mask of absolute, aristocratic arrogance onto my face.

I looked the reporter dead in the eye. "Your network's desperation is palpable. I can smell it from here. Perhaps you should focus on your plummeting ratings and the cheap, off-the-rack suit you're wearing instead of harassing people who are clearly out of your league. Learn some basic journalistic integrity before you bark at me like a stray dog."

The brutal, razor-sharp takedown left the reporter standing there with her mouth hanging open. The entire press pack fell into a stunned, dead silence.

Kayden looked down at me. A flash of dark amusement and genuine surprise sparked in his eyes. His grip on my waist tightened, and he used the silence to carve a path straight through the crowd and into the revolving glass doors of the lobby.

The blast of corporate air conditioning hit my flushed skin.

The lobby manager, a woman in a tight pencil skirt, saw us approaching. Her face immediately twisted into a sneer. She crossed her arms and stepped in front of the executive elevator bank.

"Mr. Washington, your access has been revoked," she said, her voice dripping with fake pity.

Two massive security guards stepped up behind her. Their hands rested heavily on the batons at their belts. They widened their stances, ready for a physical altercation.

I didn't step back. I stepped forward.

I reached out with my left hand-the uninjured one-and ripped the walkie-talkie straight off the shoulder strap of the lead guard. He was so shocked he didn't even react.

I pressed the transmit button. My voice was ice. "I have a recorded line to my attorney. Illegally detaining a citizen-even a former Schroeder-is a very, very expensive mistake. You have exactly three seconds to decide if your security firm can afford the kind of lawsuit that will bankrupt your entire operation by noon."

It was a bluff. I didn't have an attorney on retainer. But my voice carried the weight of someone who did.

The guard stared at me. The sheer, unyielding authority in my voice-the authority drilled into me from twenty-one years of living as a Schroeder-made him sweat. A bead of moisture rolled down his temple.

The manager swallowed hard. Her hands shook as she pulled her master keycard from her lanyard and swiped it against the scanner.

The elevator chimed a crisp, clear note. The stainless steel doors slid open.

We stepped inside. The doors closed, instantly cutting off the hostile stares of the lobby.

As the elevator shot upward, the sudden shift in gravity made my stomach swoop. Kayden dropped his hand from my waist. The sudden absence of his heat left a cold patch on my skin. I took a step to the side, re-establishing a safe physical distance.

Kayden leaned his broad shoulders against the mirrored wall. "Flawless acting back there. Your hand?"

I smoothed down the front of my dress, keeping my eyes fixed on the changing floor numbers.

"It's fine. Just a scratch." I flexed my fingers inside my pocket. The bandage was still dry. "It's called professional courtesy. You paid for a shield. Don't read into it."

The elevator chimed again. Floor 80.

We stepped out onto the plush carpet of the executive corridor. We walked to the massive double doors of Kayden's old corner office. The digital keypad lock was glowing red.

Through the thick mahogany, the unmistakable sound of a woman's breathy laughter and a man's low moan drifted into the hallway.

Kayden stopped dead. The muscles in his jaw feathered. His eyes turned into black, bottomless pits of rage. The air around him practically vibrated with violence.

I felt the shift in his energy. I stepped closer, closing the distance between us, and slid my arm through his.

I leaned in, my lips brushing against the collar of his shirt. "Ready for war, fiancé?" I whispered, my warm breath hitting the skin of his neck.

Kayden turned his head. His eyes locked onto mine for a fraction of a second. He pulled his arm free, grabbed my hand, intertwining our fingers tightly. The pressure was firm but careful, avoiding the tender part of my palm.

Without breaking stride, he lifted his heavy leather boot and kicked the mahogany door directly beside the lock.