Pampered By The Cruel Mafia Boss

Everlee Booker dragged her sprained right ankle out of the private elevator, the hem of her trench coat crusted with dried mud. Raw red rope burns throbbed across her palms from where she had sawed through the kidnappers' zip ties an hour ago.

She drew a shaky breath to slow her racing heart and pushed open the heavy oak double doors of the Boston penthouse.

Deafening jazz music and the blinding glare of a crystal champagne tower hit her instantly. Everlee threw a hand up to shield her eyes.

Peering through the crowd of Boston socialites, she froze. Hangings across the main stage was a massive silver banner that read: Happy 23rd Birthday Ayla.

Her arms, raised for a fifth-anniversary hug, dropped to her sides. It felt as if an invisible fist had reached into her chest and squeezed her heart until her lungs locked up. She curled her fingers, digging her fingernails deep into her bruised palms.

In the center of the room stood her husband, Jamison Ingram, the billionaire heir to the Ingram Corporation. Dressed in a bespoke three-piece suit, he was gently adjusting a cashmere shawl around a petite girl's shoulders.

Ayla Simon, the Ingram family's adopted daughter, leaned against Jamison like a proud swan. She was wearing the limited-edition couture gown Everlee had ordered for tonight, soaking in the guests' applause.

Whispers broke out near the entrance. Several guests turned, eyeing Everlee's muddy coat and tangled hair with open disgust.

Jamison glanced over. Behind his gold-rimmed glasses, his gray-blue eyes held zero concern-only annoyance at having his evening interrupted.

He strode through the crowd and stopped in front of her, lowering his voice to a harsh whisper.

"Where the hell have you been? Tonight is Ayla's birthday party. Look at what you're wearing. You're embarrassing me."

Everlee's throat burned like sandpaper. She raised her scratched arm and pointed at the silver banner.

"Jamison, today is our fifth wedding anniversary."

Before Jamison could answer, Ayla hurried over, lifting the hem of the stolen gown. She looped her arm through Jamison's and spoke in a syrupy, breathless voice.

"Please don't blame Jamison, Everlee. My health has been so poor lately, so he gave me your anniversary venue to cheer me up."

Ayla pressed a white embroidered handkerchief to her lips and let out a weak cough, though her eyes darted down to Everlee's muddy shoes with a triumphant glint.

Jamison immediately wrapped his arm around Ayla's waist, his frown deepening.

"Ayla has a weak heart. She can't handle stress. Do you really have to throw a tantrum today?"

Everlee stared into her husband's cold eyes. The terror of escaping a kidnapper's blade earlier tonight vanished, replaced by a bucket of ice water pouring from her head to her heels.

She parted her lips to tell him about the warehouse, but a sharp, arrogant voice cut through the air behind them.

"You are dragging the Ingram name through the mud."

Her mother-in-law, Beatrice Kensington, approached with a champagne flute in hand, looking down her nose at Everlee.

"An orphan with no family backing, and you can't even keep your husband's attention. Showing up looking like a street beggar just to make a jealous scene-pathetic."

Low snickers rippled through the surrounding circle of old-money elites. Every laugh felt like a heavy slap across Everlee's face.

Jamison didn't say a word to defend her. Instead, he rubbed the bridge of his nose impatiently.

"Enough. Go to the bedroom and change. Stop making a spectacle of yourself."

Everlee bit her lower lip until the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth. Looking at this family of Boston blue-bloods, a soft, icy laugh escaped her throat.

Not a single tear fell. When Jamison reached out to shove her shoulder toward the hallway, she slapped his hand away with enough force to make him stumble back.

"Don't touch me."

Her voice was raspy and dead cold.

Ayla gasped, clutching her chest as she shrank into Jamison's suit jacket, her eyes reddening on cue.

"Is Everlee mad at me? I'll tell the guests to leave right now..."

"Nobody is leaving! Ayla doesn't need to walk on eggshells around you!"

Jamison pulled Ayla behind him, glaring at his wife with blazing anger.

Everlee didn't spare the faux siblings another glance. Straightening her spine, she dragged her injured leg past the sneering crowd.

Her muddy boots left tracks across the Persian rug as she walked past the towering champagne glasses and down the long corridor to the master bedroom.

Pushing the door open, she saw the nightstand where their wedding photo usually sat. The frame was gone, buried under a pile of Ayla's torn birthday wrapping paper.

Everlee stepped inside and slammed the heavy oak door shut, locking out the music with a loud bang.

Her back hit the wood, and she slid slowly to the floor. Wrapping her arms around her knees, she let the violent tremors rack her body, while her amber eyes hardened into pure ice as she stared out at the dark Boston skyline.

Pushing herself up from the freezing hardwood floor, Everlee limped into the master bathroom and turned on the shower. Scalding water beat down on her skin, washing away the dried mud and blood left from the warehouse.

She stepped out and looked in the fogged mirror at the dark purple bruises blooming across her collarbone. Remembering the disgust in Jamison's eyes when he shielded Ayla, her lips curled into a cold, mocking smile.

After drying off, she slipped into a plain silk nightgown, ignoring her swollen ankle, and walked straight into the walk-in closet.

She pulled open a hidden bottom drawer and took out a thick manila envelope stamped with the embossed seal of the Supreme Judicial Court. Her fingertips brushed across the bold black letters: PRENUPTIAL AGREEMENT.

Suddenly, the brass doorknob of the master bedroom rattled, followed by the heavy thud of the door being shoved open.

Everlee slid the envelope back into the dark drawer, shut it, and turned around as Jamison walked in carrying a glass of whiskey.

His tie hung loose, and the scent of scotch trailed behind him. Seeing her pale face, his tone softened with condescending charity.

"The party's over. Ayla is asleep."

Everlee stood by the closet door with her arms crossed, looking at him like an unwelcome intruder.

"And? Are you here to tell me to vacate the master suite for her, too, Mr. Ingram?"

Jamison frowned, clearly unaccustomed to her sharp tongue. Setting his whiskey glass on the vanity table, he pulled a dark green velvet box from his suit pocket.

He took two steps closer and snapped it open. Inside lay a vintage emerald locket gleaming under the warm wall sconces.

"Your fifth-anniversary gift."

His tone was smug, fully expecting her to forgive his neglect with tears of gratitude just like she had for the past five years.

He lifted the necklace and reached for her neck. Right before his fingers brushed her skin, Everlee jerked her chin away and took half a step back, her stomach churning.

Jamison's hands froze in midair. His face darkened instantly.

"Everlee, I'm already swallowing my pride to coax you. How much longer are you going to drag this out?"

She looked down at the green stone, her voice flat.

"That's the locket from the Sotheby's auction last week, isn't it? You bought it for Ayla, and only kept it because the chain was too heavy for her neck."

Jamison's pupils shrank. He pushed his gold-rimmed glasses up his nose, his voice rising in defensive anger.

"You're spying on me now? Ayla is just my sister! Are you seriously keeping score over a piece of jewelry?"

Looking at the man she had loved for half a decade, Everlee dug her nails back into the crescent marks on her palms. She didn't even have the energy to argue anymore.

"Take your trash and get out, Jamison. It makes me sick."

Stung by the raw revulsion in her eyes, Jamison slammed the velvet box onto the marble vanity with a sharp crack.

"You have lost your mind!"

He yanked at his loosened tie, towering over her with a sneer.

"Do you really think an orphan whose family went bankrupt ten years ago can survive a single day in Boston without the Ingram name protecting you?"

Everlee met his glare without blinking.

"Let's find out."

She paused for a beat, enunciating every syllable clearly.

"Jamison, I want a divorce."

Dead silence fell over the bedroom, broken only by the low hum of the central air conditioning.

Jamison stared at her for two seconds before letting out a harsh, mocking laugh. To her eyes, his sneer carried the unmistakable smugness of a man assuming this was merely a desperate housewife's clumsy attempt to beg for attention.

"A divorce? Over a birthday party, you're threatening me with divorce?"

He planted both hands on the vanity table, his eyes dripping with contempt.

"You'd better think twice before playing that card, Sweetheart. Walk out that door, and you won't even be able to afford a cup of coffee on Newbury Street."

Everlee didn't say another word. She just looked at him as if he were a clown performing a bad joke.

Infuriated by her silence, Jamison spun on his heel and marched toward the door.

"Since you want to play hard to get, stay in this room for the next few days and reflect on your attitude!"

He stepped into the hallway and slammed the door behind him, rattling the frames on the wall. On the vanity, the vintage emerald locket slipped out of its velvet box and lay cold against the marble.

Everlee walked over and picked up the heavy gold chain, her eyes glinting like cold steel. This secondhand trash would make great starting capital.

Everlee tossed the emerald locket into a cheap canvas tote bag, walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows, and yanked open the blackout curtains. Blinding morning sunlight flooded the master bedroom.

Blinking against the glare, she picked up her phone from the nightstand. The screen was completely blank-Jamison had spent the entire night in Ayla's wing.

She changed into a black cashmere turtleneck that covered the bruises on her neck, paired it with fitted jeans, and walked out of the bedroom.

Entering the open-concept kitchen, she ran straight into Jamison holding a mug of freshly brewed coffee. Dressed in a crisp navy suit, he looked every bit the polished Boston CEO again.

Seeing her come out early, a smug look flashed across his eyes, assuming she was here to apologize. He slid a second mug of coffee across the marble island.

"Up already? Are you done throwing your little fit from last night?"

He spoke down to her like a principal lecturing a rebellious student.

Everlee ignored the steaming mug, pulled out a barstool, and sat down. Pulling a blank asset liquidation form from her canvas tote, she uncapped a pen and began filling it out.

Offended by her silence, Jamison opened his mouth to snap, when his gaze caught the skin of her forearm as her sleeve rode up.

A dark purple rope burn wrapped all the way around her pale wrist.

Jamison froze. Setting his mug down, he leaned across the island.

"What happened to your arm?"

Everlee's pen paused on the paper. Just as she looked up to mock his delayed eyesight, Jamison's phone buzzed violently against the marble countertop.

The caller ID flashed "Ayla." Jamison snatched it up on the first ring, his voice instantly dropping into a gentle coax.

"Ayla? What's wrong?"

Even without the speakerphone on, Ayla's ragged gasps and sobs echoed clearly across the quiet kitchen.

"Jamison... I can't breathe... My chest hurts so much..."

Jamison's face lost all color. Whatever brief curiosity he had about Everlee's bruised wrist vanished into thin air. He bolted upright, knocking his barstool onto the floor.

"Don't panic, I'm coming right now!"

Grabbing his car keys and suit jacket, he sprinted toward the foyer, then stopped abruptly. Reaching into his leather wallet, he pulled out an American Express Centurion black card.

He marched back to the island and slapped the metal card down right on top of Everlee's asset form.

"Ayla is having a panic attack. I have to take her to the hospital. Take this card, go to Newbury Street, and buy yourself some bags. Stop causing trouble."

He looked down at her, his tone dripping with the arrogance of a man who believed money solved everything.

Everlee stared at the black metal card. There was no anger left in her chest-only a hollow, laughable relief.

Without touching the card, she raised her head, her eyes dead calm.

"Jamison, what if I told you I was kidnapped yesterday and nearly bled out in an abandoned warehouse?"

Jamison paused, a flicker of shock crossing his face behind his glasses. Right then, Ayla let out another shrill cry over the receiver.

That sound snapped the last thread of Jamison's patience. He pinched the bridge of his nose in disgust.

"Everlee, do you even listen to yourself when you lie for attention?"

He backed toward the door, his voice cold and sharp.

"Kidnapped in downtown Boston? And they just let you walk home in one piece? Stop wasting my time with these pathetic stories!"

Turning around, he rushed out the front door, slamming it shut with an echoing boom.

Silence reclaimed the massive penthouse. Everlee stared at the closed door, a freezing smile curling the corners of her mouth.

She picked up the metal black card from the counter, gripped both ends, and bent it forcefully until it snapped in half before tossing it into the trash can.

Standing up, she folded the asset sheet into her pocket, walked back to the closet, and wheeled out a large black suitcase.

She left every designer dress and handbag Jamison had ever bought her hanging on the racks, packing only a few pre-marriage clothes and the Supreme Judicial Court envelope.

Zipping the luggage shut, Everlee Booker shed the skin of Mrs. Ingram forever, dragging her suitcase out the front door without looking back.