Pampered By The Heartless Billionaire Monster

Bridget stood before the heavy mahogany door of the Baccarat Hotel suite. She pulled the spare keycard from her purse-the one he had given her for emergencies-and pressed it against the sensor. The green light flashed, and she pushed it open. The air inside smelled of expensive champagne and unfamiliar sweat. She took one step onto the thick carpet, and her heel caught on something soft. She looked down. A piece of black lace underwear lay discarded on the floor. It was not hers.

A sharp cramp seized her stomach. The sound of heavy breathing and a woman's high-pitched moan echoed from the half-open bedroom door down the hall. Bridget's teeth sank into her lower lip until she tasted copper. She forced her legs to move, walking toward the sounds.

She shoved the bedroom door wide open. The dim light from the bedside lamp illuminated the massive king bed. David, the man who had promised to marry her, was tangled in the sheets with a blonde woman. Bridget's fingernails dug so deeply into her palms that the skin broke.

David froze. He turned his head and saw Bridget standing in the doorway. He did not jump out of bed in a panic. Instead, he slowly pulled the white hotel bathrobe over his shoulders, his face completely calm.

The blonde woman screamed and pulled the duvet over her chest. Bridget raised her phone. Her thumb hit the capture button repeatedly. The harsh flash pierced the dim room, lighting up David's exposed chest and the messy bed.

David lunged forward, reaching for the phone.

"Give me that."

Bridget stepped to the side. His hand grabbed empty air. She stared at him, her chest rising and falling rapidly. The coldness in her blood made her fingertips completely numb.

David's face turned red with anger. He rubbed his nose, a habit he always had when he was caught in a lie, but this time his voice was full of mockery.

"Stop acting so pure, Bridget. You are just an illegitimate daughter the Vincent family could throw away at any second. You need this marriage more than I do."

The word hit her like a physical blow to the ribs. Her vision blurred for a second. The rational string in her brain snapped. She raised her right hand and slapped him across the face with all her strength. The sharp smack echoed in the room.

David stumbled back, holding his cheek, cursing loudly. Bridget looked at the three-carat diamond engagement ring on her finger. It was a heavy, expensive symbol of a future she now realized was a complete lie. Instead of throwing it in a fit of rage, she slowly and deliberately slid the cold metal over her knuckle. She placed it carefully on the edge of the mahogany nightstand, the diamond catching the dim light.

"The engagement is over."

She turned around and walked out of the suite. Her steps were fast and heavy. The heavy door slammed shut behind her, cutting off the disgusting smell of the room.

She walked into the empty elevator and pressed the lobby button. The metal doors closed. Bridget leaned her back against the cold mirror. Her chest tightened until her lungs burned for air. The tears she had forced down finally spilled over her eyelashes, hot and fast.

The elevator descended. She wiped her face roughly with the back of her hand. She pulled a compact from her purse and fixed her red lipstick. She would never let anyone see her bleed.

The elevator chimed and opened on the ground floor. Bridget walked straight into the hotel's crystal-lit bar. She sat on a leather stool in the darkest corner.

The bartender handed her a menu.

"A dry martini. Make it a double."

She needed the alcohol to burn the image of that bedroom out of her brain. She took a large sip when the glass arrived. The liquid burned her throat.

A man in an impeccably tailored suit, but with drunk, unfocused eyes, slid onto the stool next to her. He smelled of overpowering, expensive whiskey and arrogant entitlement. He leaned in close, trying to put his hand on her bare shoulder.

"Get away from me."

The man laughed, his breath hitting her neck. He reached out to touch her cheek.

A large, pale hand suddenly clamped down on the man's wrist. A faint cracking sound of bone shifting followed.

Bridget looked up along the dark fabric of the suit sleeve. She met a pair of deep, storm-gray eyes.

"Get lost."

Damond Oneill did not raise his voice. He did not have to. The absolute authority in his tone made the drunk man turn pale. The man ripped his arm away and stumbled out of the bar without looking back.

Damond sat in the empty seat. He adjusted his left cufflink with long, precise fingers. He ordered a whiskey.

"Thank you."

Bridget kept her distance, her hand rubbing the skin of her collarbone.

Damond picked up his glass and tapped it gently against hers. His eyes slowly dragged down her neck to her lips. The look was entirely predatory.

The alcohol rushed to Bridget's head. She looked at the incredibly handsome man sitting next to her. A sudden, destructive urge took over her body. She wanted to erase David's touch. She wanted to prove she was not just a piece of trash to be discarded.

She leaned closer to Damond. The scent of cedar and cold mint filled her nose.

"Are you alone tonight?"

Damond's gray eyes darkened instantly. He set his glass down on the marble counter. His hand shot out, gripping her waist, pulling her flush against his side.

"You are playing with fire."

Bridget tilted her head up. She looked straight into his eyes.

"I am not afraid."

Damond's jaw tightened. He stood up, pulling her with him. He did not say another word as he led her through the private back hallway of the bar, straight to the VIP elevator.

The doors opened to the penthouse suite. Before Bridget could take a breath, Damond pushed her back against the heavy wooden door. His mouth crashed down on hers. The kiss was punishing, deep, and completely stripped her of oxygen.

Bridget kissed him back with desperate clumsy energy. Her hands grabbed the front of his custom shirt. She pulled hard. Two buttons popped off and hit the floor.

Damond picked her up by the thighs. He carried her across the room and threw her onto the massive bed. His large body covered hers, pressing her deep into the mattress. The cold night of Manhattan outside the floor-to-ceiling windows blurred into streaks of light. Bridget closed her eyes, letting the physical pain and pleasure drown out the absolute despair of her reality.

When she opened her eyes again, the room was filled with morning sunlight. The space beside her in the bed was empty. The sheets were cold. Bridget sat up, her body aching. On the nightstand, resting on top of a folded piece of hotel stationery, was a solid black credit card with no name on it. Next to it was a handwritten note in sharp, aggressive ink.

Buy yourself a new dress. You ruined yours.

Bridget stared at the black card for a long time. Her stomach twisted with a mixture of shame and anger. She shoved the card deep into the bottom of her leather handbag. She took a quick shower, put on a sharp, tailored business suit, and left the hotel.

At noon, she pushed open the heavy glass doors of Le Bernardin. The air inside was quiet, filled with the soft clinking of silver on fine china.

The hostess led her to a semi-private booth near the back. Bridget ordered a glass of sparkling water. She sat with her back straight, her fingers resting on the cold glass.

Fifteen minutes later, David walked in. He wore a fresh suit and a confident, arrogant smile, as if the scene in the hotel room last night had never happened. He sat down across from her.

"You made a scene last night for nothing, Bridget. Men have needs. You need to learn how to look the other way if you want to survive in this circle."

Bridget did not speak. She unzipped her bag, pulled out a thick stack of legal papers, and slapped them onto the table.

"Sign it."

David looked down. The bold letters at the top read 'Termination of Engagement Agreement'. The blood drained from his face. He pushed the papers back toward her violently.

"Are you out of your mind?"

"Your family's trust fund is bleeding cash. You need the Vincent name to secure your next round of financing. I don't need you."

David's arrogant mask shattered. He rubbed his nose aggressively, leaning across the table.

"If you break this off, I will call Page Six right now. I will tell them exactly how your mother trapped your father, and how you are nothing but a dirty secret."

Bridget let out a short, cold laugh.

"Go ahead. I have nothing to lose. But I will send the high-resolution photos of you and that blonde to every board member in your company."

David's eyes widened with pure rage. He reached across the table, trying to grab her wrist.

Bridget picked up her glass of sparkling water. She threw the freezing liquid directly into his face.

The ice cubes hit his cheek. The water dripped down his nose and ruined his silk tie. The diners at the surrounding tables stopped eating and turned to look. David gasped, grabbing a cloth napkin to wipe his face, his teeth grinding together.

Bridget stood up. She looked down at him.

"Sign the papers by tomorrow, or my lawyers will see you in court."

She turned and walked away, her heels clicking sharply against the hardwood floor. Her heart was beating so fast it hurt her ribs. She needed a moment to breathe. She turned down the quiet, carpeted hallway leading to the restrooms.

The thick carpet absorbed the sound of her footsteps. As she walked past the most exclusive VIP dining room at the end of the hall, she noticed the heavy mahogany door was not fully closed. A sliver of warm light spilled out onto the floor.

Bridget glanced through the crack. Her feet stopped moving instantly. Her breath caught in her throat.

Sitting at the head of the table was the man from last night. The man who had left the black card on the nightstand. He wore a dark suit, his posture relaxed but dominant.

Sitting directly across from him was Cheyenne. Her half-sister. The legitimate daughter of the Vincent family.

Cheyenne was leaning forward, pouring wine into the man's glass. Her voice was dripping with artificial sweetness.

"Damond, my father was hoping we could discuss the merger over the weekend."

Bridget's brain short-circuited. Damond. Damond Oneill. The ruthless predator of Wall Street. The man everyone in New York was terrified of. The man she had slept with to get back at David.

A cold sweat broke out on the back of her neck. She took a step back.

Inside the room, Damond slowly turned his head. His gray eyes cut through the narrow opening of the door. He looked directly into Bridget's eyes.

He did not look surprised. He did not flinch. His gaze was dark, calculating, and full of amusement. He knew she was there.

Bridget's stomach dropped to the floor. The realization hit her like a physical weight. Their meeting at the bar was not a coincidence. He knew exactly who she was.

Cheyenne noticed Damond looking away. She started to turn her head toward the door.

Bridget moved instantly. She pressed her back flat against the wall in the blind spot of the hallway, holding her breath. Her chest burned.

"What are you looking at, Damond?" Cheyenne asked.

"Nothing," Damond's deep voice drifted through the crack. "Just a lost kitten."

The humiliation burned Bridget's skin. She bit her lip to keep from making a sound. She turned and practically ran down the hallway.

She pushed through the front doors of the restaurant. The cold autumn wind of New York hit her face, but it did not cool the heat in her cheeks.

David ran out of the doors behind her.

"You are going to regret this, Bridget!"

Bridget ignored him. She raised her hand and flagged down a yellow cab. She got into the back seat and slammed the door. She stared out the window at the restaurant's sign, her fingers rubbing her collarbone rapidly. She had just declared war on her ex-fiancé, and she had accidentally slept with the most dangerous man in the city.

Bridget unlocked the door to the Upper East Side penthouse she shared with her mother. She kicked off her heels, her feet aching. She just wanted to pour a glass of wine and sleep for twelve hours.

The motion-sensor lights in the living room flicked on. Bridget stopped dead in her tracks.

Sitting on the white leather sofa was a man in a sharp gray suit. He turned his head. His face shared the same sharp jawline as hers, but his eyes were entirely cold. It was Hall Vincent. Her biological father.

Bridget's body went completely rigid.

"How did you get past the security downstairs?"

Hall picked up a crystal whiskey glass from the coffee table. He swirled the amber liquid slowly.

"With enough money, there isn't a door in New York that stays closed to me."

Bridget dropped her bag and walked toward the intercom on the wall.

"I am calling building security."

"Save your breath," Hall said sharply. "The property manager works for me now. I am here to tell you something that affects the survival of this family."

Bridget stopped, her hand hovering over the button. She turned to face him, her nails digging into her palms.

"Get out of my house. You have no right to be here."

Hall stood up. He placed the crystal glass down with a heavy thud. He walked toward her, his face twisted in anger.

"I heard what you did at the restaurant today. Throwing water on David? Canceling the engagement? You are acting like a stupid child."

Bridget's eyes widened. "You had me followed?"

"I have to protect the Vincent interests. I need David's family to secure the key technology licensing from Jiawei Bio in the upcoming merger. You will go to him tomorrow, apologize, and put that ring back on your finger."

Bile rose in Bridget's throat. She looked at the man who had abandoned her and her mother twenty years ago.

"You threw us away like garbage. You don't get to walk in here and sell me to fix your business mistakes."

Hall's face turned purple. He raised his hand high, ready to strike her across the face.

Bridget did not blink. She lifted her chin, staring right into his eyes.

"Hit me. The photos of my bruised face will be on the front page of the Wall Street Journal tomorrow morning."

Hall's hand froze in the air. His jaw twitched. He slowly lowered his arm, his eyes narrowing into dangerous slits.

"If you do as you are told, I might consider officially acknowledging you during the winter social season. You won't be a bastard anymore."

"Keep your dirty last name. I don't want it."

Hall lost the last bit of his patience. He stepped directly into her personal space.

"If you don't fix this with David, I will launch a hostile takeover of your mother's company by Friday. I will strip her of everything she has built."

Bridget's pupils contracted violently. Her hands curled into tight fists. Her mother's company was Cherrie's entire life.

Before Bridget could speak, a terrible, tearing sound echoed from the dark hallway. It was a violent, wet cough.

The master bedroom door opened. Cherrie Rostova walked out. She wore a silk robe. Her face was as pale as paper, but her eyes were sharp like broken glass. She walked straight past Hall and stood in front of Bridget, shielding her daughter with her thin body.

Cherrie looked at her ex-husband. Her hands smoothed down the front of her robe, a gesture she always made when she was in pain. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small black panic button.

"I pressed this three minutes ago, Hall."

Hall frowned, his arrogant posture slipping slightly. "Cherrie, I am doing this for her own good."

"You are doing this because you are short fifty million dollars for your buyout," Cherrie said coldly.

The front door of the penthouse burst open. Two massive private security guards rushed into the living room.

Cherrie pointed a shaking finger at Hall.

"Throw this trespasser out."

Hall adjusted his suit jacket. He glared at Cherrie, then at Bridget.

"You will both regret this."

He turned and walked out, followed closely by the guards. The heavy door slammed shut. The apartment fell into a dead silence.

Bridget let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. She turned to her mother.

"Mom, what did he mean about the hostile takeover? Is the company-"

Cherrie's knees suddenly buckled. She collapsed forward, her hands flying to her mouth. A horrific coughing fit ripped through her chest.

Bridget rushed forward, catching her mother's shoulders. Cherrie pulled her hands away from her mouth, gasping for air.

Bridget looked down. Smeared across Cherrie's pale fingers was thick, bright red blood.