Trapped By My Ruthless Billionaire Ex

The freezing Manhattan rain slashed against the heavy glass door of the Tribeca restaurant.

Annette pushed her weight against the brass handle. Her muscles ached. She collapsed her cheap, black folding umbrella, the metal spokes groaning in protest.

Water dripped from the hem of her faded trench coat. It formed a dirty puddle on the pristine, imported marble floor of the lobby.

The maitre d' stepped forward. His eyes dropped to her scuffed flats, then traveled up to her soaked collar. His upper lip curled in a microscopic sneer.

"Name for the reservation?" he asked, his voice flat.

"I'm with the bridal party. Annette."

The man tapped his tablet. He didn't bother to hide his disdain as he gestured toward the grand hallway.

Annette peeled off her wet trench coat. Underneath, she wore a plain, ill-fitting navy dress she had bought off a clearance rack three years ago.

A group of women in designer silk gowns stood near the coat check. They stopped talking as Annette walked by. Their eyes scraped over her cheap fabric like sandpaper.

Annette's stomach twisted into a hard, painful knot. A familiar, gut-wrenching pain twisted inside her. She dug her fingernails into the center of her palms, using the sharp physical sting to ground herself.

The hallway was hushed, the thick carpet swallowing the sound of her footsteps. The only noise was the distant hum of the building's ventilation. She took a shallow breath and pushed open the double walnut doors of the banquet hall.

The noise of the rehearsal dinner hit her like a physical blow. Clinking crystal, loud laughter, and the smell of roasted truffles filled the air.

At the head table, the groom, Leo, looked up.

"Annette!" Leo shouted over the music.

Fifty pairs of eyes snapped toward the doorway. The spotlight of their attention made Annette's skin crawl. Her chest tightened. Her lungs suddenly forgot how to process oxygen.

She took a half-step backward, wanting to melt into the shadows of the hallway.

But Leo was already striding across the room. He grabbed her wrist. His grip was warm and firm.

"I told you to drop that legal aid case for one night," Leo scolded playfully, dragging her toward the brightest part of the room.

Annette stumbled in her cheap shoes. She looked past Leo's shoulder toward the head table.

Her heart stopped beating.

Sitting at the center of the table, casually rolling an unlit cigar between his fingers, was a man she hadn't seen in five years.

Declan Carter.

He slowly lifted his gaze. His slate-gray eyes locked onto hers across the room.

The air in Annette's throat turned to solid ice. The blood drained from her face so fast she felt dizzy. Her feet glued themselves to the thick carpet.

Declan's eyes were like surgical blades. They sliced through the noisy room, dissecting her pale face, her trembling hands, and the frayed hem of her dress.

His jaw locked. A muscle feathered in his cheek. Then, the corner of his mouth tipped up into a smile so cold it made Annette's stomach drop.

He didn't say a single word. He just pressed the tip of his cigar into the crystal ashtray. The heavy glass made a dull, violent thud against the wood.

The bride, Clara, jumped up from her seat. She waved frantically.

"Annette! Finally! Sit right here," Clara said, pulling out the only empty chair at the table.

Annette's vision blurred. The empty chair was directly across from Declan.

The only thing separating them was a low arrangement of white roses. There was no place to hide.

"I need to use the restroom first," Annette whispered, her voice shaking. She tried to pull away.

Clara pushed her down into the chair by her shoulders. "Absolutely not. You're late. You have to take the penalty shot."

A waiter slid a heavy glass of tequila across the table. It stopped right in front of Annette.

The sharp, acidic smell of the alcohol hit her nose. Her hands began to shake violently.

She couldn't drink. The tequila would trigger a lethal interaction with the cold tremor of withdrawal shaking her body. Her body was already vibrating from the missed dose.

Across the white roses, Declan picked up his tumbler of whiskey. He raised it toward her in a silent, mocking toast. His eyes were dark, watching her squirm like a dying insect pinned to a board.

Before Annette could push the shot glass away, Ciera Trujillo glided over to the table.

Ciera wore a custom emerald gown. She held a flute of champagne.

"Oh, my," Ciera said, covering her mouth in fake shock. Her voice was loud enough to carry. "Annette, honey. You have a loose thread right there on your collar."

A few guests at the adjacent tables let out low, cruel laughs. The air grew thick with toxic humiliation.

Ciera leaned down. The smell of her expensive floral perfume made Annette nauseous.

"You worked so hard to climb into those penthouses five years ago," Ciera whispered, her voice dripping with venom. "And look at you now. You look like trash."

Annette pressed her fingernails deeper into her palms. The skin broke. A tiny drop of blood welled up, but she kept her face completely blank. She refused to react.

Leo cleared his throat loudly. "Anyway, let's go over the church schedule for tomorrow. I've put Declan on all the planning emails since he's my best man and is handling the logistics."

Ciera ignored him. She stood up straight and looked directly at Annette.

"Tell us, Annette," Ciera said loudly. "Where is that rich old man you left Declan for? Did he finally kick you to the curb?"

The question was a live grenade.

Annette's face turned the color of ash. A cold sweat broke out on the back of her neck.

The entire table fell dead silent. The music in the background seemed to fade away.

Clara tugged nervously on Ciera's dress. "Ciera, please stop."

Declan leaned back in his chair. He didn't look at Ciera. His gray eyes were fixed entirely on Annette.

"Answer the question, Annette," Declan said.

His voice was a low, gravelly rasp. It scraped against Annette's eardrums and sent a violent shiver down her spine.

Annette stared into the absolute hatred in Declan's eyes. Her stomach violently cramped. She was trapped.

Annette swallowed hard. The back of her throat tasted like copper.

"I don't have any contact with him anymore," Annette said. Her voice was stiff and hollow.

Across the table, Declan's eyes darkened into a storm. His large hand wrapped around his whiskey glass. His knuckles turned stark white. The thick crystal groaned under the immense pressure of his grip.

Leo stood up quickly, his chair scraping loudly against the floor.

"Alright, the tension is killing my appetite," Leo announced, clapping his hands. "Everyone move to the VIP lounge. We're playing Truth or Dare."

Annette immediately pushed her chair back.

"I should go," Annette said, grabbing her purse. "I have court files to review for tomorrow."

She turned to walk away.

Ciera shifted her weight and subtly stuck out her stiletto.

Annette's foot caught on the sharp heel. She lost her balance completely. She pitched forward, her hip slamming violently into the solid mahogany back of a chair.

A sharp, breathless gasp ripped from Annette's throat.

Declan's body reacted before his brain did. He lunged forward, his chest hitting the edge of the table. But he caught himself just as fast. He froze, his jaw clenching so hard it looked like the bone might snap. He forced himself to sit back down, his face a mask of stone.

Clara rushed over and grabbed Annette's arm.

"Are you okay? Come on, just sit for one game," Clara begged, pulling her toward the sunken circular sofas in the VIP area.

Annette was too dizzy from the pain in her hip to fight back. She let Clara drag her to the edge of the leather couch.

Declan took the center seat. He sat with his legs spread, his arms resting on the back of the sofa. He looked like a king presiding over an execution.

Leo placed an empty champagne bottle on the glass coffee table. He spun it hard.

The glass scraped against the table with a high-pitched shriek.

The bottle slowed. The green glass neck pointed directly at Annette's chest.

The groomsmen cheered.

Ciera leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with malice. "I'll ask."

Ciera smiled. "Truth. Did you already blow through all the cash you got for selling your soul?"

Annette's breathing turned shallow and erratic. Her fingers gripped the edge of the leather cushion so tightly her joints ached.

She looked at Declan. He was staring at her, his face completely devoid of any human empathy.

"Dare," Annette whispered.

Ciera's smile widened into a smirk. She pointed a manicured finger at the center of the table.

"Drink the penalty cup. All of it. No stopping."

Sitting in the middle of the table was a massive pint glass. It was filled with a dark, foul-smelling mixture of vodka, gin, rum, tequila, and whiskey.

Annette stared at the brown liquid. Her heart hammered against her ribs.

If she drank that, the chemical collision with her fragile physical state would send her into a severe, potentially fatal, physical shock.

She couldn't move her arms. She was paralyzed.

"Ten, nine, eight..." the groomsmen started counting down, slamming their hands on the table.

The noise pounded inside Annette's skull. The pressure was suffocating.

She closed her eyes. She reached her trembling hand out toward the glass.

Suddenly, a large, warm hand shot out and snatched the heavy glass right out from under her fingers.

Annette's eyes snapped open.

Declan brought the penalty cup to his lips. He tilted his head back and swallowed the massive amount of mixed liquor in three heavy, continuous gulps.

He slammed the empty glass back onto the table. He didn't even cough. He just wiped a drop of liquor from his bottom lip, his brow furrowing slightly at the burn.

The entire lounge went completely silent.

Ciera's face flushed dark red. Her nails dug into her own thighs.

Annette stared at Declan, her chest heaving. A tiny, pathetic spark of hope ignited in her chest. Her heart fluttered. He still cared. He just protected her.

Declan slowly turned his head to look at her.

"Don't look at me like that," Declan said. His voice was absolute ice. "I just think this game is boring. I didn't want to waste my night watching you play the victim."

The spark in Annette's chest was instantly crushed. A massive wave of humiliation crashed over her, drowning her completely.

Leo awkwardly spun the bottle again.

It spun fast and stopped. It pointed directly at Declan.

A bridesmaid, heavily flushed from the wine, giggled. "Dare! I dare you to kiss the woman in this room you want to kiss the most."

The air in the room vanished.

Every single pair of eyes darted between Ciera and Annette.

Ciera sat up perfectly straight. She pushed her shoulders back, her eyes shining with anticipation.

Declan didn't move. He slowly dragged his gaze across the room.

His eyes landed on Annette's pale, terrified face.

He stared at her. One second. Two seconds. Three seconds.

Annette stopped breathing. She felt like a prisoner standing on the gallows, waiting for the lever to be pulled.

Declan's eyes turned dead. He looked away from her.

"Not interested," Declan said flatly.

He reached across the table, picked up a bottle of straight whiskey, and poured himself a penalty shot. He swallowed the burning liquid without a flinch.

He would rather drink pure fire than touch her.

The realization sliced through Annette's chest like a serrated knife. Her psychological defenses shattered into a million pieces.

Annette shot up from the sofa.

Her knee slammed into the low glass table. A tall wine glass tipped over and shattered against the floor. The sharp sound of breaking crystal echoed in the silent room.

Nobody moved.

Annette ignored the broken glass at her feet. She stared straight into Declan's eyes. Her chest rose and fell rapidly.

"For the record," Annette said, her voice raspy but violently steady. "I don't regret a single choice I made five years ago."

The words hit the room like a bomb.

The cold indifference in Declan's eyes vanished. It was instantly replaced by a raging, violent inferno.

Declan kicked the coffee table.

The heavy glass table screeched against the floor, sliding two feet away from him.

He stood up. The dark, suffocating aura radiating from his body made the hair on Annette's arms stand up. He didn't say a word. He turned his back and walked out of the VIP lounge, his heavy footsteps echoing down the hall.

Ciera shot Annette a look of pure murder. She grabbed her designer clutch and ran after him.

The party atmosphere was completely dead.

Leo rubbed his face, sighed heavily, and walked toward the front desk to pay for the broken glass.

Clara grabbed Annette's arm and pulled her into a small, private alcove near the coat check. She shut the heavy velvet curtain behind them.

The second they were hidden, Annette's knees gave out. She slid down the wall and hit the floor, burying her face in her hands. Her body shook with silent, dry sobs.

Clara crouched down and handed her a glass of lukewarm water.

"Why did you do that?" Clara asked, her voice tight. "Why did you provoke him?"

Annette took a shaky breath. "I'm tired of being looked at like a circus animal."

Clara bit her lip. She pulled her phone out of her purse and tapped the screen. She held it out to Annette.

It was the digital front page of the Wall Street Journal.

The headline screamed in bold black letters: Declan Carter Assumes Full Control of Carter Family Trust.

"He's not the boy who ate street hotdogs with you in Brooklyn anymore, Annie," Clara whispered. "His net worth is a number normal people can't even comprehend. He owns half the commercial real estate in Manhattan. The mayor answers his calls on the first ring."

Annette stared at the screen. She read the words 'corporate acquisitions' and 'billion-dollar mergers'.

Her stomach cramped violently again. Every word on that screen was a physical reminder. She had destroyed her own life, her own reputation, just to make sure his security clearance wasn't ruined by her father's criminal record.

She had bought him this throne with her blood.

Annette pushed the phone away. She forced her face into a mask of indifference.

"That has nothing to do with me," Annette lied.

Clara looked at the frayed collar of Annette's dress. She sighed. "Just... stay away from Ciera."

"I need to use the restroom to fix my makeup," Annette said, pulling herself up from the floor.

She walked out of the alcove. The hallway was completely empty. The dim yellow wall sconces cast long, lonely shadows on the carpet.

Annette leaned her back against the cold wall. She reached into the deep pocket of her coat and pulled out a small, unlabeled white plastic bottle.

Her hands shook so badly she almost dropped it. She popped the cap, shook two heavy pills into her palm, and swallowed them dry. The pills were large and chalky, scratching her throat as she forced them down. A wave of nausea immediately rolled in her stomach, a familiar, bitter cost for a few hours of chemical peace.

Suddenly, a cold draft hit her ankles.

At the end of the hallway, a heavy metal fire door creaked open. The wind howled through the crack.

Annette felt suffocated by the heavy air inside the restaurant. She needed real oxygen.

She walked toward the door and pushed it open.

She stepped out onto the rusted metal platform of the fire escape. There were no streetlights here. Only the faint, bleeding neon colors from the distant Manhattan skyline cut through the pitch-black darkness.

The cold rain hit her face. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

The second she exhaled, a massive, muscular arm shot out from the absolute darkness.

A large hand clamped around her waist like a steel vice.