Trapped By My Sister's Billionaire Fiance

Alyssa Medina's fingers tightened around the satin ribbons of her pointe shoes until her knuckles turned white. She was trying to slip past the dead end of the backstage corridor at Lincoln Center when an arm shot out from the shadows and blocked her path. Her heart slammed against her ribs so hard she felt it in her throat.

"Going somewhere, little swan?"

Gregg Ashley stepped into the dim light. The smell of expensive cologne mixed with bourbon hit her first. Then his body. He moved closer, crowding her until her spine pressed against the cold brick wall and there was nowhere left to retreat.

"Mr. Ashley." Her voice came out steadier than she felt. "I have five minutes to curtain."

Gregg reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a plastic hotel keycard. He held it toward the neckline of her costume. Alyssa's hand shot up and smacked his wrist hard. The card clattered to the concrete floor.

His face darkened. He grabbed her chin, fingers digging into the soft flesh beneath her jaw. Alyssa didn't think. She lifted her foot and brought the hard box of her pointe shoe down on his leather oxford with all her weight.

Gregg howled and released her.

She didn't wait. She grabbed her skirt and ran, her breath ragged, her ankle screaming from the impact. The stage manager's voice echoed through her headset. "Places for Act One. Five minutes."

Alyssa forced the air into her lungs and pushed it down. By the time she reached the wings, her eyes had gone professional cold.

The curtain rose. The stage lights hit her retinas like physical blows. She took one breath and launched herself into the opening sequence. Her muscles obeyed. Her fingertips stopped trembling. No one in the audience could see the pain shooting through her left ankle with every landing.

Tchaikovsky swelled. She entered the fouetté turns, spotting a fixed point in the darkness beyond the footlights to keep her balance. Her rotation was perfect. Muscle memory carried her through sixteen counts.

Then her gaze drifted to the front row.

The VIP section sat in shadow, but she could make out the silhouette. A man in a dark suit, legs crossed, holding a program he wasn't reading. He was looking directly at her.

Alyssa's spot faltered. Her ankle twisted on the landing. White-hot pain lanced up her calf, but she didn't stop. She couldn't stop. She finished the sequence, held the final arabesque, and smiled through her teeth as the applause thundered.

The man in the front row never looked away. His eyes were dark, flat, predatory. He watched her like she was a painting he was considering buying.

She knew that face. She'd seen it on the front page of The Wall Street Journal. Cornell Knight. The name attached to more zeros than she could count. Something flickered in her memory, a ghost from ten years ago, but the pain in her ankle and the lights in her eyes made it impossible to hold onto.

She held the smile until the curtain fell.

The moment she was backstage, the smile dropped. Alyssa limped toward the prop storage corridor, her leotard soaked through with sweat, her chest heaving. She needed ice. She needed to breathe. She needed to get out before Gregg found her again.

She turned the corner into the dimly lit storage area.

A hand shot out from behind a stack of painted flats and seized her hair. Alyssa's scream died in her throat as Gregg yanked her backward into the shadows. His face filled her vision, twisted with rage.

"You little bitch."

The back of his hand connected with her left cheek. The impact snapped her head sideways and sent her sprawling across the concrete floor. Her palms scraped raw. Her mouth filled with the metallic taste of blood. A high-pitched ringing drowned out the voices in the hallway beyond.

Gregg crouched over her. His breath was hot and sour against her face. "You think you're special? You think you can humiliate me?" He grabbed her hair again, forcing her to look at him. "You're nothing. A disposable little dancer. I could end you tonight."

Alyssa said nothing. She stared up at him with every ounce of hatred she could summon, her jaw locked, her body trembling with the effort not to cry out.

The silence enraged him more than words could have. Gregg raised his foot, aiming for her injured ankle, for the joint that held her entire career.

Laughter echoed from the main corridor. The theater manager's voice, oily and obsequious, accompanied by the click of multiple dress shoes on tile.

Gregg froze. His foot hovered in the air. Then he lowered it, slowly, his eyes never leaving Alyssa's face.

"This isn't over." He straightened his jacket, smoothed his hair. "I'll see you again, swan. Count on it."

He slipped out of the storage area and was gone.

Alyssa lay on the cold concrete until her breathing steadied. Then she pushed herself up, using the flat for support. Her left cheek throbbed in time with her heartbeat. She touched it with the back of her hand and came away with blood.

She limped toward the dressing rooms. The full-length mirror in the hallway caught her reflection. Her makeup was smeared. Her cheek was already swelling, purple blooming beneath the skin. But her spine was straight. Her shoulders were back. She looked into her own eyes and made herself a promise. Not tonight. Not ever.

She pushed open the dressing room door.

The chatter stopped. Six dancers turned to look at her. Alyssa walked to her station without meeting anyone's gaze. She sat down and reached for the ice pack in her bag.

Dina Mccoy's heels clicked across the floor. She stopped behind Alyssa's chair, close enough that Alyssa could smell her perfume. Dina's eyes traveled over the swollen cheek, the split lip, the blood that Alyssa hadn't quite managed to wipe away.

"Oh, honey." Dina's voice dripped with false sympathy. "Did you fall? You really should be more careful. These old stages can be so dangerous."

Alyssa didn't answer. She pressed the ice pack against her face and stared into the mirror. Dina's smile faltered, then sharpened. She turned back to the other dancers, her voice rising.

"Speaking of dangerous, you'll never guess where I'm going tonight. The Apex Club. Private party. Only the top one percent, you know how it is." She laughed, tossing her hair. "Some of us have sponsors who actually appreciate talent."

Alyssa watched Dina's reflection. The hunger in her eyes. The desperation barely hidden beneath the bravado. She felt a twist of something that might have been pity if she had any pity left to spare.

Her phone buzzed in her bag.

She pulled it out. The screen lit up with a notification from Mount Sinai Hospital. Final notice. Outstanding balance for Elena Voss. The number had too many digits. Alyssa's finger hovered over the screen. She turned the phone face down on the dressing table and closed her eyes.

When she opened them, she reached for her makeup remover. She had thirty minutes to make herself presentable enough to leave through the front door without attracting security. Then she had to figure out how to keep her soloist spot for next month. The soloist spot meant hazard pay. Hazard pay meant she could make a payment on Elena's bill.

She changed into her street clothes. Black leggings. An oversized sweater she'd bought at a thrift store in Brooklyn. She pulled a black surgical mask over the lower half of her face and slung her canvas tote over her shoulder. The tote was fraying at the straps. She'd been meaning to replace it for six months.

The stage door opened onto West 65th Street. The November wind cut through her sweater like it wasn't there. Alyssa hunched her shoulders and started walking toward the subway.

She made it three steps before she stopped.

A black Maybach was parked at the corner, half a block away. The kind of car that cost more than her lifetime earnings. The rear window was rolled down exactly halfway.

Alyssa couldn't see inside. But she knew, with the certainty of prey sensing predator, that someone was watching her.

She pulled her mask higher and walked faster, her injured ankle screaming with every step. She didn't look back. She didn't dare.

Behind her, the Maybach's engine purred to life.

The November wind sliced through Alyssa's sweater as she hurried toward the subway entrance. Her ankle throbbed with every step. She kept her eyes fixed on the concrete, on the gum stains and the cracks, anywhere but at the black Maybach that had started its engine.

The car door opened.

Dina Mccoy stepped out, wrapped in a fur coat that probably cost more than Alyssa's annual rent. She positioned herself directly in Alyssa's path, one hand playing with the enormous diamond on her left ring finger.

"Need a ride back to Brooklyn?" Dina's smile showed too many teeth. "He's just dropping me off for my private party. He has a few calls to make before he joins me inside. I'm sure we can squeeze you in. Though I wouldn't want to get anything on the leather."

Alyssa's gaze flicked past Dina to the open car door. She could see the silhouette in the back seat. Broad shoulders. A profile cut from marble. The same man who had watched her from the front row, who had looked at her like she was merchandise.

"I prefer the subway." Alyssa's voice was flat. "Less chance of staining anything."

Dina's smile flickered. She leaned closer, her perfume overwhelming. "Suit yourself. Some of us have places to be. People to see." She turned back toward the car, her heels clicking a sharp rhythm on the pavement. "Enjoy your walk, Alyssa. Try not to trip."

The door closed with a solid, expensive thunk. The Maybach pulled away from the curb and disappeared into the Manhattan traffic, silent as a shark.

Alyssa stood frozen until her fingers went numb. Then she forced herself to move, down the stairs into the subway, into the fluorescent-lit tunnels that smelled like urine and desperation. She held the handrail with both hands because her legs were shaking.

She didn't sleep that night. She sat on her mattress in the apartment she shared with Paige Sutton, counting the cracks in the ceiling and trying not to think about dark eyes and hotel keycards.

The next morning, the rehearsal studio floor was already slick with sweat when Alyssa arrived. She wrapped her ankle with an elastic bandage she'd bought at a dollar store and started her barre exercises. Her cheek was hidden beneath a thick layer of concealer. The swelling had gone down enough that she could pretend it was a bad angle if anyone asked.

Julian Cromwell pushed through the studio doors at ten-fifteen. The room went silent. The artistic director never visited morning rehearsals unless someone was being promoted or fired.

He walked straight to Alyssa's corner.

"Medina. My office. Now."

The other dancers stared. Alyssa wiped her face with her towel and followed him, her stomach in knots.

Julian's office smelled of Cuban cigars and old coffee. He didn't offer her a seat. He pulled a sheet of paper from his desk and threw it at her. It was next month's casting sheet. Her name had been crossed out in red pen. The solo she'd been promised for the past six weeks was gone.

"You're out," Julian said. "Effective immediately."

Alyssa's hands shook. "Why?"

"Why?" Julian lit a cigar, watching her through the smoke. "Because you couldn't keep your legs closed when it mattered. Gregg Ashley's family has donated three hundred thousand dollars to this company annually for the past decade. This morning, his father called me and suggested that perhaps we should reconsider our artistic priorities."

"I didn't do anything wrong."

"That's not the point." Julian leaned forward. "The point is that you have become a liability. Unless..." He paused, letting the silence stretch. "Unless you're willing to make amends. Tonight. The Apex Club. Private performance for some of our most valued patrons."

Alyssa's stomach turned. "I'm a ballet dancer, not a stripper."

Julian's laugh was short and ugly. "No one asked you to strip. Just to be pleasant. To be accommodating. To show Mr. Ashley that there are no hard feelings." He pulled another document from his drawer. "Of course, if you refuse, I should mention that the Elena Voss Medical Fund is currently under review by our board of directors. Such a shame if their support were to be withdrawn. The poor woman might not survive another transfer."

Alyssa looked at the paper. She recognized the letterhead. She recognized the signature of the fund administrator. Her knees went weak.

Julian slid a black envelope across the desk. The address was embossed in gold. The Apex Club. She'd heard whispers. Everyone had.

"Eight o'clock," Julian said. "Don't be late. And Alyssa? Wear something that shows you understand the gravity of the situation."

She walked out of his office in a daze. The envelope burned in her hand. In the bathroom, she splashed water on her face until her skin went numb. She looked in the mirror and saw a stranger. Pale. Terrified. Trapped.

She pulled out her phone and searched the address. The results made her want to vomit. Private club. Members only. Discretion guaranteed. The kind of place where Wall Street traders celebrated bonuses and destroyed lives in the same breath.

And Gregg Ashley would be there. She knew it with absolute certainty.

She wasn't sure which was worse. Facing Gregg again, or the possibility that the man from the Maybach might also appear in those shadows.

Back at the apartment, she dug through her closet until she found the black dress. High neck. Long sleeves. The most conservative thing she owned. She was pulling it on when Paige came through the door, still in her scrubs from the hospital.

"Where are you going dressed like a funeral director?"

"Work thing." Alyssa didn't turn around. "Gala. Boring. I'll be back late."

"Alyssa." Paige's voice changed. She crossed the room and grabbed Alyssa's arm, forcing her to turn. "Your face. What happened to your face?"

"Barre accident. I'm fine."

"You're lying."

"I have to go." Alyssa grabbed her bag and her coat. "I'll explain later. I promise."

She escaped before Paige could stop her. The subway ride to Midtown took forty minutes. She spent them staring at her reflection in the dark window, practicing her smile.

The Apex Club occupied a converted townhouse in the East Sixties. The doormen looked at her dress, at her canvas bag, at her face. They didn't want to let her in. Then she produced the invitation, and their expressions shifted to something worse than contempt. Something that said they knew exactly why she was there.

A man in a tuxedo led her through corridors lined with velvet and gilt mirrors. The music grew louder. Bass vibrations traveled through the floor into her chest. He stopped at a heavy oak door and pushed it open.

The noise hit her like a physical blow. Neon lights. Cigarette smoke. Men in suits holding glasses of amber liquid, women in dresses that left nothing to the imagination draped across their laps. And in the center of it all, on a white leather couch, Gregg Ashley. He saw her and raised his glass in mock salute.

"Well, well. The swan has landed."

Laughter rippled through the room. Alyssa's feet wouldn't move. Her eyes scanned the space, looking for exits, looking for allies, finding neither. Then her gaze reached the far corner, the deepest shadow, and her blood turned to ice.

Cornell Knight sat in a leather armchair, one ankle crossed over his knee, a crystal glass balanced on his thigh. He was watching her. He had been watching her from the moment she entered.

His lips curved into a smile that held no warmth.

"Welcome, little swan," he said, and his voice carried over the music like he owned the room. "We've been waiting for you."

The oak door clicked shut behind her. The sound was final, like a lock engaging.

Gregg Ashley rose from the couch. He moved toward her with the loose gait of a man who had been drinking for hours. The smell of whiskey preceded him.

"First things first." He held out a tumbler, pressing it against her lips. "Drink. Consider it an apology for last night. My way of saying no hard feelings."

Alyssa turned her head. The liquid splashed down her dress, soaking the black fabric, staining it the color of old blood. The men in the room laughed. Someone whistled.

Gregg's face contorted. He grabbed her shoulders and shoved her backward. Her knees hit the edge of a low table covered in velvet. She caught herself with her hands, refusing to fall, refusing to kneel.

"Put these on." A pair of shoes hit the floor beside her. Stilettos. Rhinestones. The kind of shoes that came with a price tag and no dignity. "And give us a show. Something with a little more energy than that prissy ballet shit."

Alyssa looked at the shoes. She looked at the faces around her, flushed with alcohol and entitlement. She thought of Elena's ventilator. She thought of Julian's red pen crossing out her name. She thought of the man in the corner who hadn't moved, who was watching this like theater.

Something broke inside her. Or maybe something hardened.

She straightened to her full height. Her voice cut through the music, sharp and clear and absolutely furious.

"You disgust me. All of you. You think money makes you powerful? You're parasites. You feed on people who actually work, actually create, actually feel something beyond your own greed." She looked directly at Gregg. "You want a show? Go to the Met. Buy a ticket. Sit in the dark like a civilized human being and watch something that took years of sacrifice to create. But don't ever confuse what I do with what you're asking for. Don't ever confuse art with your filthy little power games."

The music stopped. Someone had killed the sound system. Alyssa's breathing was the loudest thing in the room.

Gregg's face went purple. He raised his hand.

Alyssa closed her eyes. She thought of falling. She thought of failing. She thought of Elena alone in that hospital bed.

Then she thought of the man in the corner. The one with the predator's eyes. The one who had watched her dance.

She opened her eyes and ran.

Not toward the door. Toward him. Toward Cornell Knight. She stumbled across the carpet and dropped to her knees at his feet, her fingers clutching the fabric of his trousers, her face lifted to his in absolute desperation.

"Please."

One word. It tasted like ash.

Cornell looked down at her. His expression didn't change. But something flickered in those dark eyes. Something that might have been pleasure.

Gregg stormed across the room. "Get up. He's not interested in your-"

"Ashley."

Cornell spoke one syllable. Gregg froze mid-stride.

Cornell set his glass on the side table. The crystal made a delicate sound against the marble. He reached out with one hand and cupped Alyssa's chin, turning her face to examine the bruise on her cheek. His thumb traced the swelling. His skin was cold. She shivered.

"You damaged her face," Cornell said. His voice was quiet, conversational. "I was looking forward to watching her dance again."

Gregg stammered something. An excuse. An apology. Cornell ignored him. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to. The sheer, freezing weight of his stare pinned Gregg in place, a silent promise of absolute ruin.

The room held its breath.

Cornell stood. He was taller than she'd realized. He removed his jacket-cashmere, charcoal gray-and draped it over Alyssa's shoulders. The fabric was warm from his body. It smelled of cedar and something darker.

"She's a friend of Dina's," Cornell said, his tone carrying the quiet, lethal authority of a man who could dismantle Gregg's entire life with a single phone call. "I'm taking her home."

His hand settled on her waist. It felt like a shackle. He lifted her to her feet with effortless strength and guided her toward the door. No one stopped them. No one spoke. The music didn't resume until they were in the corridor.

Outside, the November air bit at her exposed skin. Alyssa tried to shrug off the jacket. Cornell's fingers tightened on her arm.

"Keep it."

The Maybach waited at the curb. The driver held the door open. Cornell pressed his palm against the small of her back and pushed her inside. She scrambled across the leather seat, reaching for the far door, but he was already in beside her. The door closed. The locks engaged.

The partition between front and back seats began to rise.

"Don't." Alyssa's voice cracked. "Please. Just let me out. I'll walk. I'll take the subway. I won't tell anyone. I swear-"

The partition sealed with a soft pneumatic hiss. They were alone. Cornell opened a compartment built into the center console and removed a small medical kit.

"Turn around."

"I said no."

He moved. One second he was seated, the next he was looming over her, his arms caging her against the door, his face inches from hers. His eyes were black in the dim light. She could see her own terrified reflection in them.

"Turn around," he repeated, "or I'll do it for you."

She turned. Her cheek burned where his fingers had touched her. She felt the cold swipe of antiseptic, the gentle pressure of a cotton pad. His breathing was steady. Controlled. Hers was ragged, desperate.

"You fought back," he said. It wasn't a question. "In the corridor. With Ashley. You fought."

"I had no choice."

"There's always a choice." He capped the ointment and dropped it back into the kit. "You chose to survive. You chose to come to me." His hand settled on her shoulder, heavy and possessive. "That was intelligent. That was self-preservation." His lips brushed her ear. "But now, little swan, you owe me. And I always collect my debts."