Trapped By The Cold Billionaire Heir

Wren pushed open the heavy mahogany doors. The cold air conditioning from the hallway rushed over her bare arms, raising instant goosebumps on her skin. She stepped into the top-floor office of the Vance family headquarters.

Harold Vance slumped in his massive leather chair. His skin was the color of wet ash.

He lifted his head. His eyes were entirely bloodshot. He picked up a thick stack of papers and slammed it onto the glass coffee table. The sound cracked through the quiet room like a gunshot.

Wren walked closer. Her heels clicked sharply against the hardwood floor. She stopped at the edge of the table and looked down. The Ainsworth Financial logo sat at the top of the page. Below it, the words "Nasdaq Delisting Warning" were printed in bold black ink.

Her lungs stopped working. The air in the room suddenly felt too thick to breathe.

Harold opened his mouth. His voice shook violently. He told her the funding was completely gone. The family trust would be liquidated in forty-eight hours if they didn't accept the Ainsworth terms.

Heat flared in Wren's chest. She felt the blood rushing to her ears. She opened her mouth and yelled that Wall Street short-selling was illegal. She reached into her purse for her phone to call her contact at the SEC.

Harold lunged forward. He grabbed her wrist. His fingers dug into her skin, cold and trembling. He told her it wasn't a buyout. Cornelius Ainsworth wanted a marriage. Between Wren and his heir, Pierce.

Wren jerked her arm back. She stumbled away from him. Her shoulder blades hit the cold glass of the floor-to-ceiling window.

Harold covered his face with both hands. He begged her to go to the dinner at Le Bernardin tonight. Just to meet them.

Wren turned her head. She looked out at the Manhattan skyline. The tall buildings looked like bars on a cage. Her stomach twisted into a tight, painful knot. The humiliation burned in the back of her throat.

She walked back to the table. She grabbed the gold-embossed dinner invitation sitting next to the warning letter. She squeezed it in her fist. Her fingernails pierced the thick cardstock, digging into her palm. She told him she would go.

She shoved her apartment door open. The scent of her expensive vanilla perfume hit her face. She walked straight into her massive walk-in closet. She grabbed armfuls of silk dresses and cashmere sweaters and threw them onto the hardwood floor.

She dropped to her knees. She dug into the very back of the bottom drawer. She pulled out a faded, black leather jacket and a pair of torn fishnet tights. She stripped off her designer clothes and pulled the rough fabric over her skin.

She sat down at her vanity. She picked up a black eyeliner pencil. She pressed the tip against her eyelid so hard it snapped. She drew thick, dark circles around her eyes.

She grabbed a tube of dark purple lipstick and smeared it across her mouth. She stared at the mirror. The girl looking back at her didn't belong on the Upper East Side. She smiled.

Her phone lit up on the counter. A text from her mother, Eleanor, detailing exactly what pearls she should wear tonight. Wren pressed the volume button to silence it and flipped the phone face down.

She picked up a can of hairspray. She sprayed it directly into her blonde hair, using her fingers to tear through the strands until they stood up in messy, sharp angles.

She opened her jewelry box. She bypassed the diamonds and pulled out a thick leather choker covered in metal studs. She fastened it around her neck. The cold metal pressed against her pulse point.

The intercom buzzed. The lobby security guard announced the Vance family driver was waiting.

Wren grabbed a faded canvas tote bag. She walked out of the apartment. Her heavy combat boots hit the floor with loud, deliberate thuds.

She pulled open the door of the black Maybach. The driver turned his head. He sucked in a sharp breath. His foot slipped off the brake pedal for a second.

Wren climbed into the back seat. The silence in the car was suffocating. She pressed the button to roll down the window. The cold New York wind whipped through the car, slapping her face and tangling her stiff hair.

The Maybach pulled up to the curb outside Le Bernardin. The doorman stepped forward with a polite smile and opened her door.

Wren swung her legs out. She planted her combat boots onto the red carpet. She stood up and slammed the car door shut.

The doorman stared at her studded choker. He stuttered, asking if she had a reservation.

Wren looked him dead in the eye. She said the name Ainsworth. The doorman's face went completely pale. The restaurant manager rushed over, bowing his head, and led her inside.

She walked through the quiet, dimly lit dining room. She swung her canvas bag. It hit a tall porcelain vase on a pedestal. The vase scraped against the wood, making a loud, screeching sound.

People at the surrounding tables stopped eating. They stared at her torn fishnets. Wren turned her head and glared right back at them until they looked away.

The manager stopped in front of a heavy oak door at the back of the restaurant. His hand was sweating as he gripped the brass handle.

Wren took a deep breath. Her chest expanded against the tight leather jacket. She pulled her lips back into a cold, mocking smile. She was ready for them to scream at her and cancel the wedding.

The manager pushed the door open. Bright light from the crystal chandelier spilled out into the hallway. Wren stepped over the threshold.

Wren walked into the private room. She tossed her canvas bag onto the center of the table. It landed on the expensive white silk tablecloth with a heavy thud.

Cornelius Ainsworth Sr. sat at the head of the table. He stopped cutting his steak. His silver knife clinked sharply against the porcelain plate.

Pierce Ainsworth sat to his right. He lifted his head. His dark eyes scanned Wren's torn fishnets and heavy makeup. The skin between his eyebrows pinched together in deep disgust.

Wren pulled out a chair opposite Pierce. The wooden legs scraped loudly against the floor. She sat down, spread her legs wide, and crossed her arms over her chest.

She looked right at Pierce. She opened her mouth and told him he looked like a stiff corporate robot.

Pierce let out a short, cold breath. He picked up his white linen napkin. He wiped the corner of his mouth. He looked at her like she was a piece of rotting garbage on the sidewalk.

Wren waited for the explosion. She waited for them to kick her out.

Instead, Cornelius Sr. threw his head back. A deep, loud laugh erupted from his chest.

He dropped his napkin onto the table. He stared at Wren. He told her she was much more entertaining than the boring socialites he usually dealt with.

Wren's arms fell to her sides. Her mouth opened slightly. The purple lipstick cracked. Her brain completely stopped processing.

Pierce snapped his head toward his father. His jaw tightened. He opened his mouth to speak.

Cornelius held up a hand. He reached into the inside pocket of his tailored suit jacket. He pulled out a thick stack of papers. He slid it across the smooth table until it hit Wren's canvas bag.

Wren looked down. The bold letters at the top read "Prenuptial Agreement." She realized her entire rebellion was a joke to them. She was trapped.

She pushed her chair back and stood up. She slammed both hands flat onto the table. She told him she would never sign it.

Cornelius picked up his wine glass. He took a slow sip of red wine. He looked at her and stated the exact dollar amount of the Vance family's debt.

Wren's pupils dilated. Her breath hitched in her throat. That number was a secret. Only her father and the head accountant knew it.

Cornelius set his glass down. He told her she had two choices. Sign the paper, or the Vance family would be erased from Wall Street by tomorrow morning.

Pierce sat perfectly still. He watched Wren's shoulders start to shake. His eyes were completely empty of sympathy.

Wren bit down on her lower lip. She bit so hard she tasted the sharp, metallic tang of blood on her tongue. She turned her head and glared at Pierce, silently begging him to stop this.

Pierce leaned forward. He lowered his voice so his father couldn't hear. He told her to drop the act. He said she was just a gold digger who would do anything for a bailout.

The words hit her chest like a physical blow. Wren grabbed the crystal wine glass in front of her. Her fingers squeezed the fragile stem. She wanted to throw the red liquid right into his arrogant face.

Cornelius cleared his throat loudly. The two men in black suits standing outside the door stepped silently halfway into the room. Their massive, mountain-like builds instantly made the air in the room freeze. Their cold, dead eyes locked onto Wren, projecting a suffocating, oppressive weight that made the threat of their physical power absolutely clear without a single weapon ever being drawn.

Wren's hand froze in the air. Her lungs burned. The reality of the situation crushed her.

She slowly lowered the glass. Her hand shook violently as she reached for the Montblanc pen resting on top of the agreement. She pressed the nib into the paper. She signed her name. She pressed so hard the pen tore through the thick paper and gouged a deep mark into the white silk tablecloth beneath.

Cornelius smiled. He pulled the papers back. He looked at his assistant and announced the wedding would be early next month.

Pierce stood up. He buttoned his suit jacket. He looked at the wall behind Wren and told her his team would arrive tomorrow to measure her for a dress.

Wren didn't look at him. She grabbed her bag. She shoved past the bodyguard blocking the door and ran down the hallway.

She pushed through the front doors of the restaurant. The cold New York rain hit her face, washing the heavy black eyeliner down her cheeks.

She stood on the wet sidewalk. She looked at the bright lights of the Empire State Building. Her stomach churned with pure hatred.

Inside the room, Pierce stared at the deep gash Wren's pen had left on the white silk tablecloth. The fabric was torn, the edges frayed, and beneath it-if anyone cared to lift the cloth-the polished wood was untouched. His chest felt tight. He hated this marriage just as much as she did.

Wren sat in front of the vintage vanity mirror inside the bridal suite of St. Patrick's Cathedral. Three stylists hovered around her. They pulled and pinned her blonde hair, forcing a heavy, diamond-encrusted tiara onto her head. The metal dug into her scalp.

The custom lace wedding dress was pulled so tight around her ribs she had to take shallow, rapid breaths. She reached up and yanked at the high lace collar, her fingers trembling.

The door opened. Her mother, Eleanor, walked in. Her eyes were red and swollen. She held a velvet box. She walked up behind Wren and clasped a heavy sapphire necklace around her neck. The stones felt like ice against Wren's collarbone.

Eleanor let out a quiet sob. She whispered an apology, her hands shaking as she touched Wren's shoulders.

Wren swallowed the hard lump in her throat. She reached up and grabbed her mother's hand. She squeezed it hard. She forced her voice to stay flat and told her it was just a business transaction.

A deep, loud bell rang from the bell tower. The sound vibrated through the floorboards. Arthur, the Ainsworth family butler, knocked twice on the door and announced it was time.

Wren stood up. She took a deep breath, forcing her lungs to expand against the tight corset. She locked her jaw. She wiped all the fear from her face, replacing it with a blank, perfect smile.

The heavy wooden doors of the cathedral slowly pulled open. A blinding wall of white light hit her face. Hundreds of camera flashes exploded at once. Wren narrowed her eyes against the sting.

She wrapped her hand around Harold's arm. She stepped onto the thick carpet of white rose petals. The loud, vibrating chords of the pipe organ filled the massive church.

Wren looked straight ahead. At the end of the long aisle stood Pierce. He wore a perfectly tailored black tuxedo.

He turned to face her. His lips were curved into a handsome smile, but his dark eyes were completely dead. They looked like frozen glass.

Harold stopped at the altar. He took Wren's hand and placed it into Pierce's.

Pierce's palm was freezing. The second his fingers wrapped around hers, he squeezed. He squeezed so hard her knuckles ground together.

A sharp pain shot up Wren's arm. She kept her smile perfectly frozen for the cameras. She curled her fingers inward and dug her sharp acrylic nails directly into the back of Pierce's hand.

They stood side by side in front of the priest. The cameras clicked frantically from the pews, capturing the fake perfection.

The priest began reading the vows. The words echoed off the high stone ceiling. Wren felt sick to her stomach.

It was Pierce's turn. He turned his body toward her. He looked deeply into her eyes. He leaned in close, his lips almost brushing her ear.

He whispered that if she messed up this photo op, he would tank Vance stock before lunch tomorrow.

Wren ground her teeth together. Her jaw ached. She tilted her chin up, looked him dead in the eye, and said "I do" loud enough for the entire church to hear.

The best man handed Pierce the ring. Pierce grabbed the massive diamond. He shoved it onto Wren's ring finger. The size of the ring was completely flawless, tailored perfectly by his team, yet he treated it like a weapon. He shoved it down her finger like he was locking a prisoner in iron shackles. He pushed it violently, slamming the hard metal band against the base of her finger with a sharp, stinging pain that radiated up her arm.

Wren sucked in a sharp breath through her nose. She grabbed his gold band. She shoved it onto his finger with as much force as she could manage, hoping it hurt.

The priest smiled and told Pierce he could kiss the bride.

The entire church went completely silent. Pierce stepped forward. He raised his hand and wrapped his fingers around the back of Wren's neck. His grip was like a steel vice, locking her head in place so she couldn't pull away.

He crashed his mouth down onto hers. His lips were hard and cold. There was no softness, only a brutal assertion of control.

The sharp scent of cedar and expensive cologne filled Wren's nose. Her stomach rolled with intense nausea. She kept her hands clenched in the fabric of her dress.

The camera flashes reached a blinding peak. Pierce pulled back. He raised his hand and gently tucked a stray blonde hair behind her ear.

Wren immediately turned her head, breaking the contact. She faced the crowd and stretched her lips into a painful smile.

They turned around. The crowd erupted into applause. Underneath the massive skirt of her dress, Wren stepped away from him, leaving a foot of space between their bodies.

As they walked down the steps of the altar, Wren shifted her weight. She brought the sharp heel of her shoe down hard onto the top of Pierce's leather shoe.

Pierce's jaw twitched. A tiny muscle feathered in his cheek.

They reached the heavy doors. The wood slammed shut behind them, cutting off the noise and the cameras. Instantly, the smiles vanished from both of their faces.