Trapped By The Ruthless Billionaire Husband

The bass in the Meatpacking District's VIP club vibrated so hard it rattled the ice in Finley's glass.

She held up a bottle of Ace of Spades champagne, throwing her head back in a loud, exaggerated laugh. The strobe lights flashed across her face, hiding the absolute deadness in her eyes. The trust fund kids around her cheered, oblivious to the fact that she wasn't looking at them at all.

Tinsley leaned in close, screaming some meaningless gossip over the deafening music.

Finley nodded, flashing a brilliant, empty smile. Beneath the edge of the table, her thumb swiped aimlessly across her phone screen, the bright display flashing with the latest high-end jewelry collections and designer handbags. Her heart beat as wildly as the heavy bass vibrating through the floorboards, a frantic rhythm that she hoped would drown out the suffocating emptiness echoing in her chest. She scrolled faster, pretending to care about the diamonds, just to keep her mind blank.

The heavy velvet door of the private booth burst open.

Four bodyguards in identical black suits shoved their way in. The music cut off abruptly. Someone screamed as the lead bodyguard marched straight toward Finley.

His face was a slab of granite. He snatched the champagne flute right out of her hand.

"Mr. Benton is in critical condition," the bodyguard said, his voice cutting through the sudden silence.

Finley's fake smile cracked. A cold sweat broke out on the back of her neck. Her grandfather.

She tried to rip her arm away from the bodyguard's grip. Her six-inch heels caught on the thick carpet, and she stumbled forward.

"Let go of me!" she yelled, but the men simply flanked her, half-dragging her toward the club's back exit.

A blast of freezing night air hit her face.

Before she could scream for help, she was shoved into the backseat of an armored SUV. The heavy doors slammed shut. The locks clicked into place with a sharp, final sound.

The SUV tore away from the curb. Finley slammed her fists against the tinted window, her chest heaving.

The bodyguard in the passenger seat turned and handed her a crisp, white medical waiver.

Finley's hands froze. She snatched the paper. The streetlights flickered across the text. Her stomach dropped to the floor.

At the very bottom of the critical care authorization, the signature read: Haiden Mitchell.

Bile rose in her throat. The sheer disgust of seeing his name mixed with a heavy, suffocating panic.

The tires screeched as the SUV plunged into the underground parking garage of Mount Sinai Hospital. The harsh, fluorescent lights stabbed at her eyes, making her squint.

The doors unlocked. Finley scrambled out, her heels clicking wildly against the concrete. She bolted for the elevator, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

The elevator doors slid open on the VIP floor. Finley rushed out and slammed directly into a solid wall of muscle.

A sharp scent of cold cedar and mint filled her lungs.

Large, warm hands gripped her shoulders, steadying her. Finley looked up.

Haiden Mitchell stared down at her. His dark eyes swept over her smeared eyeliner and her sequined dress, his jaw ticking with undisguised judgment.

"Get your hands off me," Finley spat, slapping his arms away. Her skin crawled where he had touched her. "Where is he?"

Haiden stepped aside, his face an emotionless mask. "His organs are failing. The doctors are doing what they can."

Finley pushed past him. Through the glass window of the ICU, she saw Benton. Tubes snaked out of his mouth and arms. The rhythmic beep of the heart monitor was too slow.

Her chest tightened so hard she couldn't breathe. She shoved the door open.

"Grandpa," Finley choked out, throwing herself at the edge of the bed. She grabbed his frail, wrinkled hand. Tears spilled hot down her cheeks. "Wake up. Please."

Benton's eyelids fluttered. He took a rattling breath.

Suddenly, his fingers clamped down on her wrist. The grip was shockingly tight, his nails digging into her skin.

"Marry Haiden," Benton wheezed, his voice barely a whisper, but heavy with absolute command. "Secure the board."

Finley felt the blood drain from her face. She yanked her hand back, jumping to her feet.

"Are you insane?" she screamed, her lungs burning. "He's a parasite! He's just waiting for you to die so he can steal everything!"

Haiden stood in the shadows near the door. He didn't say a word. His dark eyes locked onto Finley's shaking shoulders.

Benton slammed his weak fist against the mattress. "You are reckless! A fool! You know nothing about this company!"

Finley bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted copper. The humiliation burned her throat. But beneath the rage, a cold, calculating part of her brain-the part she kept hidden from everyone, the part that had secretly aced every finance elective at Columbia before dropping out-whispered that her grandfather wasn't wrong about her public persona. She had spent years playing the dumb heiress, letting everyone underestimate her. It was the only way she had survived her mother's death and her father's abandonment. But the act was suffocating.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted the edge of a document sticking out of Haiden's suit pocket. It was covered in dense charts and strings of numbers. She could read them-every last goddamn derivative and valuation model-but admitting that would mean exposing the one weapon she had left. So she clenched her fists and pretended to be lost. A sudden, inexplicable irritation flared in her chest. She hated those numbers. She hated everything they represented. An impulsive urge washed over her to snatch the papers and rip them to shreds, just to wipe that smug, controlling look off his face.

Finley grabbed the heavy glass water pitcher from the bedside table and hurled it at the wall.

The glass shattered into a hundred pieces, exploding across the linoleum floor. "I won't do it!" she shrieked.

A nurse peeked her head through the door. Haiden shot her a look so lethal the woman instantly vanished, pulling the door shut.

Benton started to cough. It was a wet, violent sound.

The heart monitor suddenly shrieked. A flashing red light bathed the room. The numbers on the screen plummeted.

Finley stumbled backward, her hands flying to her mouth. Her heart hammered against her ribs.

Doctors burst through the door, shoving her out of the way.

Haiden stepped forward. He wrapped a thick arm around Finley's waist and hauled her backward, dragging her out of the chaotic room.

Finley fought him the entire way down the hall. She stomped her stiletto heel down hard onto his leather shoe.

Haiden didn't even flinch.

He slammed her against the cold wall at the end of the corridor. He planted both hands on the wall beside her ears, caging her in.

"If he dies tonight," Haiden said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble, "the board will tear Blackwell Industries apart by morning. You will have nothing."

Finley stared up at him. His eyes were completely black in the dim light. For the first time, the sheer, suffocating weight of his power terrified her.

Down the hall, the emergency lights flashed. A doctor stepped out, his face grim. "He's stable for now, but he could crash at any second."

Finley's knees gave out. Haiden caught her by the waist.

She squeezed her eyes shut. A single tear dropped onto the back of Haiden's hand.

"Fine," Finley gritted out, the word tearing her throat. "I'll do it."

Haiden stared at the wet spot on his hand. A complicated, dark emotion flickered in his eyes before his mask slammed back into place.

The morning light filtered through the massive windows of the Long Island estate, but Finley felt nothing but cold.

She sat frozen in front of the vanity mirror. The stylist pinned the delicate lace of the Vera Wang veil into her hair. Finley's fingers dug into the heavy silk of her wedding dress, twisting the fabric until her knuckles turned white.

"You look absolutely breathtaking, Miss Blackwell," the stylist gushed.

Finley let out a dry, bitter laugh. She grabbed a pair of silver scissors from the table and raised them toward her veil.

The stylist shrieked and scrambled backward.

The bedroom door opened. Arthur, the head butler, stepped in. He calmly reached out and took the scissors from Finley's shaking hand.

"Mr. Benton sends his regards," Arthur said smoothly. "The press is waiting outside."

Finley sucked in a sharp breath. Her lungs felt tight.

She stared at her reflection, her chest rising and falling with jagged breaths. A reckless, destructive urge clawed at her throat. She wanted to scream. She wanted to march down that aisle and throw a massive tantrum, to knock over the floral arrangements and make a spectacular scene. She was going to embarrass him and the entire Blackwell family in front of the whole city today. She had to do something to make them pay for locking her in this cage.

Four maids surrounded her, lifting the train of her dress as they escorted her down the grand staircase and out the front doors.

A stretched Rolls Royce waited in the driveway. Finley was practically shoved inside.

The car smelled of fresh leather and expensive flowers. Finley stared out the tinted window as the Manhattan skyline came into view. Her brain worked in overdrive, calculating the distance to the nearest subway station, the timing of the traffic lights.

The Rolls Royce hit a wall of traffic on Fifth Avenue.

Finley's hand shot to the door handle. She pulled it hard.

Nothing happened.

She looked up and caught Arthur's apologetic gaze in the rearview mirror. The child locks were engaged.

"Damn it!" Finley screamed, kicking her heavy heel into the back of the leather seat. The dull thud echoed in the quiet cabin.

The car finally rolled to a stop in front of St. Patrick's Cathedral.

A sea of paparazzi swarmed the vehicle. The flashbulbs exploded like a continuous lightning storm, blinding her through the glass.

Bodyguards formed a human shield, dragging Finley through the heavy wooden doors of the cathedral vestibule. The doors slammed shut, cutting off the screaming reporters.

Tinsley rushed forward, holding out a silver flask. "Vodka. Drink."

Finley grabbed it and took a long, burning swallow. The alcohol seared her throat, sending a rush of reckless heat straight to her brain.

The massive pipe organ began to play the wedding march. The sound vibrated in her chest, heavy and suffocating.

Finley suddenly dropped to a crouch on the marble floor. "My heel broke," she lied, her voice shaking.

The bridesmaids panicked, fluttering around her in a chaotic mess of silk and tulle.

Finley used the distraction to crawl toward the side exit. Just a few more feet.

A tall shadow fell over her.

Haiden stood blocking the door. He wore a custom Tom Ford tuxedo that fit his broad shoulders perfectly. He looked down at her bare feet, his eyes like shards of ice.

"Your shoes are fine, Finley," he said, his voice flat and merciless.

Finley stood up, tilting her chin in defiance. "I'm not walking down that aisle. Go tell the press the bride ran away."

Haiden's jaw clenched. The muscle in his cheek ticked.

He stepped forward, wrapping one thick arm tightly around her waist. Before she could process the movement, his other arm swept under her knees.

He lifted her entirely off the ground.

Finley gasped, her hands instinctively flying up to grip his neck. "Put me down!" she hissed, slamming her fists against his solid chest.

The main doors to the sanctuary swung open.

Haiden carried her straight into the blinding light of the cathedral. Hundreds of New York's elite gasped. The cameras clicked frantically.

To keep her underwear from flashing the front row, Finley had no choice but to bury her face into the crook of Haiden's neck. He smelled of power and danger.

"Smile," Haiden whispered against her ear, his voice vibrating through her skin. "Unless you want to be the laughingstock of the city tomorrow."

Humiliation burned behind Finley's eyes. She forced her lips into a stiff, agonizing smile.

Haiden reached the altar and set her down. His touch was surprisingly gentle, but his eyes promised absolute control.

The priest began to speak. The vaulted ceiling felt like it was closing in on her. Finley scanned the front pews, desperately looking for her grandfather, but Benton wasn't there.

"Do you, Finley Blackwell, take this man..."

When it was her turn to say 'I do', Finley clamped her mouth shut.

Ten seconds passed. Then twenty. The entire cathedral fell into a dead, horrifying silence.

Haiden's large hand slid to the small of her back. He pinched the soft flesh right above her hipbone, hard.

Finley gasped at the sharp pain. "I do," she choked out.

Haiden grabbed her left hand. He shoved the massive, pigeon-blood diamond ring onto her ring finger. It was half a size too small. The metal dug painfully into her skin, a physical reminder of her cage.

"You may kiss the bride."

Finley turned her head away.

Haiden's fingers dug into her jaw, forcing her face back. He crashed his lips onto hers.

It wasn't a kiss. It was a punishment. His mouth was hard, bruising, tasting faintly of blood and dominance. Finley's knees went weak under the sheer force of his invasion.

The organ music swelled. Haiden pulled back, flashing a flawless, victorious smile to the cameras.

Finley stood there, her lips swollen, feeling completely and utterly defeated.

The private elevator doors opened directly into the Tribeca penthouse.

Finley kicked off her heels the second she crossed the threshold. Her bare feet slapped against the freezing Italian marble floor.

Haiden walked past her, loosening his tie. He threw his suit jacket over the back of the leather sofa and walked straight to the wet bar. He poured two glasses of amber whiskey.

Finley ignored the drink. She marched over to her Hermes Birkin bag sitting on the console table.

She pulled out a thick stack of papers and slammed them down onto the glass coffee table. The sharp smack echoed in the empty room.

"Sign it," Finley demanded.

Haiden paused, the whiskey glass halfway to his mouth. He looked at the bold letters on the cover page: Divorce Settlement Agreement. A mocking smirk touched the corner of his lips.

Finley crossed her arms, her chest heaving. "You sign this, and I'll wire one billion dollars from my trust into your account. You get paid, I get my life back."

Haiden set the glass down. He picked up the document. The rustle of the thick paper sounded deafening in the quiet apartment.

He flipped to the third page. "Clause four," he said, his voice dripping with condescension. "You structured the equity split using Class B shares. That triggers a tax penalty that would wipe out half the capital. Did a child draft this?"

His condescending tone struck her like a physical blow, and Finley's face instantly flushed a hot, angry red. She dug her fingernails into her palms until they ached. She absolutely hated the way he spoke to her, always treating her like a clueless child who needed to be lectured. The sheer arrogance of him tearing apart her demands made her stomach churn with a violent, helpless rage.

Haiden reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a Montblanc fountain pen. He popped the cap off. The metallic click made Finley's heart skip a beat.

He flipped to the last page and signed his name in bold, aggressive strokes.

Finley's eyes widened in shock. She lunged forward to grab the paper.

Haiden's massive hand slammed down on the document, pinning it to the glass.

He looked up at her, his dark eyes slicing right through her. "There's a condition. The effective date of this agreement is the day after your twenty-fifth birthday."

Finley slammed her hands on the table. "Three years? Are you out of your mind? You just want three years to drain Blackwell dry!"

Haiden laughed. It was a dark, humorless sound. He stood up, his towering frame casting a long shadow over her.

He leaned down, his face inches from hers. "Benton's will stipulates that if we divorce before three years, your entire inheritance goes to charity. You'd be left with nothing."

Finley felt the blood rush out of her head. The room spun. She had walked right into her grandfather's trap, and Haiden held the key. Her whole body began to tremble.

Desperate to regain the upper hand, Finley pulled out her phone.

"Don't act like you're doing this for me," she spat, her voice shrill. "I know about your little whore."

The temperature in the room plummeted. Haiden's eyes went dead.

Finley shoved the phone into his face. On the screen were blurry paparazzi photos of Haiden walking into a private maternity hospital late at night.

"You have a bastard kid on the way, don't you?" she sneered, her chest tight with a strange, burning anger. "Playing the loyal dog for my grandfather while hiding your trash on the side."

Haiden stared at the photo. His pupils contracted. He slowly raised his hand and pushed her phone away.

"Absurd," he said. His voice was completely devoid of emotion.

He turned his back on her and walked toward the master bedroom.

The dismissal snapped the last thread of Finley's sanity. She grabbed a heavy velvet throw pillow and hurled it at his back. It hit him and fell uselessly to the floor.

Haiden stopped. He didn't turn around.

"Behave yourself tonight, Finley," he warned, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "Or I won't hesitate to exercise my rights as your husband."

The bedroom door slammed shut. The lock clicked.

Finley collapsed onto the sofa. Her lungs burned as she sucked in air. She stared at the signed, useless divorce paper.

She looked up at the antique clock on the wall. It was 11:00 PM.

A reckless, destructive fire ignited in her stomach. She marched into the walk-in closet, ripping the heavy wedding dress off her body. She pulled on a skin-tight, backless sequin dress that barely covered her thighs.

She grabbed the limitless black Centurion card off the dresser, strapped on her highest stilettos, and walked out the front door without looking back.