Beyond The Billionaire's Cruel Obsession

For five years, I was married to a man the world adored. I told myself he wasn't a monster, just incapable of love.

I learned the truth when his men dragged me from a hospital bed to bake a cake for the spoiled lover he cherished more than life.

He let that man, Cinnamon, carve a painting into my back with a needle. He had me thrown into a walk-in freezer when I refused to cook.

He even made me crawl through a swimming pool filled with broken glass, all to appease Cinnamon's cruel whims.

I finally understood. My husband wasn't incapable of love; he was just incapable of loving me. He was a monster, but only for him.

The day I walked out of that pool, bleeding and broken, my love for him was dead. The next morning, I finalized our divorce and bought every billboard in the city with my last dollar.

My message was simple: "I, Adelaide Atkinson, am officially divorced from Alonzo Taylor. Best wishes for his future with Mr. Cinnamon Webster."

Chapter 1

Adelaide POV:

For five years, I was married to a man the world adored. A man who, I came to realize, was not incapable of love. He was simply incapable of loving me. I learned this the day his men dragged me from a hospital bed, my body shattered and bleeding, to bake a cake for the spoiled mistress he cherished more than life itself.

That man was Alonzo Taylor, the ruthless billionaire CEO whose face graced the cover of every major business magazine. To the public, he was a visionary, a titan of industry, a man whose logic was as sharp and cold as a surgeon's scalpel. To me, he was the husband who had saved my family's company from bankruptcy five years ago, in exchange for my hand in a marriage of convenience.

I had been grateful. I had even been in love.

But gratitude and love have their limits.

I learned that on our first anniversary, when he forgot our dinner reservations because of a last-minute board meeting.

I learned it again on my birthday, when he sent his assistant with a Cartier bracelet but never showed up himself.

I learned it through a thousand lonely nights in our sprawling, minimalist mansion that felt more like a museum than a home. He was always working, always traveling, always just out of reach. His apologies, when they came, were brief and perfunctory, delivered via text messages that felt like they were dictated to his secretary.

For a long time, I made excuses for him. He's a genius, I'd tell myself. His mind operates on a different plane. His work is his passion, and I should be a supportive wife. This marriage was a transaction, after all. I shouldn't expect the fairy tale.

But a heart, no matter how resilient, can only take so much neglect before it starts to crack.

The first real crack appeared when the whispers started. Rumors of Alonzo and an aspiring actress named Cinnamon Webster. At first, I dismissed them. Alonzo was rational to the point of cruelty; he had no time for the frivolities of a love affair.

But the rumors were persistent, and they painted a picture of a man I didn't recognize.

They said he, the man who considered flowers a waste of resources, had an entire botanical garden flown in overnight to decorate Cinnamon's apartment.

They said he, the man who detested public displays of affection, was photographed holding an umbrella for Cinnamon in the rain, his own billion-dollar suit soaked through.

They said he, the workaholic who never took a day off, had shut down an entire amusement park for a day just so Cinnamon could ride the Ferris wheel alone with him.

I didn't want to believe it. It was impossible. This wasn't the Alonzo I knew. The Alonzo I knew wouldn't even remember my favorite color, let alone shut down an amusement park for me. He was cold, yes, but he was consistently cold to everyone. That was my strange, pathetic comfort. He didn't love me, but he didn't love anyone else either.

But the doubt was a seed, and it began to sprout.

Using the last of my personal savings, I hired a private investigator. Alonzo's security was airtight, a fortress built of money and power. The investigator struggled for weeks, only managing to get a single, blurry photograph, taken from a long distance.

He handed it to me in a plain manila envelope. My hands trembled as I opened it.

The photo showed Alonzo standing by a lakeside, the setting sun casting a golden glow around him. He was looking down at a figure seated on a bench, a young man with a delicate, almost feline beauty. And on Alonzo's face was an expression I had never seen in my five years of marriage.

It was a look of such profound, unguarded tenderness that it stole the air from my lungs.

It was the look I had dreamed of, prayed for, and starved for. And he was giving it to someone else.

The pain was a physical thing, a cold dread that filled my chest.

That night, on my way home from the investigator's office, a black sedan ran a red light and slammed into the side of my car.

The world spun into a blur of screeching metal and shattering glass.

I woke up in a hospital room, my head pounding and my arm in a cast. Alonzo's personal assistant, a man as devoid of emotion as his boss, was standing by my bed.

"Mrs. Taylor," he said, his voice flat. "Mr. Taylor asked me to convey his regards."

He paused, his eyes like chips of ice. "He also hopes you understand that some curiosities are best left unsatisfied. For your own well-being."

The meaning was unmistakable. The "car accident" was a warning. My husband, the man I had loved and defended, had tried to have me killed-or at least badly frightened-to protect his affair.

The cold dread in my chest turned into a glacial sheet of ice. Alonzo wasn't just cold. He was a monster.

And he was a monster for him. For Cinnamon Webster.

The final, shattering confirmation came two days later. I was still in the hospital when I received a frantic call from the local police department. Cinnamon Webster had been arrested for causing a drunken disturbance at a luxury boutique, and he was refusing to cooperate, demanding to see Alonzo.

I don't know what possessed me. A morbid need to see the man who had stolen my husband's heart. I threw on my clothes over my hospital gown, my broken arm throbbing, and took a taxi to the station.

The scene in the precinct was chaotic. Cinnamon, draped in designer clothes and looking petulant, was screaming at a beleaguered-looking officer.

"Do you know who I am? Do you know who my boyfriend is? When Alonzo gets here, you'll be fired! All of you!"

Just then, the glass doors to the precinct slid open.

Alonzo Taylor strode in, flanked by two imposing bodyguards. The air in the room instantly changed, crackling with his power and authority. The noisy room fell silent. He didn't even glance in my direction, his eyes fixed solely on the spoiled young man pouting in the corner.

"Adelaide," he said, his voice dangerously low, finally acknowledging my presence. "What are you doing here? Go home." It wasn't a request. It was an order.

But I was frozen, unable to move, unable to look away.

Because the moment Alonzo's eyes landed on Cinnamon, his entire demeanor shifted. The ruthless CEO vanished, replaced by a man I had never seen before.

"Cinnamon," he murmured, his voice softening to an incredible degree. He walked over and gently brushed a stray hair from Cinnamon's forehead. "Are you alright? Did they hurt you?"

My heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vise.

Cinnamon's lower lip trembled. "Lonzo, they were so mean to me! And... and that security guard, he pushed me!" He pointed a dramatic finger at a guard standing near the wall. "He hurt my wrist!"

Alonzo's head snapped toward the guard, his eyes turning to black ice. "Did you touch him?"

The guard paled. "Sir, I... I was just trying to stop him from breaking things..."

"Apologize," Alonzo commanded, his voice devoid of any warmth.

The guard looked stunned. Alonzo's assistant stepped forward. "Mr. Taylor, it was a misunderstanding. The security footage shows Mr. Webster was the aggressor-"

"I said," Alonzo repeated, his voice dropping to a terrifying whisper, "apologize. On your knees."

I watched in utter disbelief as the guard, a man twice Cinnamon's age, hesitated for a second before his shoulders slumped in defeat. He slowly knelt before the smirking young actor.

"I... I'm sorry," the guard mumbled, his face burning with humiliation.

But Cinnamon wasn't satisfied. "An apology isn't enough! Lonzo, he scared me. He needs to be punished."

My blood ran cold.

Alonzo turned back to Cinnamon, his expression melting back into that sickeningly gentle look. "Of course, my love. Whatever you want. How do you want him punished?"

Cinnamon tapped his chin, a cruel glint in his eyes. "I want you to punish him for me. I want you to take his place. You go apologize to that sales clerk I yelled at. For me."

The request was absurd, humiliating. It was a power play, and we all knew it. I expected Alonzo to refuse, to show some flicker of the proud, unbending man he was.

He didn't even hesitate.

"As you wish," Alonzo said softly.

He turned, walked over to the terrified young sales clerk who had been called in to give a statement, and bowed his head. "I apologize on behalf of my partner. His behavior was unacceptable. Please, forgive him."

The sight of Alonzo Taylor, the king of the financial world, humbling himself for the whims of a spoiled brat was so shocking, so utterly debasing, that I felt my entire world tilt on its axis.

The love I had so carefully nurtured for five years, the hope I had clung to in the face of endless neglect, died in that fluorescent-lit police station.

It didn't just fade. It was slaughtered.

Cinnamon, still not satisfied, crossed his arms. "That's not enough. Lonzo, you let him scare me. That means you didn't protect me well enough. You should be punished too."

Alonzo looked at him, his gaze full of an emotion I could now only recognize as blind adoration. "You're right. How should I be punished?"

Cinnamon's eyes flickered to me for a brief, triumphant second before landing back on Alonzo. A wicked smile played on his lips.

"I want you to slap yourself. Ten times. Hard enough for me to hear it."

My jaw dropped. The police officers in the room exchanged horrified glances.

But Alonzo just nodded, as if it were the most reasonable request in the world. He raised his hand, his eyes never leaving Cinnamon's face, and brought it down against his own cheek.

The sound of the slap echoed through the silent room, sharp and brutal.

Smack.

Once.

Smack.

Twice.

His hand was unsparing. By the fifth slap, a red mark was blooming on his perfect, chiseled face.

I stood there, a ghost in the corner of a nightmare, and watched the man I had married systematically destroy his own dignity for another. And I knew, with a certainty that was as cold and hard as a tombstone, that I was done.

The love was dead. The hope was gone.

All that was left was a hollow, aching void. And a sudden, desperate need to get away.