Bought By My Obsessive Billionaire Ex

The air in the sunroom of the Holder family mansion in Beverly Hills was thick with the suffocating scent of Damascus roses.

Cheryle Weeks sat on a velvet armchair, wearing a pure silk robe. Her face, preserved by millions of dollars and excellent surgeons, held the perfect, serene smile of a veteran Hollywood actress. She slowly lifted a porcelain cup of Earl Grey tea to her lips.

The glass doors of the sunroom were violently shoved open.

Kloe burst into the room. Her hair was a tangled mess, her eyes red and swollen from crying on the private jet all the way from New York.

She collapsed onto the velvet sofa across from her mother and began to sob hysterically.

"He humiliated me!" Kloe shrieked, waving her hands. "That bitch Aubrey seduced Callum Wyatt, and he threatened our family in front of everyone!"

Cheryle's hand paused mid-air. The teacup hovered near her mouth. A sharp, dangerous light flashed in her eyes at the mention of Callum's name.

She calmly set the cup down on the saucer. She pulled a tissue from a silver box and tossed it at Kloe.

"Stop crying," Cheryle snapped, her voice dropping its sweet facade. "Tears are for the cameras, Kloe. In this house, they are useless."

Cheryle stood up. She walked over to the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out over the perfectly manicured lawns of her empire.

"Lillian's little bastard is just like her mother," Cheryle sneered, her voice dripping with venom. "A cheap whore who only knows how to spread her legs for powerful men."

Kloe wiped her nose aggressively. "We can't let her get away with this! She can't step on the Holder name!"

Cheryle spun around. Her eyes were as cold and dead as a snake's.

"Never say the words 'illegitimate daughter' outside this house again," Cheryle warned, her voice a lethal whisper. "If you push her too hard in public, the press will start digging. And if they dig up what really happened twenty years ago, we lose everything."

Kloe shivered, suddenly remembering the terrifying lengths her mother had gone to when forcing Lillian out. She snapped her mouth shut.

Cheryle walked back to the sofa. She gently stroked Kloe's messy hair, her touch terrifyingly soft.

"Don't worry, my sweet girl. Mommy won't let that little bitch take what belongs to you."

Kloe looked up, a vicious hope lighting up her eyes. "What are we going to do?"

Cheryle walked over to her heavy mahogany desk. She opened the top drawer and pulled out a thick, glossy folder. The title read: The Sovereign - Production Pitch.

She tossed the folder onto the glass coffee table.

"Aubrey thinks this show is her big comeback," Cheryle laughed coldly. "So what if Callum Wyatt is protecting her now? I want her to wake up on that set every single day and realize that in Hollywood, we are the ones who pull the strings. I am going to use our capital to crush her so completely in her proudest field that she'll wish she was never born."

Kloe's eyes widened in understanding. "We ruin her on set."

"Exactly," Cheryle said. "Your sister Tatum is an idiot, but she's a useful idiot. We'll use the family fund to buy her a spot in the cast."

Cheryle instructed Kloe to call the PR department immediately. They were going to dump a massive amount of cash on the producers of The Sovereign.

"I want Aubrey to wake up every single day on that set and remember that capital can crush her like a bug," Cheryle smiled, a cruel, twisted expression.

Outside, the California sky suddenly darkened. Heavy raindrops began to smash against the glass roof of the sunroom.

Kloe pulled out her phone, her arrogant smirk returning as she dialed the producer's number.

Cheryle picked up her cold tea. She took a sip, her eyes staring blankly at the wall. The memory of Lillian standing on the Golden Globes stage, holding the trophy that should have been hers, burned in her mind. Her manicured nails scratched violently against the porcelain cup.

I destroyed the mother, Cheryle thought. I will destroy the daughter.

A sharp knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. The head butler stepped in, looking nervous.

"Madam," he bowed. "The police department called. Mr. Johnston is trying to make contact with Aubrey in New York."

Cheryle's face turned a violent shade of purple.

She hurled the teacup at the floor. It shattered into a hundred pieces against the marble, cold tea splashing everywhere.

"Cut the phone lines!" Cheryle screamed, her elegant mask completely destroyed. "Confiscate his cell phone! Do not let my husband speak to that bitch!"