Escaping My Coldhearted Billionaire Husband

The interior of the Maybach was suffocating. The heavy scent of Desmond's cedar and bergamot cologne filled the enclosed space, making Ada's stomach knot with anxiety.

She pressed her body hard against the leather door panel, trying to put as much distance between them as possible.

The car merged smoothly onto the highway. Desmond leaned back against the headrest, his dark eyes watching her with a cold, predatory stillness.

Ada forced herself to breathe. She swallowed the lump of fear in her throat and broke the silence.

"I want a divorce," her voice was hoarse, barely more than a rasp.

Desmond let out a low, dark chuckle. It sounded like a threat. "A divorce? You think a convicted felon gets to make demands?"

"I have nothing left," Ada pleaded, her fingernails digging into her own palms. "You took my freedom. You took my baby. Just let me go."

Desmond lunged across the seat. His large hand clamped around her thin wrist, pinning it to the leather seat.

"You don't get to leave," he snarled, his face inches from hers. "You will spend the rest of your miserable life in the shadow of my family, paying for what you did. Until I say you're done."

He threw her hand back at her in disgust.

The car fell into a dead, freezing silence. Thirty minutes later, the Maybach pulled up to the curb on Fifth Avenue, stopping in front of an exclusive, appointment-only luxury department store.

"Take her inside," Desmond ordered his head of security. "Burn those disgusting clothes. Put her in something suitable for the family dinner tonight."

Four massive bodyguards surrounded Ada. They marched her through the glass doors like a prisoner of war.

The store was blindingly bright. Wealthy shoppers stopped and stared at the bruised, emaciated woman being escorted by armed men.

Ada was shoved into a massive VIP fitting room. Two saleswomen nervously wheeled in racks of expensive evening gowns.

Ada stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror. She stared at her own reflection. Her collarbones jutted out sharply. Her skin was pale and covered in faint bruises. A wave of deep humiliation and burning anger washed over her.

She walked to the fitting room door and opened it a crack. "I need to use the restroom," she told the bodyguard standing outside.

The guard checked the adjacent marble bathroom. There were no windows, only one door. He nodded and let her step inside.

Ada locked the door instantly. She looked up. Above the toilet stalls was a large, industrial air conditioning vent.

She climbed onto the toilet seat, her legs shaking from weakness. She pushed her fingers through the metal grates and shoved upward. The cover popped loose.

Ignoring the sharp pain in her ribs, Ada pulled herself up into the dark, dusty ventilation shaft. The metal scraped against her elbows, tearing the skin, but she didn't stop. She crawled forward on her stomach, coughing silently through the thick dust.

Ten minutes later, the bodyguard kicked the bathroom door open. The room was empty.

Alarms immediately blared through the department store.

Ada dropped out of a vent in the back alley, landing hard on a pile of cardboard boxes. Pain shot up her ankle, but she scrambled to her feet and ran.

She pushed through the crowded Manhattan sidewalks, her heart hammering wildly. She could hear the crackle of security radios and heavy footsteps behind her.

She ducked into a subway station, rushing down the stairs toward the crowded platform. A train was just pulling in, the doors sliding open.

She lunged for the open doors.

A massive, iron-grip hand clamped down on the back of her trench coat collar.

Ada screamed, a raw sound of pure terror. She was jerked backward so hard her feet left the ground.

She spun around and crashed into a solid chest. She looked up into Desmond's eyes. They were pitch black, burning with a murderous rage.

The commuters around them backed away in fear, intimidated by the wall of bodyguards behind him.

Desmond didn't say a word. He bent down, threw Ada over his broad shoulder like a sack of flour, and turned around.

Ada kicked her legs and beat her fists against his back. "Let me go! You monster! Let me go!"

Desmond ignored her completely. He carried her out of the station and threw her violently into the back of the Maybach.

"Back to the manor," Desmond ordered the driver, his voice dripping with venom. "Now."