Escaping My Vicious Billionaire Husband

The SUV pulled into a dark, narrow alley behind the New York City Hall.

Ferris shoved his door open. A blast of cold city wind rushed into the heated cabin. He stepped out, turned around, and grabbed the collar of Colette's thin jacket.

He yanked her out of the car.

Colette stumbled onto the pavement. Ferris's fingers wrapped around her wrist, squeezing the delicate bones until she gasped in pain.

Two rows of men in black suits flanked them. Trapped in the middle, Colette was dragged toward a heavy wooden door that looked like the entrance to a tomb.

They stepped into a windowless, secret office deep inside the building. The air in the room was stale, smelling of dust and old paper.

Lex Finch, a high-end celebrity photographer, stood in the corner. He had expensive lighting umbrellas set up and waiting. He offered Ferris a polite nod.

A sweaty city clerk rushed forward. His hands shook as he slid a pre-drafted marriage certificate across the desk.

Ferris snatched a heavy fountain pen from the clerk. He slammed it down on the paper.

"Sign it," Ferris ordered.

Colette stared at the document. The black ink looked like a death warrant. She shook her head frantically, backing away from the desk.

Ferris closed the distance in one stride. His large hand clamped down on the back of her neck. He forced her head down, pressing her chest against the edge of the desk.

He leaned down, his breath brushing her ear.

"Sign it," he hissed, his voice dripping with venom. "Or I will make sure your father's memory is erased from every record that exists, and whatever pathetic pieces are left of the Wheeler name will be dragged through the mud until there is absolutely nothing left."

Colette's heart stopped. Her father. He was the only family who had stood by her after the scandal—the one person who had never stopped believing in her innocence. Her mother had disappeared into her own world of grief and denial months ago, refusing to even look at her daughter after the accusations surfaced. But her father had fought. He had mortgaged everything, called in every favor, exhausted every legal avenue to prove her innocence. The thought of his sacrifice being erased, his legacy completely destroyed, was more than she could bear.

The threat shattered the last of her resistance. Tears spilled over her lashes as her trembling fingers reached for the heavy pen.

Her hand shook violently. The metal nib scratched against the thick paper, leaving a jagged, messy signature. She bit down on her lower lip so hard she tasted copper.

She finished the last letter. A single, hot tear dropped onto the paper, blurring the ink.

Ferris's eyes gleamed with dark satisfaction. He snatched the paper out from under her hand and shoved it at the clerk to stamp.

"Mr. Vance," Lex Finch spoke up softly. "If you could step closer for the official photo."

Ferris turned to Colette. He wrapped his arm around her waist and yanked her against his side. His grip was brutal, crushing her ribs.

Colette stood rigid as a board. Her face was a mask of pure agony.

Ferris's fingers slid to her lower back. He pinched the soft flesh above her hip, digging his nails in hard.

"Smile," he commanded through gritted teeth.

Colette sucked in a sharp breath of pain. She forced the corners of her mouth up, creating a hollow, broken smile for the camera.

The bright flash blinded her. The moment was immortalized.

The second the flash faded, Ferris dropped his arm. He took a quick step back, his face twisting with disgust as if her touch had burned him.

He turned and walked toward the exit. Bishop stepped up behind Colette and shoved her forward to follow.

Lex Finch was already tapping on his laptop, sending the high-res photos to every major gossip outlet in the country.

They walked out the back door.

A dozen paparazzi jumped out from behind dumpsters, their cameras firing like machine guns.

Ferris instantly pulled Colette against his chest. He took off his suit jacket and draped it over her head, shielding her face from the flashes. He played the role of the fiercely protective husband perfectly.

Colette squeezed her eyes shut against the blinding lights. She felt like a hollow doll as Bishop guided her into the back of the SUV.

Ferris didn't get in with her. He gave her one last, dead look before turning and walking toward a sleek Maybach parked ahead.

Bishop climbed into the SUV and sat across from her. The driver hit the gas, merging into the heavy traffic.

Colette leaned her head back against the leather. Her chest heaved. She just needed one minute to breathe.

Bishop reached beside him. Without a word, he tossed a rolled-up, day-old Wall Street Journal onto her lap.

Colette frowned. She picked up the paper and unrolled it.

The bold, black headline on the front page punched the air out of her lungs: WHEELER ENTERPRISES DECLARES BANKRUPTCY AMID SEC PROBE.

Her hands started to shake. She looked up at Bishop, her eyes wide with panic.

"Where is my father?" her voice trembled. "What happened to him?"

Bishop stared at her with dead eyes.

"He couldn't handle the pressure of the federal investigation," Bishop said flatly. "He jumped off the roof of your company headquarters three weeks ago. Your mother's been missing ever since. Last we heard, she was wandering the streets of Queens, completely broken."

The newspaper slipped from Colette's numb fingers.

A guttural, agonizing scream ripped from her throat, tearing through the silence of the car. She doubled over, clutching her stomach as the world collapsed into darkness.