Locked by the Billionaire Prince, I Married a Mad Heir

In my family, there's a tradition we have to follow.

The next heir must have a child with the strongest and most attractive man available.

Sounds noble, maybe even romantic, but it's more like The Bachelor meets a corporate blood pact.

In my last life, I pulled Desmond Caldwell’s name from the heirloom box of selection tokens.

The six-foot-two golden boy of the Caldwell dynasty.

Heir to a billion-dollar empire, all angles and cheekbones, with a jawline that made socialites swoon and an ego that could sink nations.

He once filled an entire garden with roses just for me. Whispered lines as if he’d swallowed a romance novel made me believe in the fantasy—white picket fences, candlelit dinners, forever.

I believed him. I let myself believe it.

And then, five months into my pregnancy, Desmond locked me in a cage.

A literal cage. Dog-sized. Steel bars. Cold cement.

He stood just beyond it, looking me straight in the eye, while he slept with another woman.

“You know what happened the day you pulled my name?” he said, his voice sickly calm. “Gwen miscarried. She bled out. Her parents died in a car crash. You owe her this.”

By the third day, my family had gone bankrupt. My father was dead from a fall no one could explain.

By the fifth, he’d sent ninety-nine of his private bodyguards to “take turns” with me.

By the seventh, I miscarried.

By the ninth, I died.

And right before everything went dark, I heard his voice, soft, almost tender, like we hadn’t just destroyed each other.

Holding Gwen Bentley in his arms, he told her, “Don’t worry. Cassandra's family’s hundred-billion-dollar fortune is all yours now.”

But this time around?

I pulled a different name.

The one nobody wanted: Terrence D’Angelo.

People called him the Madman of Metropolis.

Crippled. Disfigured.

Rumor was, he’d burned his own mother alive. People crossed the street when they saw him coming.

Later on, once untouchable, Desmond Caldwell would kneel in front of that same dog cage, where I was humiliated.

Blood on his face.

Nails broken.

Banging his head into the concrete like a man begging for a past he couldn’t undo.

——

It all began at a long, gleaming table, solid mahogany, daunting in its perfection, the kind of table where futures are signed and lives are sold.

Twelve men in dark suits sat around it, grave and motionless.

Titans of industry. Kingmakers.

My father sat at the head, wearing that polished smile he used when cameras were on.

“Cassie,” he said, like this was just another item on today’s agenda. “Pick one. These men have waited long enough to see you settled.”

On the table lay a bundle of selection tokens—each carved with the names of powerful families' sons. Prestige etched in lacquered wood.

But one token looked different. Faded. Weathered. Like no one had touched it in years.

My eyes landed on it immediately.

Terrence D’Angelo.

The name you weren’t supposed to say in polite company.

The one that made people lean in and whisper, 'Poor thing,' before changing the subject.

They said he was ruined. Broken. Walked with a limp and a mangled leg. The D’Angelos didn’t even bother to show up, and they sent some half-relative to pull the token for him.

But I remembered.

I remembered bleeding in that cage, humiliated, stripped of everything in my past life. The people who used to suck up to me were snapping pictures and laughing like it was a show.

Only one person knelt beside me.

Terrence D'Angelo.

And even as I was fading, he pulled out a handkerchief and gently wiped the blood from my face.

That was all it took.

I reached out and, without a second thought, selected his family token.

The room went dead silent.

My father’s face froze, like he couldn’t quite believe what he saw.

“Cassandra,” he said, voice low, like I’d just announced I was marrying a corpse. “You…”

“I want him,” I replied firmly.

He stared at me for a long, heavy beat, then leaned back and let out a slow, tired sigh.

“Fine. But if he ever lays a hand on you—”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. Everyone in the room felt the weight behind the warning.

...

As I exited that suffocating room, I ran right into Desmond.

And Gwen.

Her eyes were red and watery. Her shoulders trembled like the whole world had come crashing down on her delicate little frame.

“Ms. Mercier,” she said, her voice shaky, “I know you hate me. But that studio... it meant everything to me. Why’d you destroy it?”

Before I could even breathe, Desmond stepped in front of her, as if shielding some precious treasure.

“Cassandra,” he snapped. “You really stooped this low just to force me to marry you?”

I looked at both of them, my voice flat. “I didn’t do anything.”

I turned to leave, but Desmond grabbed my wrist tightly.

“Apologize. Pay for the damages. Or forget ever setting foot in the Caldwell estate again.”

Gwen yanked at his arm. “Desmond, don’t! Cassie, it’s all my fault."

Turning to me, she said, tears welling in her eyes, "I’ll kneel if I have to. Just please... give me back the studio.”

Desmond’s anger only grew at her words. “Apologize to Gwen. She’s not in good health. Hand over that wellness center you own—she needs it.”

And he kept going. “Give her twenty of your best staff. Please make sure they’re professionals, the best ones. And a private medical team on standby 24/7.”