Locked by the Billionaire Prince, I Married a Mad Heir

I suddenly yanked my hand out of Desmond’s grip and let out a sharp, loud laugh. “God, Desmond. Do you really think that highly of yourself?”

I looked him square in the eyes, not blinking. “The name I picked... wasn’t yours.”

For a split second, something flickered in Gwen’s eyes—there and gone before she masked it with a wide-eyed blink.

“What did you just say?” Desmond’s pupils narrowed. But he quickly twisted his expression into a smug sneer. “Give it a rest. You’re jealous I treat Gwen the way you always wanted me to. That’s what this is.”

I didn’t bother replying. I turned my back on him and walked out.

It felt good. Clean. Like shutting a door and finally locking it for good.

For the first time, I had picked someone else. Someone who wasn’t Desmond Caldwell. Just thinking about it sent a slow, sweet satisfaction burning through my chest.

...

The next day, I headed to Gallery71—my gallery. I wanted to find something to give Terrence, something personal.

A painting for our first meeting. Something symbolic.

But the moment I stepped inside, I stopped cold.

The walls were lined with portraits of Gwen.

Gwen lowered her head, seeming both modest and fragile. Her cheeks glistened with tears, and she shook slightly.

Turning back, she offered a timid smile.

Each painting was meticulously framed and illuminated by soft light, reminiscent of sacred artifacts.

“Do you like them?” Desmond’s voice drifted across the room. Smooth, warm, like it hadn’t once been used to damn me.

He stood beside her, gently brushing a hand down Gwen’s cheek.

“Every year on your birthday,” he said, “I’ll give you the most special gift.”

Gwen flushed, voice syrupy. “Desmond, you spoil me.”

Then she stood on her toes and kissed him. Just a little peck.

But not for long.

Seconds later, it deepened, their bodies pulling together like they’d forgotten the rest of the world existed.

I leaned against the doorframe and knocked my knuckles once against it.

They jolted apart like I’d hit them with a stun gun.

Desmond’s face darkened. “What are you doing here?”

I kept my tone flat. “This is my gallery. Do I need permission to walk into my own space?”

My chest was tight. I could feel the pressure building behind my ribs.

This place—this gallery—was one of the last things my mother left me. I handed it over to him in my last life. I had trusted him with everything.

And this was what he did with it.

Desmond’s mouth pulled into a crooked smirk. “What’s with the attitude?”

He let out a quiet laugh, the kind that always made me want to slap it off his face. “You’ve been chasing after me since we were kids, Cassie. Is this the part where you pretend you don’t care? Playing hard to get now?”

“C'mon, cut the act,” he snapped, his tone sharp and ugly. “We both know you’re obsessed with me. You’ll never let go.”

I didn’t even blink.

“Security,” I said, loud and clear. “Get these two out of here. And take down every single one of those paintings. Trash them.”

“No!” Gwen cried out. “Don’t throw them away! They’re all gifts from Desmond!”

She rushed at me, grabbed my wrist, and then collapsed.

Her body slammed into the coffee table, glass shattering beneath her. A sharp edge caught her leg. Blood trickled down her shin in a bright red line.

“Cassandra!” Desmond roared.

He shoved me hard.

I stumbled back and slammed into a metal easel. Something warm slid down my cheek. I reached up, but I couldn’t feel it. My body was too numb.

Then Desmond grabbed a bucket of paint from the corner and hurled it at me.

“You’ve gone too far!” he shouted.

He swept Gwen into his arms like some kind of tragic prince and stormed out with her in his arms.

I sank to my knees in the middle of the chaos—torn canvases, shattered glass everywhere.

"Where’s my mom’s painting ‘Spring Bloom’?” I asked, my voice hollow.

A staff member pointed toward the corner. His hand trembled.

I followed his gaze.

There it was.

The painting my mother had poured her soul into was her last work before she died. It had hung in this gallery since the day it opened.

Now it was ruined. Smeared in red paint like someone had bled across it. The vibrant colors were lost under the sludge—twisted, smeared, defaced.

I stumbled over and sank to the ground in front of it.

“Mom…” I whispered.

I clutched the wrecked canvas to my chest, ignoring the glass biting into my palms. Blood from my forehead dripped down onto the painting, mixing with my tears.

...

Wheels rolled softly across the tile floor.

I looked up.

There, just outside the reach of the light, someone sat watching me. The sharp edge of a silver mask caught the glow, polished and cold. But behind it, his lashes were trembling.

Terrence D’Angelo.

“Stop crying,” he said. His voice was low. Steady. Not unkind.

His eyes flicked to the cut on my forehead, then quickly looked away.

“Here.”

He held out a small tube of ointment. His hand was steady, but when our eyes met, his fingers curled slightly and pulled back.

“If you don’t use it,” he said quietly, “it’ll scar.”

I looked at the ointment in my hand, still stunned. Then something clicked.

The D’Angelo family. Of course.

They were the most respected medical family in the city. They were behind almost every hospital and pharmaceutical breakthrough. They practically ran the entire healthcare industry.

As I reached for the medicine, I felt his fingertips tremble just before he pulled away completely.

“I know you were forced to pick me,” Terrence said, his voice rough.

He spoke slowly, like every word cost him something.

“I’ll cancel the engagement. You don’t have to force yourself.”