Locked by the Billionaire Prince, I Married a Mad Heir

A soft, rusty creak announced the wheelchair's turn, the prelude to his leaving.

“Wait!” I rushed forward, stepping in front of him.

He stopped short. His head turned sharply to the side, as if he didn’t want me to see his expression.

"I meant what I said," I told him, steady. I met his eyes and didn’t look away. "You’re the one I chose."

His hands clenched the armrests so hard his knuckles went pale. The tips of his ears turned a deep, vivid red.

A long pause hung between us.

Then, barely audible, Terrence said, "Mm."

...

Over the next few days, boxes of medicine and supplements appeared at my door.

All from Terrence.

The wound on my forehead had scabbed, healing slowly. But every time I changed the bandage, I remembered how red his ears had gotten that day, how stiff and nervous he looked. And every time, something warm settled quietly in my chest.

A few days later, I stepped into a luxury boutique and practically walked into a scene straight out of my nightmares.

"Desmond, I love all of these!" Gwen’s sugary voice floated through the air when I walked in.

Her fingers brushed across her stomach, subtle but intentional.

Desmond’s voice followed, indulgent and cool. "Then get them all. Put it on Cassandra’s tab."

I stepped further inside, my cold laugh cutting clean through the air.

Desmond spotted me, but he didn’t even flinch.

No guilt, no hesitation.

"You pushed Gwen the last time you saw her. She got hurt," he said, like he was reading from a script. "This is compensation."

Gwen's eyes lit up the moment she saw the jacket I was wearing.

"Desmond," she said, breathless, "I really want Cassandra’s coat."

The shop assistant looked trapped. "I'm sorry, but this coat is a global, limited edition. Ms. Mercier reserved it six months ago."

Gwen looked down, playing the part. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "It’s fine. Someone like me doesn’t deserve something that expensive."

And right on cue, her hand found her stomach again.

Desmond's eyes narrowed.

Then he turned to me, voice like stone. "You have more clothes than you could ever wear. Give her this one."

I stared at him. "Why should I?"

“Call it compensation,” he said, voice dipping lower. “You shoved her at the gallery, and her knee’s still bruised.”

Just as I opened my mouth to respond, Gwen suddenly wobbled.

Desmond caught her, instantly alarmed. "You okay?"

"I’m fine," she murmured, weakly shaking her head—then, again, touched her stomach.

Desmond turned to me, his voice cutting. "Cassandra. Give. Her. The. Coat."

I let out a short laugh and turned to the two bodyguards posted by the door. "Throw them out."

But they hesitated.

One of them said softly, "Ms. Mercier, you’re marrying into the Caldwell family eventually... maybe you should just hear Mr. Desmond out."

Before I could respond, Desmond shot them a look.

That was all it took.

Next thing I knew, I was slammed onto the cold marble floor. Pain shot through my back.

"Take it off," Desmond barked.

The shop assistant stood frozen, horrified. "Sir..."

Desmond looked down at me and sneered.

Then, he turned to the assistant and said, "Don't bother. She’s been chasing me for years. After we get married, I’ll be the one calling the shots anyway."

The assistant trembled as she reached for the coat, undoing the buttons with shaking hands.

When they yanked it off me, my whole body trembled with fury.

I wanted to scream, to claw the smug look off his face.

Desmond gently wrapped the coat around Gwen, his voice soft. "Gwen, you look way better in it."

Gwen bit her lip. "But... is this okay? What if Cassie gets upset, Desmond?"

Then Desmond whipped out his phone and started snapping photos of me, disheveled, humiliated, on the floor.

“Cassandra,” he said coldly, “if you ever come after Gwen again, I’ll make sure the whole internet sees you like this.”

“Desmond, you're a fucking bastard," I retorted.

My fists clenched tight, nails digging into my palms.

The look on his face was exactly like the one from my past life—arrogant and sadistic.

One of the shop assistants finally moved, stepping forward to hand me a silk scarf. No words. Just quiet solidarity.

I wrapped it around myself and walked out, head high, chest burning.

...

When I got home, bruised and shaken, my father took one look at me and froze.

The antiseptic smell was thick in the air. A teacup rested on the table beside him.

He picked it up and hurled it across the room. It exploded into shards against the wall.

"That goddamn Caldwell brat laid hands on you?" His voice was thunder. "We’re dealing with the Caldwells. Now."