Locked by the Billionaire Prince, I Married a Mad Heir

“Dad, don’t work yourself up,” I said, wiping sweat from my brow. “I’ve got my way of handling them. But first, we need to deal with the snakes already inside our walls.”

One week before the wedding, I went to the cemetery alone.

The sky hung low, an overcast sheet of gray, and the air was thick with stillness. I knelt in front of my mother’s tombstone, fingers gently sweeping away the dust settled over her name.

“Mom,” I whispered, “I'm not making the same mistakes this time.”

Right then, my phone buzzed in my pocket.

I glanced at the screen. It was a bank notification.

[$50,000,000 withdrawn.]

The breath caught in my throat.

I immediately dialed my assistant.

“Ms. Mercier,” she answered, voice shaking, “someone forged your signature. They cleaned out the account. Every cent is gone.”

...

Twenty minutes later, I stormed into Gwen’s freshly opened studio. The door slammed behind me, and the room went still.

“Desmond, you asshole!”

The name cracked out of me like a gunshot. Everyone froze.

“Who gave you the right to touch my trust fund?”

Desmond turned toward me, slow and smug, like he’d been waiting for the moment.

“Cassandra,” he said coolly, “you’ve bullied Gwen repeatedly. That money? Consider it your apology.”

Then he raised his voice, projecting it for everyone in the room. “We’re getting married anyway. It’ll all be joint property. Don’t be so petty.”

My pulse pounded in my ears. Black spots clouded my vision.

And then I saw a necklace, gleaming against Gwen’s collarbone.

It was my mother’s pearl necklace.

The one I’d locked away in a safety deposit box.

I pointed at her. “Take that necklace off!”

Gwen blinked fast and stepped behind Desmond, her lip quivering.

He frowned, clearly irritated. “It’s just an old necklace, Cassandra.”

“I said, take it off!” I lunged forward and grabbed at it.

The strand snapped, pearls flying across the hardwood floor like shattered promises.

Before I knew it, my hand lashed out.

I slapped Gwen hard across the face.

She shrieked and stumbled back, clutching her cheek like I’d branded her.

Desmond shoved me.

“Are you insane?!” he roared.

I slowly straightened, stared him dead in the eye, and didn’t so much as flinch.

He faltered, just slightly, taking half a step back.

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he muttered, “I-It’s just a damn necklace… no reason to blow this up.”

I dropped to my knees and started gathering the pearls, shaking my hands. Each one was dull with dust and no longer shining.

Just like the love I’d once believed in—crushed under his heel repeatedly.

...

Back in the car, I sat gripping the velvet pouch so tightly that the veins in my hands stood out. My whole body burned.

Then, I opened my phone.

And there it was, blazing across social media.

[#HeiressPubliclyStripped]

Front and center.

Photos of me: coat gone, hair a mess, humiliated. Gwen wrapped in my jacket, leaning into Desmond’s chest like some tragic love story.

The caption read:

[What’s stolen will never truly belong to you.]

I stared at the screen for a second. Then turned it off.

That line?

I gave it right back to her in my head, ice cold. 'What’s stolen will never truly be yours, Gwen. You've done enough in my past. Not this time.'

The backlash hit fast and brutal. Comments flooded in like knives.

[Mercier heiress really is a joke. Her fiancé straightened her out.]

[Look at that pathetic expression. Geez, no wonder she gets stepped on.]

When I called my assistant, my voice was eerily calm. “Scrub everything. Every post. Every photo. I don’t care how.”

Then, I added, “And I want that money back—every dollar. I don’t care how we do it or who we have to pressure. If the bank delays, get the legal team involved. And if anyone tries to stop us…”

I let out a quiet, humorless laugh.

“Let them learn what happens when they mess with the Merciers.”

...

The morning of the wedding, my phone rang.

Desmond.

His voice slid through the receiver, smug and relaxed like nothing had happened.

“Cassie,” he said, like we were old friends. “About the necklace… You really scared Gwen. She’s pregnant. She can’t handle that kind of stress.”

I stood in front of the mirror, lipstick in hand. I dragged the crimson across my lips slowly, deliberately.

In the reflection, my expression didn’t waver.

Cold. Composed. Lethal.

“So that’s why you leaked the photos?” I said lightly. “To calm her nerves?”

Desmond scoffed. “Don’t forget that your dad’s mining project still depends on my family’s contacts. Without me, who’s going to help you?”