The Fallen Heiress's Debt to the Billionaire

Felicity pressed her face against the cold glass of the limousine window. The condensation cooled her cheek, but it did nothing to stop the burning in her lungs. She tried to make herself small, to disappear into the black leather upholstery, but there was nowhere to go. The partition was up. The driver couldn't hear a thing. Or maybe he just didn't want to.

Barnett's hand clamped around her ankle. His grip was wet and hot. He yanked her back toward the center of the seat. Her heels scraped uselessly against the floor mats.

"You look beautiful when you struggle," he said. His voice was a low rumble that vibrated through the seat. It made her stomach turn over.

"Please, Barnett." Felicity's voice was barely a whisper. She didn't recognize it. It sounded thin. Broken.

He laughed. It wasn't a happy sound. It was the sound of a man who owned something expensive and liked breaking it. He reached up and grabbed her chin, his fingers digging into her jawline. He squeezed until her teeth ground together.

"Don't forget who owns you, Felicity. Remember Article 12 of the Image Rehabilitation Agreement? You signed it. You agreed to do whatever is necessary to restore your market value."

Felicity stared at the dark partition. She focused on a small scratch in the leather. If she looked at him, she would vomit. If she fought him, he would make the call. Her father was sitting in a federal penitentiary in upstate New York. One call from Barnett to his connections on the inside, and her father wouldn't survive the night.

She bit her lip. She bit it until she tasted copper.

Barnett didn't like her silence. He wanted her to beg. He wanted the old Felicity, the one who threw champagne in people's faces, to cry for him. When she didn't make a sound, his face twisted.

He backhanded her.

The sound was loud in the enclosed space. A sharp crack. Felicity's head snapped to the side. Her ear rang. A dull throb started in her cheekbone and radiated down her neck.

She didn't cry. She slowly turned her head back to face him. Her eyes were dry. They felt like sand. She looked at him with nothing. No fear. No anger. Just nothing.

That look was a mistake.

Barnett growled. He reached for the strap of her gown. It was vintage silk, worth more than most people's cars. He tore it like it was paper. The sound of ripping fabric filled the car.

Felicity gasped. Her hands flew up to cover her chest. The air in the car suddenly felt freezing.

Barnett unbuckled his belt. He pulled off his tie and wrapped it around his knuckles.

"You think you're still the princess of the Upper East Side?" he hissed. "You're nothing. You're debt wrapped in pretty skin."

He lunged for her. Felicity kicked out. Her heel hit the door control panel. The window motor whirred. The glass slid down a significant gap, nearly halfway down.

The smell of gasoline and exhaust from the garage rushed in. It was the sweetest thing she had ever smelled.

Barnett cursed. He reached over her to hit the switch.

He slammed his fist against the partition glass and jabbed the intercom button. "Shut that damn window!" he yelled.

Felicity curled into a ball. She pulled her knees to her chest. Tears finally leaked out, hot and stinging. She squeezed her eyes shut. She tried to dissociate. Madame Rouge had taught her that in acting class. Be the object. Be the chair. Be the glass. Be the doll.

Barnett grabbed her hair. He yanked her head back.

Suddenly, the world turned white.

A beam of light, intense and blinding, flooded the back of the limousine. It cut through the tinted glass of the rear windshield and illuminated everything. The torn dress. The bruises forming on her arm. The tie wrapped around Barnett's hand.

Barnett froze. He threw his hand up to shield his eyes.

"What the hell?" he shouted.

Felicity blinked against the glare. Through the rear window, she saw the silhouette of a car. It was low. Sleek. A predator in the dark. The door of the sports car began to rise upward, like the wing of a dark angel.