The Hostage Stole My Fiance

"Cancel the wire transfer to Lawson Tech," I ordered, staring at the concrete wall of the underground parking garage.

"Miss Vance, the five million dollar capital injection was scheduled to clear in twenty minutes," David, my financial manager, replied through the car's Bluetooth speaker.

"I don't care. Pull the funds. Freeze the joint accounts. Charles Lawson doesn't get another dime of my money."

"Understood. Should I also liquidate the Rosewood apartment asset?"

"Not yet. I need to pack my things first." I killed the engine, gripping the leather steering wheel.

"Will you be returning to the Vance estate tonight?" David asked, his tone strictly professional.

"Yes. Have the staff prepare my old room."

"Of course, Miss Vance. Should I inform the caterers to cancel the reception?"

"There is no reception. He wanted a private registry today. He said he didn't want to show off my poverty to his wealthy colleagues."

"That is highly inappropriate," David noted. "Shall I send a security detail to escort you out of the apartment?"

"No. I'll handle this myself." I hit a button on the dashboard, cutting the connection.

I stepped out of the vehicle and marched toward the elevator. The ride up to the penthouse level felt suffocating. I punched my code into the front door lock and stepped inside.

The Rosewood apartment.

I bought this place three years ago, draining my trust fund allowance to set up a dummy corporation just so Charles could have his dream startup. Five million dollars of my savings, all funneled through shell companies so his fragile male ego wouldn't know his poor orphan girlfriend was actually a billionaire heiress.

My cell phone vibrated in my palm. The caller ID flashed Charles's name.

I swiped the green icon and put it on speaker, tossing the phone onto the kitchen island.

"Are you done throwing your little tantrum?" Charles demanded. His voice echoed off the marble countertops.

"I'm packing my bags, Charles." I walked straight into the master bedroom.

"Don't act crazy, Nat. You made a complete fool of yourself at the registry office. I'm willing to look past it, but you need to come back here right now."

I yanked my gray suitcase from the top shelf of the closet. It slammed onto the hardwood floor.

"Did you hear me?" Charles barked. "I told the clerk to hold our spot. Samantha went home to give us some privacy to sort this out. Come back and sign the papers."

"You want me to sign a legal document after you admitted to screwing my best friend?" I unzipped the suitcase, throwing shirts and jeans inside. "You must be out of your mind."

"It was a mistake!" he yelled, the calm facade finally cracking. "I was stressed about the wedding! Men make mistakes, Natalie. You think you're so perfect? You rely on me for everything. The roof over your head, the food you eat. You can't survive in this city without me."

"I think I'll manage."

"Oh, really? Where are you going to go? Back to the slums? You have zero savings. You work a dead-end retail job. I built Lawson Tech from the ground up! I'm about to close a five-million-dollar investment today. I am giving you a life of luxury, and you're throwing it away because of one stupid slip-up in a club booth?"

I walked over to the oak nightstand next to the bed. "You didn't build anything, Charles. You just got lucky."

"Lucky? I worked eighty-hour weeks! I earned that investment!"

"Check your email. I'm sure your investors have some updates for you."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm done talking to you." I pulled the top drawer open, my fingers searching for my father's silver pocket watch.

"Natalie, do not hang up on me. If you walk out that door, you leave with nothing. I'm cutting off your credit cards. I'm taking the car. You walk out with the clothes on your back."

"Keep it all."

"You think Samantha is a better option for you?" I asked, my voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "She has no job. She lives off the settlement money from my father's death."

"She knows how to treat a man," Charles shot back. "She doesn't nag me about coming home late. She actually appreciates what I provide. You just expect it."

"I expect basic loyalty."

"Loyalty doesn't pay the rent, Nat."

My knuckles brushed against the cold metal of my father's watch. As I pulled it free, my wrist clipped a small velvet box sitting near the back of the drawer. The dark blue ring box.

"You're making the biggest mistake of your life!" Charles screamed through the speaker in the other room. "Samantha means nothing to me! It was just physical!"

The box tumbled onto the floor. It popped open on impact.

"Goodbye, Charles," I called out, not bothering to go back to the kitchen.

"Natalie!"

I tuned him out and bent down to pick up the blue velvet. This was the box I used when I asked Charles to move in with me. I had given him a custom platinum band as a promise.

I stared at the open box in my hand.

"Where is the ring?" I whispered to the empty room.

The platinum band was gone. Instead, a crumpled piece of silver foil rested on the black velvet cushion.

A torn condom wrapper.

My stomach violently turned. The harsh scent of latex and cheap artificial strawberry flavoring drifted up from the square packet.

He kept his trash in the box I gave him. He took off my ring, used this wrapper, and left the evidence right beside where I slept every single night. I stared at the jagged edges of the foil. My mind flashed back to yesterday. He told me he was working late at the office. He told me he had a headache and needed to rest. Instead, he was in a club booth with Samantha, tearing open this exact packet.

I dropped the box as if it had burned my skin. The velvet hit the floorboards, the silver foil spilling out next to the leg of the bed.

A fresh wave of nausea hit me. I pressed a hand to my mouth, gagging. I stumbled back, hitting my spine against the closet door.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The electronic lock on the front door echoed from the hallway.

Charles's voice had stopped yelling from the kitchen speaker. He must have hung up.

"Charles?" I shouted, wiping my hands on my jeans. I stepped out of the bedroom, my jaw tight. "Did you really rush all the way back here just to threaten me in person?"

The heavy front door swung open.

"He's not here, Nat," a familiar, high-pitched voice answered.

Samantha stood in the entryway. She wasn't wearing her pristine pink dress from the registry office anymore. Instead, an oversized white button-down shirt draped loosely over her frame. Charles's shirt. The top three buttons were undone, exposing a collarbone painted with dark, fresh bruises.