Trapped By My Sister's Billionaire Fiance

The oak door clicked shut behind her. The sound was final, like a lock engaging.

Gregg Ashley rose from the couch. He moved toward her with the loose gait of a man who had been drinking for hours. The smell of whiskey preceded him.

"First things first." He held out a tumbler, pressing it against her lips. "Drink. Consider it an apology for last night. My way of saying no hard feelings."

Alyssa turned her head. The liquid splashed down her dress, soaking the black fabric, staining it the color of old blood. The men in the room laughed. Someone whistled.

Gregg's face contorted. He grabbed her shoulders and shoved her backward. Her knees hit the edge of a low table covered in velvet. She caught herself with her hands, refusing to fall, refusing to kneel.

"Put these on." A pair of shoes hit the floor beside her. Stilettos. Rhinestones. The kind of shoes that came with a price tag and no dignity. "And give us a show. Something with a little more energy than that prissy ballet shit."

Alyssa looked at the shoes. She looked at the faces around her, flushed with alcohol and entitlement. She thought of Elena's ventilator. She thought of Julian's red pen crossing out her name. She thought of the man in the corner who hadn't moved, who was watching this like theater.

Something broke inside her. Or maybe something hardened.

She straightened to her full height. Her voice cut through the music, sharp and clear and absolutely furious.

"You disgust me. All of you. You think money makes you powerful? You're parasites. You feed on people who actually work, actually create, actually feel something beyond your own greed." She looked directly at Gregg. "You want a show? Go to the Met. Buy a ticket. Sit in the dark like a civilized human being and watch something that took years of sacrifice to create. But don't ever confuse what I do with what you're asking for. Don't ever confuse art with your filthy little power games."

The music stopped. Someone had killed the sound system. Alyssa's breathing was the loudest thing in the room.

Gregg's face went purple. He raised his hand.

Alyssa closed her eyes. She thought of falling. She thought of failing. She thought of Elena alone in that hospital bed.

Then she thought of the man in the corner. The one with the predator's eyes. The one who had watched her dance.

She opened her eyes and ran.

Not toward the door. Toward him. Toward Cornell Knight. She stumbled across the carpet and dropped to her knees at his feet, her fingers clutching the fabric of his trousers, her face lifted to his in absolute desperation.

"Please."

One word. It tasted like ash.

Cornell looked down at her. His expression didn't change. But something flickered in those dark eyes. Something that might have been pleasure.

Gregg stormed across the room. "Get up. He's not interested in your-"

"Ashley."

Cornell spoke one syllable. Gregg froze mid-stride.

Cornell set his glass on the side table. The crystal made a delicate sound against the marble. He reached out with one hand and cupped Alyssa's chin, turning her face to examine the bruise on her cheek. His thumb traced the swelling. His skin was cold. She shivered.

"You damaged her face," Cornell said. His voice was quiet, conversational. "I was looking forward to watching her dance again."

Gregg stammered something. An excuse. An apology. Cornell ignored him. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to. The sheer, freezing weight of his stare pinned Gregg in place, a silent promise of absolute ruin.

The room held its breath.

Cornell stood. He was taller than she'd realized. He removed his jacket-cashmere, charcoal gray-and draped it over Alyssa's shoulders. The fabric was warm from his body. It smelled of cedar and something darker.

"She's a friend of Dina's," Cornell said, his tone carrying the quiet, lethal authority of a man who could dismantle Gregg's entire life with a single phone call. "I'm taking her home."

His hand settled on her waist. It felt like a shackle. He lifted her to her feet with effortless strength and guided her toward the door. No one stopped them. No one spoke. The music didn't resume until they were in the corridor.

Outside, the November air bit at her exposed skin. Alyssa tried to shrug off the jacket. Cornell's fingers tightened on her arm.

"Keep it."

The Maybach waited at the curb. The driver held the door open. Cornell pressed his palm against the small of her back and pushed her inside. She scrambled across the leather seat, reaching for the far door, but he was already in beside her. The door closed. The locks engaged.

The partition between front and back seats began to rise.

"Don't." Alyssa's voice cracked. "Please. Just let me out. I'll walk. I'll take the subway. I won't tell anyone. I swear-"

The partition sealed with a soft pneumatic hiss. They were alone. Cornell opened a compartment built into the center console and removed a small medical kit.

"Turn around."

"I said no."

He moved. One second he was seated, the next he was looming over her, his arms caging her against the door, his face inches from hers. His eyes were black in the dim light. She could see her own terrified reflection in them.

"Turn around," he repeated, "or I'll do it for you."

She turned. Her cheek burned where his fingers had touched her. She felt the cold swipe of antiseptic, the gentle pressure of a cotton pad. His breathing was steady. Controlled. Hers was ragged, desperate.

"You fought back," he said. It wasn't a question. "In the corridor. With Ashley. You fought."

"I had no choice."

"There's always a choice." He capped the ointment and dropped it back into the kit. "You chose to survive. You chose to come to me." His hand settled on her shoulder, heavy and possessive. "That was intelligent. That was self-preservation." His lips brushed her ear. "But now, little swan, you owe me. And I always collect my debts."