Trapped By The Ruthless Billionaire Husband

The morning light filtered through the massive windows of the Long Island estate, but Finley felt nothing but cold.

She sat frozen in front of the vanity mirror. The stylist pinned the delicate lace of the Vera Wang veil into her hair. Finley's fingers dug into the heavy silk of her wedding dress, twisting the fabric until her knuckles turned white.

"You look absolutely breathtaking, Miss Blackwell," the stylist gushed.

Finley let out a dry, bitter laugh. She grabbed a pair of silver scissors from the table and raised them toward her veil.

The stylist shrieked and scrambled backward.

The bedroom door opened. Arthur, the head butler, stepped in. He calmly reached out and took the scissors from Finley's shaking hand.

"Mr. Benton sends his regards," Arthur said smoothly. "The press is waiting outside."

Finley sucked in a sharp breath. Her lungs felt tight.

She stared at her reflection, her chest rising and falling with jagged breaths. A reckless, destructive urge clawed at her throat. She wanted to scream. She wanted to march down that aisle and throw a massive tantrum, to knock over the floral arrangements and make a spectacular scene. She was going to embarrass him and the entire Blackwell family in front of the whole city today. She had to do something to make them pay for locking her in this cage.

Four maids surrounded her, lifting the train of her dress as they escorted her down the grand staircase and out the front doors.

A stretched Rolls Royce waited in the driveway. Finley was practically shoved inside.

The car smelled of fresh leather and expensive flowers. Finley stared out the tinted window as the Manhattan skyline came into view. Her brain worked in overdrive, calculating the distance to the nearest subway station, the timing of the traffic lights.

The Rolls Royce hit a wall of traffic on Fifth Avenue.

Finley's hand shot to the door handle. She pulled it hard.

Nothing happened.

She looked up and caught Arthur's apologetic gaze in the rearview mirror. The child locks were engaged.

"Damn it!" Finley screamed, kicking her heavy heel into the back of the leather seat. The dull thud echoed in the quiet cabin.

The car finally rolled to a stop in front of St. Patrick's Cathedral.

A sea of paparazzi swarmed the vehicle. The flashbulbs exploded like a continuous lightning storm, blinding her through the glass.

Bodyguards formed a human shield, dragging Finley through the heavy wooden doors of the cathedral vestibule. The doors slammed shut, cutting off the screaming reporters.

Tinsley rushed forward, holding out a silver flask. "Vodka. Drink."

Finley grabbed it and took a long, burning swallow. The alcohol seared her throat, sending a rush of reckless heat straight to her brain.

The massive pipe organ began to play the wedding march. The sound vibrated in her chest, heavy and suffocating.

Finley suddenly dropped to a crouch on the marble floor. "My heel broke," she lied, her voice shaking.

The bridesmaids panicked, fluttering around her in a chaotic mess of silk and tulle.

Finley used the distraction to crawl toward the side exit. Just a few more feet.

A tall shadow fell over her.

Haiden stood blocking the door. He wore a custom Tom Ford tuxedo that fit his broad shoulders perfectly. He looked down at her bare feet, his eyes like shards of ice.

"Your shoes are fine, Finley," he said, his voice flat and merciless.

Finley stood up, tilting her chin in defiance. "I'm not walking down that aisle. Go tell the press the bride ran away."

Haiden's jaw clenched. The muscle in his cheek ticked.

He stepped forward, wrapping one thick arm tightly around her waist. Before she could process the movement, his other arm swept under her knees.

He lifted her entirely off the ground.

Finley gasped, her hands instinctively flying up to grip his neck. "Put me down!" she hissed, slamming her fists against his solid chest.

The main doors to the sanctuary swung open.

Haiden carried her straight into the blinding light of the cathedral. Hundreds of New York's elite gasped. The cameras clicked frantically.

To keep her underwear from flashing the front row, Finley had no choice but to bury her face into the crook of Haiden's neck. He smelled of power and danger.

"Smile," Haiden whispered against her ear, his voice vibrating through her skin. "Unless you want to be the laughingstock of the city tomorrow."

Humiliation burned behind Finley's eyes. She forced her lips into a stiff, agonizing smile.

Haiden reached the altar and set her down. His touch was surprisingly gentle, but his eyes promised absolute control.

The priest began to speak. The vaulted ceiling felt like it was closing in on her. Finley scanned the front pews, desperately looking for her grandfather, but Benton wasn't there.

"Do you, Finley Blackwell, take this man..."

When it was her turn to say 'I do', Finley clamped her mouth shut.

Ten seconds passed. Then twenty. The entire cathedral fell into a dead, horrifying silence.

Haiden's large hand slid to the small of her back. He pinched the soft flesh right above her hipbone, hard.

Finley gasped at the sharp pain. "I do," she choked out.

Haiden grabbed her left hand. He shoved the massive, pigeon-blood diamond ring onto her ring finger. It was half a size too small. The metal dug painfully into her skin, a physical reminder of her cage.

"You may kiss the bride."

Finley turned her head away.

Haiden's fingers dug into her jaw, forcing her face back. He crashed his lips onto hers.

It wasn't a kiss. It was a punishment. His mouth was hard, bruising, tasting faintly of blood and dominance. Finley's knees went weak under the sheer force of his invasion.

The organ music swelled. Haiden pulled back, flashing a flawless, victorious smile to the cameras.

Finley stood there, her lips swollen, feeling completely and utterly defeated.