Trapped By The Ruthless Billionaire Husband

The private elevator doors opened directly into the Tribeca penthouse.

Finley kicked off her heels the second she crossed the threshold. Her bare feet slapped against the freezing Italian marble floor.

Haiden walked past her, loosening his tie. He threw his suit jacket over the back of the leather sofa and walked straight to the wet bar. He poured two glasses of amber whiskey.

Finley ignored the drink. She marched over to her Hermes Birkin bag sitting on the console table.

She pulled out a thick stack of papers and slammed them down onto the glass coffee table. The sharp smack echoed in the empty room.

"Sign it," Finley demanded.

Haiden paused, the whiskey glass halfway to his mouth. He looked at the bold letters on the cover page: Divorce Settlement Agreement. A mocking smirk touched the corner of his lips.

Finley crossed her arms, her chest heaving. "You sign this, and I'll wire one billion dollars from my trust into your account. You get paid, I get my life back."

Haiden set the glass down. He picked up the document. The rustle of the thick paper sounded deafening in the quiet apartment.

He flipped to the third page. "Clause four," he said, his voice dripping with condescension. "You structured the equity split using Class B shares. That triggers a tax penalty that would wipe out half the capital. Did a child draft this?"

His condescending tone struck her like a physical blow, and Finley's face instantly flushed a hot, angry red. She dug her fingernails into her palms until they ached. She absolutely hated the way he spoke to her, always treating her like a clueless child who needed to be lectured. The sheer arrogance of him tearing apart her demands made her stomach churn with a violent, helpless rage.

Haiden reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a Montblanc fountain pen. He popped the cap off. The metallic click made Finley's heart skip a beat.

He flipped to the last page and signed his name in bold, aggressive strokes.

Finley's eyes widened in shock. She lunged forward to grab the paper.

Haiden's massive hand slammed down on the document, pinning it to the glass.

He looked up at her, his dark eyes slicing right through her. "There's a condition. The effective date of this agreement is the day after your twenty-fifth birthday."

Finley slammed her hands on the table. "Three years? Are you out of your mind? You just want three years to drain Blackwell dry!"

Haiden laughed. It was a dark, humorless sound. He stood up, his towering frame casting a long shadow over her.

He leaned down, his face inches from hers. "Benton's will stipulates that if we divorce before three years, your entire inheritance goes to charity. You'd be left with nothing."

Finley felt the blood rush out of her head. The room spun. She had walked right into her grandfather's trap, and Haiden held the key. Her whole body began to tremble.

Desperate to regain the upper hand, Finley pulled out her phone.

"Don't act like you're doing this for me," she spat, her voice shrill. "I know about your little whore."

The temperature in the room plummeted. Haiden's eyes went dead.

Finley shoved the phone into his face. On the screen were blurry paparazzi photos of Haiden walking into a private maternity hospital late at night.

"You have a bastard kid on the way, don't you?" she sneered, her chest tight with a strange, burning anger. "Playing the loyal dog for my grandfather while hiding your trash on the side."

Haiden stared at the photo. His pupils contracted. He slowly raised his hand and pushed her phone away.

"Absurd," he said. His voice was completely devoid of emotion.

He turned his back on her and walked toward the master bedroom.

The dismissal snapped the last thread of Finley's sanity. She grabbed a heavy velvet throw pillow and hurled it at his back. It hit him and fell uselessly to the floor.

Haiden stopped. He didn't turn around.

"Behave yourself tonight, Finley," he warned, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "Or I won't hesitate to exercise my rights as your husband."

The bedroom door slammed shut. The lock clicked.

Finley collapsed onto the sofa. Her lungs burned as she sucked in air. She stared at the signed, useless divorce paper.

She looked up at the antique clock on the wall. It was 11:00 PM.

A reckless, destructive fire ignited in her stomach. She marched into the walk-in closet, ripping the heavy wedding dress off her body. She pulled on a skin-tight, backless sequin dress that barely covered her thighs.

She grabbed the limitless black Centurion card off the dresser, strapped on her highest stilettos, and walked out the front door without looking back.