Trapped By The Ruthless Billionaire Husband

The morning sun pierced through the gap in the heavy velvet curtains, hitting Finley right in the eyes.

She groaned, rolling over on the massive king-sized bed. Her hand reached out instinctively, but the sheets beside her were cold and perfectly flat.

Finley's eyes snapped open. She sat up. She wasn't on the sofa.

She looked down at her leg. A neat, white bandage covered the cut on her calf. Confusion washed over her, quickly replaced by a sharp spike of suspicion.

A soft knock came at the door before Brenda, the head maid, wheeled in a silver breakfast cart.

"Good morning, Mrs. Mitchell," Brenda said, keeping her eyes respectfully lowered. "Mr. Mitchell left the estate late last night. He has not returned."

Finley's stomach twisted into a hard knot. She let out a harsh, bitter laugh.

Of course. The hospital. The mistress. Any fleeting thought that he had carried her to bed out of kindness vanished, replaced by a burning, acidic anger.

She grabbed her phone from the nightstand to order coffee from her favorite place in the city.

The screen lit up with dozens of push notifications.

Page Six: Blackwell Heiress Carried Out of 1OAK in Tears! Trouble in Paradise on Night One?

Finley clicked the link. A massive, high-definition photo of Haiden throwing her over his shoulder filled the screen. Her dress was hiked up, only covered by his jacket. She looked like a complete mess.

"Son of a bitch," Finley hissed, throwing the phone onto the mattress.

Her chest heaved. She needed retail therapy. She grabbed her iPad, opened Net-a-Porter, and added three limited-edition bags to her cart.

She clicked 'Purchase'.

A red error message popped up: Transaction Declined.

Finley frowned. She pulled out her wallet and entered the details of her Chase Sapphire card.

Declined.

She tried her Amex.

Declined.

A cold sweat broke out across her forehead. She grabbed her phone and dialed her private wealth manager.

"What is going on with my accounts?" Finley demanded, her voice shaking.

"I'm so sorry, Miss Blackwell," the manager stammered. "Mr. Benton issued a direct order this morning. All your liquid assets and credit lines have been frozen indefinitely."

Finley dropped the phone. The blood drained from her face. They had cut off her oxygen.

Rage, hot and blinding, exploded in her chest. She threw off the covers, marched into the walk-in closet, and pulled out a blood-red, razor-sharp blazer and matching skirt.

Her hands trembled as she buttoned the blouse. The secret burner phone—the one she kept in a false-bottomed drawer—buzzed. She glanced at the screen. A message from an encrypted number she had memorized months ago, when she first started following the market on her own, teaching herself to read balance sheets and cash flow statements in the dead of night, away from prying eyes. "Jordan margin call approaching. Need update."

Finley's stomach clenched. The Jordan family. The old rivals her grandfather had never beaten. She had been quietly building a short position against their holding company for six months, using a shell company and an offshore broker she'd found through Tinsley's shady cousin. It was her secret war chest—or it would be, if it ever paid off. But the margin calls were eating her alive, and without access to her trust fund, she was one bad day away from getting wiped out.

She typed back: "Working on it. Hold." Then she deleted the thread, locked the phone, and shoved it back into the drawer.

An hour later, Finley's red-soled Christian Louboutins clicked furiously across the marble lobby of the Blackwell Industries headquarters in Manhattan.

The receptionist stood up, her eyes wide. "Miss Blackwell, you can't-"

Finley shot her a look so venomous the woman froze mid-sentence.

Finley swiped her grandfather's master keycard, stepped into the private executive elevator, and hit the button for the 68th floor. The elevator shot upward, her stomach dropping with the speed.

The doors dinged open.

Rhys, Haiden's assistant, jumped up from his desk outside the CEO's office. "Mrs. Mitchell, he is in a highly confidential transatlantic video conference. You cannot go in there."

Finley shoved Rhys hard in the chest. She grabbed the heavy walnut handles of the double doors and threw them open.

Haiden sat behind the massive mahogany desk. His eyes were bloodshot, dark circles bruising the skin beneath them. He looked exhausted. On the massive screen behind him, three European executives stared in shock.

Haiden's jaw locked. He leaned forward and hit a button on his console. "We will reconvene in ten minutes," he said coldly, cutting the feed.

Finley marched right up to the desk, slamming both hands down on the polished wood.

"You froze my cards," she snarled, her voice vibrating with fury.

Haiden leaned back in his leather chair. He steepled his fingers, his expression infuriatingly calm. "It is a consequence of the public relations disaster you caused last night."

Finley laughed, a sharp, hysterical sound. "My disaster? You spent your wedding night at a hospital with your whore! You don't get to lecture me about scandals!"

Haiden stood up. His massive frame cast a shadow over her, forcing her to tilt her head back to meet his eyes.

"You will play the role of the devoted wife until you turn twenty-five," Haiden said, his voice dangerously low. "You will obey my rules, or you will have absolutely nothing."

"I am not your puppet!" Finley screamed, her chest heaving. "I'll go to the press! I'll tell them everything about your little side piece!"

Haiden's hand shot out. He slammed his palm flat against the wall right beside her head, his massive frame caging her in completely. He leaned in close, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous warning that left no room for argument. "Do not test my patience, Finley," he whispered, his breath hot against her face.

Finley grabbed his wrist and yanked it away. She stumbled backward.

As she caught her balance, her eyes darted across his desk. A file folder sat half-open. The header read: Project London. The dense legal jargon and complex financial terms scattered across the page would have made most people's eyes glaze over. Finley scanned them in half a second. Her secret training kicked in: non-disclosure agreement, asset swap, earn-out clause. Nothing incriminating. But the name of a shell company caught her attention—a Caymans entity she had never seen before. She committed it to memory.

On the surface, she let her face go blank, the way she always did. "I can't understand any of this," she muttered, playing the part. But inside, her mind was racing.

Finley grabbed a heavy crystal paperweight from the edge of the desk and hurled it at the floor.

The crystal shattered into a dozen jagged pieces.

Haiden's eyes flared with rage. He hit the intercom button. "Security. Get up here and escort my wife out."

Finley backed toward the door, pointing a shaking finger at him. "I'm going to rip you out of that chair, Haiden. I swear to God."

She spun on her heel and stormed out of the office, her heels crunching over the broken glass.