Trapped By The Ruthless Billionaire Husband

Finley didn't take the elevator down. She pushed through the heavy fire doors into the stairwell and stopped.

Her chest heaved as she leaned against the cold concrete wall. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to process the London acquisition file she had just seen. Haiden was siphoning Blackwell funds. She needed proof.

She cracked the stairwell door open just an inch.

Down the hall, Rhys was frantically talking into his headset, rushing toward the elevator bank to deal with the PR mess she had just created.

The corridor was empty.

Finley kicked off her red Louboutins, holding them in her left hand. In her stocking feet, she moved silently across the thick carpet, slipping back through the half-open doors of the CEO's office.

The office was empty. The sound of running water echoed from the private washroom attached to the suite. Haiden was washing up.

Finley darted toward the mahogany desk. She scanned the surface, but the London file was gone. He had locked it away.

Frustration burned in her throat. She reached for the handle of the top drawer.

Suddenly, a black burner phone sitting on the edge of the desk vibrated. The screen lit up. There was no caller ID, just a string of numbers.

Finley's heart slammed against her ribs. Her instincts screamed at her.

Her hand trembled as she reached out. She tapped the green accept button and hit speakerphone.

"Daddy?"

The voice was tiny. A little boy, crying. "Daddy, when are you coming to see Leo and Mommy?"

Finley stopped breathing. The air in the room vanished. The word Daddy echoed in her skull like a gunshot.

Then, a woman's voice came through the speaker. It was weak, breathless, and painfully gentle. "Leo, sweetheart, give me the phone. Daddy is working. We can't bother him."

It was Clara. The woman from the hospital.

Finley's hands shook so violently she had to grip the edge of the desk to stay standing. The blood roared in her ears. A sickening wave of betrayal and pure, unadulterated rage crashed over her.

The water in the washroom shut off.

Haiden walked out, drying his face with a towel, his dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar.

He froze.

His eyes locked onto Finley, then dropped to the burner phone on the desk. The little boy's cries were still broadcasting into the silent office.

Panic—raw and unfiltered—flashed across Haiden's face.

He lunged across the room. He snatched the phone off the desk, his thumb aggressively jabbing the end call button. He gripped the plastic so hard his knuckles turned white.

"What are you doing in here?" Haiden roared. The veins in his neck bulged. "Who told you to touch my phone?"

Finley stared at him. A hysterical, broken laugh ripped from her throat.

"You hypocrite," she spat, her voice trembling with venom. "You absolute, disgusting liar."

She stepped toward him, jabbing her finger into his chest. "How old is the bastard, Haiden? Were you planning to drain my grandfather's company to build a trust fund for your little whore and her brat?"

A lethal darkness swallowed Haiden's eyes at the word bastard.

He grabbed Finley by the shoulders, his fingers digging painfully into her flesh. "Shut your mouth, Finley. You don't know what you're talking about."

The physical pain ignited the explosive fury inside her.

Finley wrenched her arm free, planted her feet, and slapped him across the face with every ounce of strength she had.

The sharp crack echoed off the glass walls.

Haiden's head snapped to the side. A bright red handprint instantly bloomed across his pale cheek.

He didn't move. He didn't hit her back. His chest heaved as he slowly turned his head to look at her. His eyes were dead, filled with a terrifying, suppressed violence.

Finley didn't wait for him to react. She grabbed her shoes and bolted out the door, running for her life.

She slammed the elevator button, tears of pure rage blurring her vision.

When she reached the underground parking garage, she threw herself into the driver's seat of her Aston Martin. Her hands gripped the leather steering wheel so hard her joints ached.

She slammed the Aston Martin into gear and peeled out of the parking spot, her tires screeching against the concrete. Her hand instinctively reached for her phone to open the GPS tracker—but she cursed under her breath. The administrative access to the Maybach's system wasn't active yet; the estate's head of security had demanded a face-to-face meeting to hand over the credentials, and she hadn't found a safe window to sneak away from Haiden's watchful eyes. So she was stuck doing this the old-fashioned way. She sped up the ramp just in time to see the sleek black tail of Haiden's Maybach turning the corner onto the avenue. She gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles white, and hit the gas, tailing him recklessly through the busy streets.

In the back of the speeding Maybach, Haiden pressed a cold ice pack to his stinging cheek.

His phone buzzed. Dr. Albright.

"Mr. Mitchell, Clara just went into cardiac arrest. We revived her, but Leo is terrified. He won't stop screaming."

Haiden closed his eyes, a crushing weight pressing down on his chest. Finley's misunderstanding was total and absolute now, but he couldn't stop to fix it. Clara was dying.

"Run the red lights," Haiden ordered his driver, his voice tight.

The Maybach tore through the Manhattan streets, screeching to a halt outside the hospital. Haiden threw the door open and sprinted toward the entrance.

A block away, a red Aston Martin quietly pulled to the curb, watching him go inside.