Betrayed Heiress: Marrying The Wall Street Devil

Ina Holman sat at the dimly lit mahogany bar of The Plaza Hotel. She dug her manicured nails into her palms. The sharp sting grounded her. She was a Holman. The Holman family, once the undisputed royalty of New York real estate, was now drowning in massive corporate debt. Her toxic, on-and-off entanglement with her ex-boyfriend, Faron Levine, the heir to the Levine banking empire, was a strict business transaction. He was dangling the promise of a renewed alliance, which was the only financial lifeline keeping her father from declaring bankruptcy. Tonight, she was not here for herself. She was wearing her best friend Clementine's tight black dress. Clementine had begged Ina to stand in for her on a crucial matchmaking meeting aimed at a family alliance, because Clementine's family held significant, terrifying leverage over the Holmans' remaining assets. If Ina refused, the fallout would instantly crush her father's fragile empire. “He knows what you look like,” Clementine had whispered over the phone. “He’ll be expecting you. Just have one drink, pretend to be me, and get out.” The weight of her family's survival rested heavily on her shoulders, leaving Ina with no choice but to obey. She picked up a plastic swizzle stick and boredly stirred the green olive in her empty martini glass. The jazz music playing from the corner stage felt too loud. The bartender, a man in a crisp white vest, walked over. He slid a heavy crystal glass across the polished wood. The liquid inside was a glowing, unnatural neon blue. "From the gentleman at the end of the bar, miss," the bartender said. Ina glanced down the bar, but the shadows were too thick. She assumed it was Clementine's potential suitor trying to be charming. She did not want to be here. She wanted to go home to her Tribeca apartment. But to maintain the polite facade required of a Holman, she picked up the glass. She took a small sip. The liquid burned. It slid down her throat like liquid fire. Within ten seconds, a violent, unnatural heat erupted in her stomach. Ina frowned. She put the glass down. She pressed the back of her cold hand against her cheek. Her skin was burning. It felt like she had a severe fever. Her vision suddenly blurred. The edges of the bar warped. The slow jazz music stretched out, sounding like a distorted underwater echo. She realized instantly that the drink was spiked. Panic seized her chest. Her heart hammered violently against her ribs. She pushed herself off the barstool. The wooden chair scraped loudly against the thick carpet. Her legs felt like jelly. They buckled. She reached out and gripped the edge of the mahogany bar, her knuckles turning white. She had to get out of the public eye. If a Holman was seen stumbling drunk or drugged in The Plaza, the scandal would give the Levine family an excuse to cancel the potential alliance. She grabbed her silver clutch. She stumbled away from the bar, pushing past a group of businessmen. She did not head for the main lobby. She veered toward the private elevator bank reserved for the VIP penthouse suites. The elevator doors were closing. Ina threw her body forward and squeezed through the gap. She hit the cold metal wall of the elevator car and slid down. She gasped for air. Her lungs burned. The drug was moving through her bloodstream fast, melting her rational thoughts into a puddle of raw, burning lust. The elevator chimed. It stopped at the top floor. The doors slid open. Ina tried to stand, but her balance was completely gone. She pitched forward, falling out of the elevator. She did not hit the floor. Two strong, hard arms caught her. Her face crashed against a solid chest covered in expensive wool. Her nose was instantly filled with the sharp, cold scent of cedarwood and mint. Ina blinked her heavy eyelids. She looked up. She met a pair of eyes as dark and cold as a frozen lake. It was Buren Warner. He was the apex predator of Wall Street. A billionaire who bought and destroyed companies for sport. He was a man the Holman family could not even afford to speak to. Buren looked down at the woman in his arms. His thick eyebrows pulled together. He felt the unnatural, radiating heat coming off her skin. He saw her dilated pupils and flushed neck. He knew immediately she had been drugged. The chemical fire in Ina's veins destroyed her last shred of sanity. She grabbed the knot of his silk tie. She pulled him down. She pressed her boiling face against his chest, whimpering. Down the long hallway, the distinct sound of heavy footsteps echoed. Then, the mechanical click-whir of camera shutters. Paparazzi. Buren's eyes narrowed. His jaw ticked. He hated the press. He wrapped one massive arm around Ina's waist, lifting her off the ground. He pulled a black keycard from his pocket, swiped it against the door behind him, and pushed it open. They fell inside the presidential suite. Buren kicked the heavy mahogany door shut. The loud thud completely cut off the noise from the hallway. Ina clung to him like a drowning woman. Her hands frantically pulled at his jacket. She fumbled with the buttons of his crisp white dress shirt, tearing one off. Buren grabbed her wrists. His grip was like iron. "Look at me," Buren commanded. His voice was a low, rough rumble in his chest. "Know who you are touching." Ina could not hear him. The drug demanded physical contact. She stood on her tiptoes. She pressed her hot, wet lips against his throat, right over his pulse point. Buren's breathing hitched. His rigid control snapped. He spun her around and pinned her against the cold wall of the entryway. Before he let the instinct take over, Buren's Wall Street paranoia kicked in. He reached into his pocket with one hand. He pulled out his phone, hit the audio record button, and placed it face-down on the console table. He needed proof that she initiated this, in case this was a corporate trap. Then, he crushed his mouth against hers. Clothes were torn and dropped on the marble floor. They did not make it to the bedroom immediately. They tangled together from the entryway, to the living room rug, and finally crashed onto the massive velvet bed. The night was a blur of skin, heat, and absolute loss of control. Hours later, the neon lights of Manhattan faded. The harsh morning sun pierced through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The light stabbed Ina's eyes. She groaned. She slowly opened her eyes. Her head pounded with a vicious hangover. Every muscle in her thighs and back ached. She sucked in a sharp breath as the memories of the night flooded her brain. The heat. The tearing of clothes. The cedarwood scent. She turned her head. A strange man was sleeping next to her. He was lying on his stomach, his broad, muscular back exposed. Long, angry red scratch marks trailed down his shoulder blades. Marks she had made. Ina clamped her hands over her mouth. She forced the scream back down her throat. She rolled off the edge of the bed. Her bare feet hit the cold floor. Her phone, lying on the carpet, lit up. It was a text message from Faron Levine, her ex-boyfriend. Where are you? I know you didn't go home last night. Ina's stomach dropped into a bottomless pit. A wave of pure terror washed over her. She was in a strange hotel room with a man she didn't know. Faron was tracking her. If Faron caught her here, the reconciliation would end. Her father would be ruined. This was a trap. She was sure of it.