Betrayed Heiress: Marrying The Wall Street Devil

The charity art gala was in full swing.

Ina stood in the luxurious, marble-lined women's restroom. She had just downed three glasses of champagne in quick succession. Her cheeks were hot, and her mind was buzzing. She needed the alcohol to drown out the confusing memory of Buren pinning her against the wall.

She turned on the gold faucet and splashed cold water on her wrists.

The heavy restroom door swung open. A group of three socialites walked in. They were Ina's "friends"—women who smiled to her face and gossiped behind her back.

"Ina!" one of them chirped. "How are the reconciliation plans with Faron?"

Ina's stomach churned at Faron's name. "Fine," she lied smoothly. "Still planning."

Another socialite leaned against the counter, her eyes gleaming with gossip. "Did you see Buren Warner out there? God, he is gorgeous. I wonder what a man that cold is like in bed. Probably an absolute beast."

Hearing his name triggered a sudden, rebellious spike of adrenaline in Ina's blood. The alcohol stripped away her usual caution. She wanted to tear down his arrogant image—just once, to feel like she wasn't completely at his mercy.

Ina let out a loud, dismissive laugh. She leaned against the cold marble sink, crossing her arms defensively, and tilted her chin up with feigned boredom.

"Buren?" she said, her voice dropping into a cool, dismissive drawl. "Please. He is all show. I heard from a very reliable source that beneath that terrifying exterior, he is shockingly... underwhelming. The kind of man who lacks any real staying power when it actually matters. Quite disappointing, really."

The socialites gasped in unison. Their eyes widened to the size of saucers. Then, they erupted into high-pitched, hysterical laughter.

Ina smiled, feeling a petty, vindictive thrill.

She had no idea that the restroom door had not fully closed. Through the inch-wide gap, a tall figure in a black tuxedo had been passing by and stopped dead at the sound of her voice.

Buren Warner stood just outside, his jaw clenched, his dark eyes burning. He had not been hiding—he had simply been walking to the private lounge down the hall when Ina’s mocking words drifted through the crack. Every syllable landed like a slap.

He pushed the door open without hesitation.

Click.

The laughter died instantly.

Buren stepped into the women's restroom. His face was a mask of terrifying, lethal fury.

The temperature in the restroom plummeted. The socialites looked like they had just seen a ghost. They clutched their designer bags, let out squeaks of terror, and bolted out the door, leaving Ina alone.

Buren walked slowly toward the exit. He reached out and pushed the heavy double doors shut. He turned the deadbolt. Lock.

Ina's legs turned to water. She tried to dart sideways toward the stalls.

Buren's hand shot out. His dark eyes locked onto hers, burning with a lethal intensity. His arm moved in a blur of motion, the expensive wool of his tuxedo sleeve brushing the air. His long, iron-hard fingers clamped down on her upper arm. The grip was bruising, his thumb pressing deeply into the soft skin, sending a jolt of sharp, electric pain radiating up to her shoulder. The heat of his palm seared through the thin fabric of her dress. He yanked her forward with brutal, effortless force. The sudden momentum stole the breath from her lungs. Before she could even gasp, he spun her around and slammed her back against the hard, unforgiving edge of the marble sink. The impact vibrated through her spine. He planted both hands on the counter on either side of her hips, trapping her completely.

He leaned down until his nose was touching hers. His eyes were black with rage.

"Underwhelming?" Buren growled, his voice vibrating with anger.

Ina squeezed her eyes shut. Her eyelashes fluttered in pure terror. "I... I was joking. It was a joke."

Buren's hand moved up. He gripped her jaw, his long fingers pressing into her cheeks, forcing her to look at him.

"You talk too much," he whispered.

He crashed his mouth down onto hers.

It was not a kiss of passion. It was a brutal, punishing assault. He forced her lips apart, dominating her mouth completely.

Ina gasped. She raised her hands and beat her fists against his solid chest, but it was like hitting a brick wall. He did not move an inch.

Her lungs burned. She couldn't breathe. The cedarwood scent was suffocating her.

Just as her knees buckled, Buren abruptly pulled back.

He wiped his thumb across his mouth, smearing her red lipstick. He looked down at her swollen lips and terrified eyes.

"You will pay for that mouth," he sneered.

He turned, unlocked the door, and walked out.

Ina collapsed onto the cold tile floor. She knew the socialites were already spreading the rumor. By tomorrow, she would be the laughingstock of the Upper East Side. She was socially dead.