Bound To The Scarred Secret Billionaire

Clara scrambled forward on her hands and knees. The rough carpet burned her skin, but she did not care. She reached out and grabbed Walter's heavy denim pant leg in sheer desperation.

Walter glanced down at his phone, the call already connecting. He hadn't pressed the speaker, but the faint, tinny voice of the dispatcher was still audible in the dead silence of the room. He looked down at her with cold, sick amusement in his eyes.

Clara choked back a sob. Her throat felt like it was lined with broken glass. She forced the words out, her voice barely a whisper. "I will do it. I agree."

Walter chuckled deeply. The sound vibrated in his chest. He ended the call and reached down, patting Clara's head exactly like a disobedient stray dog.

Brenda clapped her hands together. The sharp sound broke the tension. She immediately demanded Clara pack her things and leave the house before she could change her mind.

Walter kicked the fallen books out of his way with his steel-toed boot. He looked down at Clara, giving her a strict twenty-four-hour deadline to get the marriage done.

He turned on his heel and marched out the front door. The heavy wood slammed shut behind him, rattling the picture frames on the walls.

Brenda crossed her arms and sneered at Clara, who was still kneeling on the floor. She ordered Clara not to steal anything valuable from the house on her way out.

Clara ignored Brenda. Her muscles ached as she slowly pushed herself off the floor. Her shoulder throbbed with a dull, persistent pain from where the heavy book had struck her.

She walked down the narrow hallway to her tiny bedroom. Her footsteps felt incredibly heavy, dragging against the cheap linoleum floor.

Clara dropped to her knees and pulled a faded canvas duffel bag from under her creaky twin bed. She grabbed the zipper, but it caught tightly on a loose thread.

She yanked the zipper hard. The thread tore, and the bag opened. Clara began throwing her few worn sweaters and faded jeans inside, not bothering to fold them.

She paused. Her trembling fingers reached out to pick up a small, framed photograph of her father from the nightstand. Her thumb gently wiped a thin layer of dust from the glass.

Clara carefully wrapped the frame in a thick flannel shirt. She tucked it safely into the very center of the bag, protecting the only good memory she had left.

Brenda shouted from the kitchen. Her screeching voice complained about the noise and rushed Clara to hurry up and get out.

Clara zipped the bag shut. She swung the heavy duffel bag over her shoulder. The rough canvas strap immediately dug into her bruised collarbone.

She walked back through the living room. She kept her eyes fixed straight ahead, not looking at Brenda, and stepped out onto the dark front porch. The afternoon sun had sunk behind the tree line, and the cold evening wind hit Clara immediately. The temperature drop felt like a physical slap. She shivered violently and zipped her thin jacket all the way up to her chin.

Clara stepped off the porch. Her worn sneakers crunched loudly against the gravel driveway, the sound echoing in the dead quiet of the neighborhood.

She began walking down the shoulder of the empty county highway. The only light came from distant, flickering streetlamps that cast long, distorted shadows on the asphalt.

A massive semi-truck roared by. The violent gust of wind from the speeding vehicle almost knocked Clara off her feet and into the muddy ditch.

Clara quickly regained her balance. She gripped her bag tighter, her knuckles turning white, and continued walking toward the dense, terrifying woods at the edge of town.

The streetlights eventually faded away completely. Night had fully fallen by the time she reached the woods. Clara was left to navigate the uneven ground by the pale moonlight filtering through the tall, dense pine trees.

An owl hooted loudly in the branches directly above her. Clara flinched hard, her heart skipping a beat. She quickened her pace in the eerie, suffocating silence of the forest.

Up ahead, Clara spotted a rusted mailbox leaning heavily to one side. It marked the beginning of the dark dirt path leading to the outcast's property.

She turned onto the muddy path. Her shoes sank slightly into the damp, freezing earth with every single step she took.

Through the thick brush, Clara finally saw the silhouette of a rundown log cabin. It sat completely isolated in the middle of a small, overgrown clearing.

A single, dim yellow light glowed from the cabin's side window. It cast long, creepy shadows on the tall grass, making the place look like a haunted trap.

Clara stopped at the edge of the clearing. Her chest heaved up and down. A wave of profound, paralyzing terror washed over her entire body.

She took a deep, shaky breath. She forced her frozen legs to move forward, one agonizing step at a time, toward the wooden steps of the cabin porch.