Breaking The Billionaire's Golden Cage
Chapter 1
Brook swirled the remaining liquid in her martini glass.
The ice cubes clinked against the crystal, a sharp sound that did nothing to settle the heavy nausea churning in her stomach.
The bartender slid a black leather checkbook across the polished wood.
He asked if she needed him to call an Uber.
Brook shook her head without looking up.
Her vision was locked entirely on her phone, which lay face down on the sticky surface of the bar.
The screen lit up against the dark wood.
An Instagram push notification flashed across the locked screen.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she swiped to open the app.
It was a new story posted by Katy Vaughn.
The photo showed Damon standing next to Isadora Sanders at an Ivy League alumni gala.
They were raising their champagne glasses, and Katy had added a caption hinting that wedding bells were right around the corner.
Brook felt her lungs stop working.
A heavy block of ice settled in her chest, making it impossible to draw a full breath.
She grabbed her glass and swallowed the rest of the martini in one gulp.
The sharp botanicals of the gin burned a path down her throat, but it was nothing compared to the suffocating ache expanding in her chest.
A low murmur of commotion rippled from the entrance of the lounge.
The loud, obnoxious Wall Street traders at the front tables suddenly went completely silent and stepped aside.
A blast of cold air from the open door hit Brook, making her shiver.
She lifted her head and looked past the dim neon signs.
Her eyes collided with a pair of dark, bottomless eyes that carried a terrifying amount of pressure.
Damon Vaughn walked straight toward her.
He wore a custom-tailored black suit that seemed to absorb the dim light of the room.
He brought a freezing aura with him that demanded absolute obedience.
Brook instinctively shrank her shoulders back.
She reached for her handbag, a desperate physical need to escape this suffocating space taking over her body.
Damon reached her before she could slide off the barstool.
His large hand clamped down on her wrist with the precision of a steel trap.
The freezing metal of his Patek Philippe watch pressed hard against her bare skin.
He leaned down until his face was inches from her ear.
Why are you not answering your phone.
His voice was a low rumble meant only for her, his hot breath brushing against the sensitive skin of her neck.
Brook inhaled the familiar scent of cedarwood radiating from his skin.
Beneath the cedar, she caught the faintest trace of a stranger's expensive floral perfume.
Her stomach violently flipped over again.
She yanked her arm, trying to break his iron grip.
I am not obligated to be on standby for you twenty-four hours a day.
Her voice came out cold and flat.
Damon narrowed his eyes, the darkness in them shifting into something dangerous.
He pulled a hundred-dollar bill from his pocket and tossed it onto the wet bar counter.
He ignored her pulling away and dragged her toward the exit, his arm wrapping tightly around her waist to half-carry her.
The biting wind of Manhattan's first snow hit her face the second they stepped outside.
M. Black was already standing by the curb, holding the door of the black Maybach open.
Damon shoved her roughly into the back seat.
The smell of the expensive leather interior surrounded her, bringing a wave of absolute despair.
It felt like a cage she could never escape.
Damon slid in right next to her, his thigh pressing heavily against hers.
The soundproof partition rolled up smoothly, sealing them in.
The narrow cabin was instantly filled with his overwhelming, aggressive presence.
Damon reached out and gripped her jaw, forcing her to turn and face him.
He crashed his lips down onto hers before she could speak.
It was a rough, urgent kiss, meant to punish her for daring to rebel against him.
Brook tasted the metallic tang of blood as her teeth scraped against her lip.
A tear slipped out of the corner of her eye, betraying her attempt to stay numb.
The warm drop of water fell directly onto the back of Damon's hand.
Damon stopped moving.
His eyebrows pulled together in a tight frown.
He used the rough pad of his thumb to wipe the moisture from her cheek.
His touch was surprisingly careful, but his posture remained rigid and demanding.
The Maybach pulled into the underground garage of his Tribeca penthouse.
Damon did not wait for her to step out.
He scooped her up into his arms and carried her straight toward the private elevator.
The metal doors slid shut, enclosing them in the mirrored box.
Damon pressed her back against the freezing glass wall.
His hands moved to the collar of her silk shirt, ripping the delicate buttons open.
Brook let her arms fall to her sides, giving up the pointless fight.
She closed her eyes.
She let herself sink into the control of this Wall Street bastard for the very last time.
Hours later, the gray morning light of New York filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Brook opened her heavy eyes, her body aching from the night before.
She turned her head on the massive bed.
Damon was fast asleep beside her, his sharp jawline looking perfectly relaxed in the pale light.
Brook carefully lifted the heavy duvet, making sure not to disturb the mattress.
She ignored the soreness in her muscles and picked up her clothes scattered across the thick rug.
She walked over to the nightstand.
She opened her wallet and pulled out the heavy black card he had given her three years ago.
It was the ultimate symbol of their no-strings arrangement.
She placed the card flat on the wood and set a glass of water on top of it.
Brook pulled her coat tightly around her shoulders.
She took one final, long look at the man in the bed.
She packed away three years of foolishness and toxic infatuation into a tight box in her chest.
She pushed the heavy oak door of the bedroom open without making a single sound.
She walked into the private elevator and pressed the button for the lobby.
As the numbers on the display counted down, Brook pulled out her phone.
She opened her contacts, found Damon's private number, and hit block.
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