Claimed By The Ruthless Billionaire Boss

The blinding white flashes of the cameras stabbed into Cordelia's eyes. She squinted, raising a hand to shield her face as she pushed through the heavy doors into the hotel lobby. The reporters swarmed her, shoving microphones practically into her mouth. "Cordelia! Did you know about the affair before tonight?" "Are you really suing the groom's family?" The noise was deafening. The air in the lobby grew hot and suffocating, thick with the smell of cheap cologne and sweat. Suddenly, a heavy hand clamped down on her wrist. The grip was brutal, digging into her delicate skin. Cordelia gasped as she was violently yanked backward. She stumbled in her heels and looked up. It was her father, Alistair. His eyes were bloodshot, the veins in his neck bulging against his tight collar. "You stupid, arrogant girl," Alistair hissed, his saliva hitting her cheek. "Do you have any idea what you just did? You just destroyed our reputation in front of every major investor in the city! Our partners will be pulling out by morning! You are going to march back in there and tell them it was a deepfake!" "Let go of me," Cordelia demanded. Her stomach twisted at the smell of scotch on his breath. Before Alistair could respond, Eleanor, her stepmother, pushed through the crowd. Her face was twisted in an ugly snarl. Eleanor raised her hand high, aiming a vicious slap right at Cordelia's face to create a distraction for the cameras. Cordelia's reflexes kicked in. She didn't flinch. She shot her free arm up and caught Eleanor's forearm mid-swing. The impact sent a shockwave up Cordelia's elbow. She gripped Eleanor's wrist tightly and shoved her backward with all her strength. Eleanor stumbled in her gown and crashed into a potted fern. "Don't you ever touch me again," Cordelia warned, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Cordelia! Wait!" Julian burst through the doors. He was sweating profusely, his bowtie hanging loose around his neck. He shoved a reporter aside and lunged at Cordelia, wrapping his arms around her waist. "Please, baby, please," Julian begged, his voice cracking. He buried his face in her shoulder. "I'll do anything. I'll send Isabelle to Europe tonight. You'll never have to see her again. Just don't leave me." The physical contact made Cordelia's skin crawl. The smell of his sweat mixed with Isabelle's perfume hit her nose, making her throat burn with bile. She planted her hands on his chest and shoved him off. As Julian stumbled back, Cordelia swung her hand. Smack. The slap was incredibly loud. It echoed through the massive lobby, silencing the shouting reporters for one stunned second. Julian's head snapped to the side. A bright red handprint bloomed across his pale cheek. The camera shutters went into a frenzy, capturing the exact moment of impact. Julian slowly turned his head back. The pathetic, begging look in his eyes was gone. It was replaced by a dark, venomous rage. "You bitch," Julian spat, rubbing his jaw. "You think you can walk away from me? I will use every connection my family has. I will blackball your architectural firm so fast you won't be able to design a doghouse in this city." Cordelia stood her ground, but her heart hammered against her ribs. She knew he wasn't bluffing. Her firm was her life's work, and he had the power to crush it. Suddenly, the temperature in the lobby seemed to plummet. A heavy, synchronized sound of footsteps echoed from the grand staircase. Four men dressed in identical, impeccably tailored black suits descended into the lobby. They moved with terrifying efficiency, stepping into the crowd of reporters and physically shoving them apart. They cut through the mob like a hot knife through butter, creating a wide, empty path. Then, he appeared. Justice Duncan stepped out of the shadows of the stairwell. He wore a custom three-piece suit that screamed old money and absolute power. His posture was relaxed, but his presence suffocated the room. He didn't walk; he glided, his dark eyes fixed entirely on Cordelia. Alistair saw him and instantly let go of Cordelia's wrist. The older man physically shrank, his arrogant posture crumbling. "Mr... Mr. Duncan," Alistair stammered, his voice trembling. "We didn't know you were attending." Justice didn't even glance at Alistair. He didn't look at Julian. To the most powerful man on Wall Street, they were nothing but dust on the floor. Justice stopped right in front of Cordelia. He was a full head taller than her. He looked down, his gaze tracing the angry red mark on her wrist where her father had grabbed her, then moving to her flushed cheeks. He reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a dark silk handkerchief. Justice reached out and gently took Cordelia's right hand-the hand she had used to slap Julian. Cordelia's breath hitched. His fingers were warm and slightly rough. Justice slowly, deliberately wiped the palm of her hand with the silk fabric. "You shouldn't dirty your hands on trash," Justice said. His voice was a low, magnetic rumble that sent a shiver straight down Cordelia's spine. Julian's face turned purple with humiliation. He opened his mouth to yell, but one look from Justice's dead, black eyes pinned him to the floor. Julian swallowed hard, completely paralyzed by the sheer weight of Justice's capital dominance. Justice dropped the handkerchief onto the marble floor. He turned his head slightly, finally addressing the sea of cameras. He didn't raise his voice, but it carried to the back of the room. "Miss Nguyen is under my protection as of this moment," Justice announced. The reporters stared at him in stunned silence. No one dared to take a picture. "Three months ago, at the charity gala, Miss Nguyen did the Duncan family a favor," Justice continued smoothly, feeding them a perfect, impenetrable lie. "The Duncan family always pays its debts." The reporters exchanged nervous glances. No one questioned the King of Wall Street. Slowly, they lowered their cameras. Justice turned back to Cordelia. He raised his large hand and placed it firmly on the small of her back. The heat of his palm burned right through the silk of her wedding dress. "Walk with me," Justice murmured, his lips brushing dangerously close to her ear. It wasn't a request. It was a command. Cordelia's mind raced. She looked at her furious father and her humiliated ex-fiancé. She knew this was her only clean exit. She nodded once. Justice guided her toward the glass doors. His bodyguards formed an impenetrable wall around them. Outside, a torrential downpour had started. The rain lashed against the pavement. The bodyguards instantly popped open massive black umbrellas, completely shielding Cordelia and Justice from the storm and the prying eyes of the street. A sleek, armored Maybach was idling at the curb. Justice reached out and opened the heavy rear door himself. He shielded her head with his hand as she slid into the plush leather interior. He got in after her and the door slammed shut, instantly cutting off the sound of the rain and the sirens. The cabin was dead silent. It smelled faintly of expensive cedar and rain. The Maybach pulled away from the curb smoothly, leaving the Plaza Hotel and her toxic family disappearing into the rearview mirror. Cordelia sat stiffly against the door, her adrenaline crashing. Her hands began to shake. Justice reached over to the built-in bar console. He poured a glass of room-temperature water and held it out to her. Cordelia took it, her fingers brushing against his. She looked up. Justice was watching her. His eyes were deep, unreadable, and intensely focused on her face. He had saved her. But as she stared into his dark eyes, her stomach tightened with a new, entirely different kind of fear. She had just escaped a pack of wolves, only to willingly climb into the cage of a tiger.