Earning Billions From My Cruel Fiancé

The moment Chloe crossed the threshold into the grand foyer, the adrenaline that had held her together evaporated. Her legs, suddenly feeling like overcooked noodles, gave out from under her.

Her knees hit the edge of an ornate Persian rug with a sickening thud. The suitcase slipped from her grasp, clattering onto the marble floor.

Julian, who had been halfway across the room, stopped. He turned, his expression a mixture of annoyance and disdain as he looked down at her crumpled form. A low, humorless sound, something between a scoff and a grunt, escaped his lips.

Gritting her teeth, Chloe placed her palms flat on the rug, trying to push herself up. But her thigh muscles refused to cooperate, twitching and spasming uncontrollably. The aftershock of pure terror was a physical, debilitating thing.

He glanced at the Patek Philippe on his wrist, his impatience a palpable force in the cavernous room.

With a sigh of profound irritation, he strode back toward her. His leather shoes were silent on the thick rug, but each step felt like a drumbeat against her frayed nerves.

He didn't offer a hand. He bent down, looped one powerful arm around her waist, and hauled her off the floor as if she weighed nothing.

A startled cry escaped her. Her hands flew up, pressing instinctively against the hard wall of his chest. The fabric of his shirt was crisp and cool, the muscles beneath it unyielding as rock. She tried to push away, to find her footing.

He tightened his grip, the muscles in his arm flexing. In one fluid, humiliating motion, he shifted her weight, slinging her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

Her stomach slammed against the hard ridge of his shoulder blade. A wave of nausea washed over her, and she stopped struggling, her body going limp. The scent of his cologne-sandalwood and something sharp, like gin-was overwhelming.

He carried her up the sweeping spiral staircase, his steps even and swift, utterly unbothered by her weight.

Down below, she saw Alfred silently retrieve her suitcase, his face etched with a look of quiet pity before he turned away.

At the top of the stairs, Julian walked down a long, art-lined hallway to the very last door. He didn't bother with the handle. He kicked the heavy oak door open with his foot.

He crossed the room and, without a shred of care, tossed her onto the massive bed.

She landed in a heap on the plush, velvet comforter, the air knocked from her lungs. Her hair had fallen across her face, and she pushed it away, scrambling to prop herself up on her elbows, her body trembling with a mixture of weakness and rage.

Julian stood at the foot of the bed, his hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers. His cold gray eyes raked over her.

"Don't leave this room," he commanded, his voice flat and final. "Don't wander my house. Don't speak to my staff. Just stay here and be the pathetic, bankrupt decoration my mother paid for."

She glared at him, her chest heaving. The defiance in her eyes was the only weapon she had left.

For a fraction of a second, a flicker of surprise crossed his face, as if he hadn't expected her to have any fight left. Then it was gone, replaced by the same chilling indifference. He turned, walked out, and pulled the door shut behind him.

The heavy click of the lock echoed in the silent, opulent room.

She was a prisoner.

The tension that had held her spine rigid finally snapped. Her shoulders slumped. A single, hot tear, a tear of pure, physiological exhaustion, escaped and traced a path down her cheek.

A piercing siren blared from her phone on the bedside table.

The screen, which had been a neutral white, was now flooded with a violent, blood-red light.

Chloe wiped the tear away with the back of her hand, her body instantly on high alert again. She sat up straight, her eyes locked on the words materializing on the screen.

SURVIVAL PROTOCOL ACTIVATED.

ALL EXTERNAL ASSETS TEMPORARILY FROZEN.

A cold dread, worse than the fear of the dog, seeped into her bones. She snatched the phone and frantically tried to open the app for her offshore Swiss bank account. An error message popped up. NETWORK ACCESS DENIED BY HOST SYSTEM.

The app's red screen pulsed.

ALL SURVIVAL RESOURCES MUST NOW BE EARNED BY ACCUMULATING EMOTIONAL VALUE POINTS FROM JULIAN BEAUMONT IV.

Her stomach let out a loud, pathetic growl. The day's stress had burned through whatever she'd eaten, leaving a gnawing emptiness behind.

She slid off the bed, her legs still shaky, and walked over to the room's built-in mini-bar. She pulled open the polished wood door, hoping for a bag of chips, a chocolate bar, anything.

The small refrigerator was empty. Completely bare, except for a neat row of four glass bottles of high-end mineral water.

With a sigh, she took one out. The glass was cool against her palm. She twisted the cap, the hiss of carbonation a small, sharp sound in the quiet room. She was just about to lift the bottle to her lips.

The app on the nightstand flashed again. In the center of the red screen, a giant countdown timer appeared, its numbers glowing ominously.