Escaping The Grasp Of My Billionaire
Five years ago, I was the invisible scholarship charity case at an elite Manhattan prep school, trying to survive in a sea of trust-fund babies.
Arlo Hammond, the untouchable billionaire heir, made sure to completely dismantle my soul.
When his wealthy friends asked if he noticed me, his mocking laughter echoed down the hallway.
"Are you out of your mind? You seriously think I'd be interested in a boring little nerd like her?"
But the moment we were alone, he would corner me in dark alleys, pinning my wrists against brick walls with terrifying, possessive jealousy if my phone even buzzed. He played his twisted games until I was left standing in the rain with my shattered dignity.
Now, I am an Assistant District Attorney. I spent years burying those memories under mountains of legal files.
But tonight, he returned.
When we crossed paths at an exclusive club, he looked at me with the cool detachment he'd give a piece of furniture. In front of a crowd of elites, he coldly declared:
"We have absolutely nothing to do with each other anymore."
Then he walked away to pick up a supermodel, leaving me trembling from the sheer humiliation.
I didn't understand. If I was so worthless to him, why did he still have my birthday tattooed in dark ink on his wrist? Why did he look at me with such raw, painful vulnerability in the shadows?
I stared at my pale reflection in the mirror and made a silent vow.
I am not that pathetic seventeen-year-old anymore, and I will prove to him that I am completely, entirely over him.
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Chapter 7
Dawn stood in front of the restroom mirror for five full minutes. She used rough brown paper towels to aggressively scrub the cold water from her face, wiping away any trace of the pathetic, heartbroken girl who had run in here.
When she finally looked at her reflection again, the mask was firmly in place. Her face was pale, her expression completely neutral, and her eyes were deadened, devoid of any warmth or vulnerability. She looked like a perfect, unfeeling porcelain doll.
She pushed open the restroom door and stepped back out into the hallway. The adrenaline crash had left her mouth feeling like it was stuffed with dry cotton. Her throat was tight and parched from holding back sobs.
She turned and walked toward the far end of the corridor, where an old, stainless-steel water fountain sat in a quiet alcove.
She reached the fountain, pulled a small paper cup from the dispenser, and bent over. She pressed the metal button. The water trickled out in a weak stream.
Just as the cup was halfway full, the ambient light in the alcove suddenly vanished.
A massive, solid shadow fell over her, completely blocking out the overhead fluorescent lights. The air in the small space instantly shifted, becoming thick and suffocating.
Dawn didn't need to turn around to know who it was. The sharp, clean scent of spearmint gum mixed with the faint, expensive smell of cedarwood cologne hit her senses.
Arlo had appeared behind her like a ghost. He stepped into the alcove, closing the distance between them until he was standing less than two feet away. He lifted his right arm and planted his large hand flat against the tiled wall right next to her head.
He had effectively trapped her. His tall, broad body formed a physical cage, blocking her only exit.
Dawn's body went completely rigid. Every muscle locked up. The sudden, extreme proximity of the boy who had just verbally destroyed her sent a jolt of pure panic through her nervous system. She instinctively hunched her shoulders, trying to shrink away from the heat radiating off his chest.
Arlo leaned down. The height difference was massive; he had to angle his head to look at her. His dark eyes were heavy with a predatory, calculating intensity as they locked onto her face.
The corner of his mouth ticked up into a smirk that was equal parts cruel and amused.
"Silly girl," Arlo murmured.
He dragged out the syllables, making the childhood nickname sound incredibly intimate and dangerously mocking at the same time. His voice was a low rumble that vibrated in the narrow space.
"Why did you disappear so fast after class?" he asked, his tone casual, as if he were asking about the weather.
Hearing that nickname-a name he used to call her when they were kids playing in the dirt, long before the money and the status separated them-sent a violent tremor through Dawn's deadened heart. For a microsecond, a desperate, pathetic hope flared inside her.
But then, the memory of his voice echoing off the lockers slammed back into her brain. Underdeveloped little sister.
The hope died instantly, replaced by a cold, hard fury. The walls she had built around her heart solidified into steel.
She refused to look up at his face. She kept her gaze fixed firmly on the second button of his unkempt uniform shirt.
"I didn't run away from you," Dawn said. Her voice was a flat, robotic monotone. It held absolutely zero inflection. "You're imagining things. I didn't even see you."
Arlo's smirk vanished. His jaw clenched. He clearly hated her robotic, lifeless response. He was used to girls blushing, stammering, or throwing themselves at him. He was not used to being treated like a piece of blank wallpaper.
The muscles in his arm flexed as he leaned heavier against the wall. He shifted his weight, stepping half an inch closer. The physical intimidation was deliberate. The distance between them was now dangerously inappropriate.
He lowered his head until his lips were hovering just near her ear.
"You know," Arlo whispered, his voice dropping an octave, laced with a dark, absolute certainty. "You always bite the inside of your lip when you're lying to my face."
Dawn gasped. It was a tiny, involuntary sound.
She instantly released the death grip her teeth had on her lower lip. The sudden realization that he had been watching her closely enough to know her physical tells-that he knew her nervous habits-sent a flush of hot, angry color rushing into her pale cheeks.
He was playing with her. He was a cat batting around a half-dead mouse, enjoying the power trip of making her squirm after he had already decided she was worthless.
The anger finally overrode her fear. She took a sharp breath, her chest expanding, and snapped her head up.
She looked him dead in the eyes. She didn't flinch. She didn't cower. She poured every ounce of her hatred and hurt into her glare.
"Move," Dawn commanded. Her voice was sharp and brittle, like breaking glass. "Mr. Finch is waiting for me in his office. I don't have time for this."
She used the name of the school's strictest academic advisor as a shield. It was the perfect excuse for a scholarship student.
Arlo's eyes darkened to pitch black. He stared down at her defiant, angry face for two agonizingly long seconds. The air between them crackled with a volatile, hostile energy.
Finally, he let out a short, harsh breath through his nose. He slowly lowered his arm, stepping back just enough to let her pass.
Dawn didn't hesitate. She clutched her crushed paper cup and pushed past him, her shoulder brushing against his chest. She walked fast, her sneakers squeaking on the tiles.
When she reached the end of the corridor, she couldn't stop herself from glancing back over her shoulder.
Arlo was no longer alone in the alcove. Three girls, their skirts rolled up high and their makeup flawless, had already swarmed him. One of them was laughing, resting her hand intimately on his bicep. Arlo didn't push her away. He was looking down at the girl, that same lazy, arrogant smirk back on his face.
Dawn turned her head forward. She crushed the paper cup in her fist until it was a mangled ball of trash, dropping it into the nearest bin as she walked away.
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7.1
For six years, I was the perfect, obedient wife to billionaire Hartwell Ware, enduring his coldness because I thought my love could eventually thaw his heart.
Then, my friend sent me a photo. Hartwell was at the airport, tenderly holding the waist of his first love, Eveline Craig.
He came home smelling of her synthetic rose perfume, accused me of stalking him, and coldly demanded a divorce.
His lawyer handed me a thick settlement agreement. It offered astronomical alimony and luxury properties, but it came with a humiliating ten-page non-disclosure agreement.
He wanted to buy my silence. He wanted to strip me of my rights to our son and gag me permanently, just so he could parade his new life with Eveline without any PR backlash.
Even now, he still thought I was a gold digger who had orchestrated a media scandal to trap him into marriage.
I stared at the man I had worshipped for two thousand days. My six years of desperate devotion had been nothing but a humiliating, one-sided delusion.
Hope was finally dead, and with it, my tears had completely dried up.
He expected me to cry, to beg, to negotiate for more millions.
Instead, I snatched the pen, crossed out the massive alimony, and signed my name on the dotted line.
"I am taking the basic child support, and not a single red cent more."
Leaving my five-carat diamond ring on the marble table, I walked out the door with nothing but my old suitcase.
9.6
I was only three and a half years old, living in a damp basement and beaten daily by Enoch Pruitt with a heavy leather whip.
"Get up, you useless waste of space!"
He always told me I was a stray he had picked out of the garbage.
But during one brutal beating that nearly stopped my heart, time froze, and a glowing figure called The Chronicler appeared.
"You are not an abandoned orphan, Clare. You carry the blood of the highest gods."
He revealed that I was the stolen daughter of the ultra-wealthy Barrett family.
Then, he showed me the horrific ending of my previous life.
I had died right here on this bloody dirt floor.
My real parents and three brothers went completely insane with grief, turning into ruthless monsters who destroyed themselves and the entire world to avenge me.
Meanwhile, the Pruitt family kept torturing me, locking me in a woodshed and feeding me moldy bread.
The memory of my bones breaking and my real mother's agonizing screams crushed my chest.
Why did I have to suffer like an animal while my true family tore the world apart looking for me?
This time, I refused to die in the mud.
I accepted my divine blood, my eyes glowing gold as I summoned a bolt of purple lightning to strike my abuser.
I just needed to survive the night.
Because my real father's heavily armed convoy was already tearing up the mountain, ready to burn this hell to the ground.
8.4
After being kidnapped for years and finally rescued, five-year-old Izzy thought she was going home to her wealthy biological family.
But when the social worker brought her to the freezing bus station, her biological father, Conrad, didn't even get out of his Mercedes. He took one look at her tangled hair and worn-out shoes, his lip curling in disgust.
"I have a real family now. I'm not disrupting my life for this."
He drove away, leaving her choking on his exhaust fumes. When her rough, grease-stained uncle Bryan forcefully brought her to the family mansion, things only got worse. Her biological mother refused to touch her, complaining that she smelled like a dumpster. Her half-sister Katelynn pushed her to the ground, making her bleed, and framed her for stealing. Instead of helping, Conrad roared at Izzy, calling her a wild animal and threatening to throw her back onto the streets.
Izzy stood there shivering in her oversized rags, watching them stand together in a perfect, unbroken circle. She didn't understand why her own blood looked at her like she was a monster, or why they were so eager to throw a traumatized child back into the dark.
But what her wealthy family didn't know was that Izzy had a secret: she could hear plants talking. And the greenhouse orchids were screaming at their cruelty. So, she climbed onto their expensive coffee table, pointed at her mechanic uncle, and made her choice.
"I don't want Conrad to be my daddy. I want Uncle Bryan."
She walked out of that loveless mansion forever, ready to follow the whispers of an old apple tree in her new backyard—a tree that was about to guide her to a buried fortune of gold.
8.8
I've always been the unwanted child-the invisible one. The rebel no one ever tried to understand.
And yet, I never resented my perfect, beloved sister. All I ever wanted was for her to be happy.
But one cruel twist of fate-and a devastating betrayal by someone I trusted-changed everything.
I woke up in a stranger's bed, losing the one thing I had guarded so carefully. Back then, I thought that was my greatest loss.
I was wrong.
Because not long after, my sister introduced me to her fiancé.
And the man standing in front of me... was the same stranger from that night.
Now he haunts me-day and night, in my dreams and in my waking hours. And just when I start to believe the nightmare might finally fade with the dawn, Alan walks back into my life.
This time, he has no intention of letting me forget.
Not the insult I dealt him.
...or that one unforgettable night.
9.3
I was the rightful heir to the Valenzuela estate, but my aunt and cousin treated me worse than a stray dog.
On a freezing rainy night, they forged documents to strip me of my trust fund and violently ordered their bodyguards to throw me out.
My cousin snatched the rosewood urn containing my mother's ashes. She smashed it onto the marble floor and maliciously ground the white powder under her stiletto heel.
When Aidan, the elderly butler who had protected me since I was a baby, tried to shield me from their assassins in the storm, he was stabbed in the back.
His hot blood poured over my hands as he died in the muddy puddle, while my aunt's men laughed and raised their blades to finish me off.
They thought I was just a nameless orphan they could easily erase.
The next day, they went to the press, branding me a degenerate thief who ran away, happily preparing to parade around at my grandfather's charity gala using my stolen wealth.
But they didn't know I was rescued from the rain by the most ruthless billionaire in New York, a man willing to burn the city down to protect me.
Staring at my pale reflection in the penthouse mirror, I took a pair of heavy silver scissors and chopped off my long hair.
"From today on, the weak girl is dead. I am Evelena Valenzuela, and I am going to make them bleed for every single thing they took."
8.9
I was married to billionaire Alessandro Dorsey for four years. The only person in his cold, elite family who truly cared for me was his grandfather.
But when his grandfather suddenly passed away, my husband dragged me to the freshly dug grave and threw a newspaper in my face. The headline blamed me for his death.
Before I could process the grief, Alessandro forced me to my knees in front of dozens of flashing cameras.
"Admit your negligence, or you will never see the sun rise in this city again."
He threatened to destroy my own family if I didn't publicly apologize for a crime I didn't commit. Back at the estate, his mother falsely accused me of stealing a priceless family heirloom. I begged my husband to believe me, but he just looked at me with disgust, froze all my personal bank accounts, and handed me a divorce agreement. Sign it, forfeit everything, and erase my identity, or go to prison.
I was stripped of my dignity, my money, and the man I loved. I fled New York with nothing, only to discover I was pregnant with his triplets. For years, the injustice burned in my chest. How could the man who once meant safety throw me to the wolves without a second thought?
Five years later, I stepped back into the city with my three children. This time, I wasn't the broken woman he discarded, but a powerful gemologist ready to tear down his empire.