Falling For My Cold Billionaire Captor

The Lincoln glided to a smooth stop. The driver opened the door, and Azura stepped out. She lifted the hem of her ocean-blue velvet gown, her low-heeled velvet pumps pressing gingerly onto the red carpet. Every step sent a dull, throbbing ache through the bandages wrapped around her injured foot, but she forced her expression into stillness and walked with a carefully controlled limp, disguising the pain as a measured, elegant stride. A barrage of camera flashes exploded in the distance. The blinding white light made Azura squint. Her stomach tightened with anxiety. She quickly lowered her head and hurried toward the shadowed VIP entrance, favoring her good leg. Gus Pollock looked up from his tablet. The moment he saw Azura, his panicked expression vanished, replaced by sheer relief. He practically sprinted toward her. “Number 42? Thank God,” Gus said, speaking a mile a minute. He grabbed her elbow and started pulling her toward a private elevator. “There’s been a massive change of plans. The client’s fiancée, Cecelia Alford, called the agency personally and demanded we swap the original girl for you. Said you’d be a perfect fit for her future husband. I don’t know the drama, I just know you’re up.” Azura dug her heels into the carpet, resisting his pull. “Wait. Cecelia? Cecelia Alford arranged this?” “Someone you do not want to piss off,” Gus hissed, his face pale. “Just smile, look pretty, and don’t speak unless spoken to. Let’s go!” He shoved her into the elevator. When the doors opened on the second floor, he dragged her down a quiet, thickly carpeted hallway and stopped in front of a heavy, carved wooden door. Gus quickly smoothed out the back of her dress, gave her a thumbs-up, and knocked twice before opening the door and pushing her inside. A thick cloud of expensive cologne mixed with the sharp scent of whiskey hit Azura’s face. She looked up. Her heart stopped dead in her chest. Standing in the center of the luxurious waiting room, wearing a flashy, dark-red velvet suit and holding a crystal glass of bourbon, was Colby Mcintosh. Colby looked up. The arrogant, bored smirk on his face instantly froze. His hand jerked, nearly spilling the amber liquid over his suit. Azura’s pupils dilated in pure horror. The guy from the garage. The guy who wanted her thrown in Rikers Island. She spun around instantly, her hand slamming onto the brass door handle. She didn’t care about the hundred dollars an hour. She would rather starve than spend another second near this psycho. Colby reacted with lightning speed. He dropped his glass onto a table, lunged forward, and grabbed Azura’s bare wrist. His grip was bruising. He yanked her backward into the room and kicked the heavy door shut with his foot. Outside, Gus heard the slam, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and walked away, assuming the VIP was eager. Inside the room, Azura violently ripped her arm out of Colby’s grasp. “Are you out of your mind?” she spat, her chest heaving. “Did Cecelia set this up to humiliate me?” Colby held up both hands, his eyes wide. “Hold on. I ordered a blonde Victoria’s Secret model. Why the hell is my fiancée’s pet charity case standing in my waiting room?” Azura turned back to the door, twisting the handle frantically. It wouldn’t budge. It was electronically locked from the outside. Colby watched her struggle, a slow, malicious grin spreading across his face. He walked over to a velvet sofa and sat down, crossing his legs. His eyes raked over her body, taking in the tight blue dress and her exposed back. “You know,” Colby whistled softly, “you look a lot better in that dress than you did in that trashy jacket.” “Open the door,” Azura demanded, her voice shaking with rage. Colby picked up his whiskey. “Here’s the deal. You play my date tonight. You smile, you nod, and you make me look good for the cameras. Do that, and we part ways. No more drama.” “Your terrifying uncle already dropped the charges. You have nothing on me,” Azura shot back, her eyes narrowing. Colby’s smile vanished. His eyes turned cold. “I know you go to Columbia. I know you’re on a full scholarship. You walk out that door and embarrass me tonight, and I will personally ensure the Dean receives a detailed report about a scholarship student working as a paid escort. How do you think the disciplinary board handles moral turpitude? Try me.” The threat hit Azura like a physical punch to the gut. Her education was her only way out of the slums. It was her life. Her fingernails dug into the soft fabric of her clutch. She closed her eyes, fighting the bile rising in her throat. When she opened them, they were dead and cold. “Don’t touch me. Not once.” Colby smirked, standing up. He walked over and bent his arm, offering it to her. “Hook your arm, sweetheart. It’s showtime.” Azura felt physically sick. She raised her hand, covered in a delicate lace glove, and rested it as lightly as possible on his forearm. Her body was rigid as a board. The electronic lock clicked. The double doors swung open. The grand ballroom of the Met Gala was a sea of blinding gold light, crystal chandeliers, and a classical orchestra playing a sweeping waltz. The moment Colby stepped out, hundreds of eyes snapped toward them. Whispers erupted instantly. Socialites and billionaires stared at the stunning, unknown girl on the arm of the Mcintosh heir. Azura felt like a piece of meat on a butcher’s block. She kept her spine painfully straight, her face an emotionless mask, ignoring the searing pulse in her foot with every poised step. Above them, on the second-floor VIP wraparound balcony, Hunter Mcintosh stood in the shadows. He was holding a martini glass. His dark, predatory eyes scanned the crowd below and instantly locked onto Azura. When he saw her small, gloved hand resting on his nephew’s arm, Hunter’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ground together. His fingers tightened around the delicate stem of the martini glass until his knuckles turned completely white.