Healed By The Ruthless Billionaire's Touch
Chapter 2
Abigail sat in the driver's seat of her Porsche.
Her hands gripped the leather steering wheel so hard her knuckles turned a stark, bone-white.
The phone on the passenger seat vibrated. The screen lit up.
Preston.
Bile rose in the back of her throat. Her stomach twisted into a violent knot. The urge to vomit was overwhelming.
She closed her eyes. She forced her facial muscles to relax. She took a deep, shuddering breath.
She tapped the speaker button.
"Hey, beautiful," Preston's voice filled the car. It was smooth, warm, and sickeningly gentle. "How was the trip? Did you land the investment?"
Abigail swallowed the acid in her throat.
"Everything went perfectly," she said. Her voice was steady. Professional. "I'm on my way back to the office right now."
"Wait, don't come in just yet," Preston interrupted. His tone shifted. It became urgent.
"Why?"
"I need a massive favor. You need to call Julian Finch. Right now."
Abigail stared at the dashboard. Julian Finch was Hollywood's most elusive director. He was her personal contact.
"Julian is casting for 'Echoes of the Dark'," Preston continued. "Lorelai needs that lead role, Abigail. You have to make it happen."
Abigail let three seconds of dead silence pass.
"Preston, Lorelai doesn't have the acting chops for a Finch movie. It's a heavy drama. She'll be eaten alive on set."
Preston's voice dropped an octave. The warmth vanished. The manipulative, authoritative edge bled through.
"She is my sister, Abigail. She is family. And soon, she'll be your family, too. We don't hold back resources from family."
The scar on Abigail's left cheek pulsed with a sharp, stabbing pain.
She looked up at the rearview mirror. She stared at the jagged, angry red tissue that ruined her face.
A cold smile stretched across her lips.
"Fine," Abigail said. "But a favor from Julian costs. Are you willing to give up ten percent of the company's backend profits for the fourth quarter to secure this?"
"Yes," Preston answered instantly. He didn't even hesitate.
"That's a lot of money, Preston."
"I don't care," he snapped. "As long as Lorelai gets what she wants, I'll pay whatever it takes. Just get it done."
The absolute desperation in his voice solidified everything. Lorelai was his priority. Abigail was just a tool.
The ice in her veins froze solid.
"Okay," Abigail softened her voice, faking a sigh of defeat. "I'll go see Julian this afternoon."
"You're the best, Abby. Truly. The perfect partner."
Before the call disconnected, Abigail heard a faint, breathy giggle in the background.
The line went dead.
The silence in the car was suffocating.
Abigail slammed her foot down on the gas pedal.
The Porsche roared to life, tearing down the Los Angeles freeway. She rolled the windows down. The wind whipped her hair across her face, stinging her cheeks.
She pulled into the private garage of her apartment building.
She walked through her front door and hurled her car keys onto the entryway console. They hit the wood with a loud crack.
She marched straight to the liquor cabinet.
She grabbed a bottle of neat whiskey, poured a generous measure into a crystal glass, and threw it back.
The alcohol burned a fiery trail down her throat. It numbed the shaking in her hands.
She walked over to the marble kitchen island. She pulled the silver USB drive from her pocket and set it down.
It sat there, gleaming under the pendant lights. A loaded gun.
She opened her laptop.
She navigated to the internal PR coordination portal for the Star Awards.
As the senior crisis consultant for the event, she had a backdoor login credential to the live broadcast routing system.
She pulled up the minute-by-minute run of show.
Her eyes scanned the spreadsheet until they locked onto the 9:45 PM slot.
Best Actress in a Leading Role.
Lorelai Thorne was the frontrunner.
The corner of Abigail's mouth twitched upward.
She opened the administrative broadcast terminal. As the senior crisis consultant for the event, she possessed the emergency override credentials designed to cut the feed in case of a live disaster. She didn't need to write complex code; she just needed to redirect the feed. Her fingers began to fly across the keys, re-routing the emergency broadcast protocol to pull from the hidden video file she had just uploaded. She set a delayed execution timer.
She was going to give them the biggest audience they had ever had.
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