Married To The Ruthless Disgraced Billionaire

The heavy iron door of Danbury Federal Correctional Institution slammed shut behind me. The sharp metallic clang vibrated through the soles of my ill-fitting shoes, traveling straight up my spine. The harsh autumn sun hit my face, instantly blinding me. I threw my hand up to shield my eyes, a wave of intense vertigo making my stomach pitch. "Move it," a guard barked. He shoved a clear plastic bag of my personal belongings into my chest. The sharp, heat-sealed edge of the plastic sliced across the back of my hand. A thin line of blood welled up. The sting was sharp, but I bit down hard on my lower lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. I looked down through the cheap plastic. One outdated dress. A twenty-dollar bill. That was it. That was the sum total of my existence. A massive, suffocating weight dropped onto my chest, squeezing my lungs until I couldn't pull in a full breath. I scanned the empty visitor parking lot. The asphalt was cracked and vacant. No sleek black town cars. No Schroeder family driver waiting with a polite nod. Nothing. The cold realization seeped into my bones, freezing me from the inside out. I was entirely, utterly abandoned. A biting autumn wind whipped across the lot, slicing right through the thin fabric of my dress. I wrapped my arms tightly around my ribs, trying to hold my own body heat, but violent shivers wracked my frame. I started walking. The Greyhound bus station was two miles away. With every step, the stiff leather of my old shoes ground into my heels. Blisters formed and popped, sending shooting, white-hot pain up my calves. I pulled out my outdated cell phone, my fingers stiff and clumsy from the cold. I dialed the number of the woman I used to call my best friend. The screen lit up, casting a pathetic glow, before an automated voice informed me the number had been disconnected. My thumb hovered over the keypad. I killed the screen. The last thread of my fantasy snapped. A sleek silver sedan slowed down as it drove past me on the shoulder. The passenger window rolled down, and a woman in designer sunglasses peered out. I recognized her vaguely from the country club my family used to own. She pulled her phone out, snapping a quick photo of my pathetic, shivering state, a cruel, mocking smirk twisting her lips before the car sped off. The blatant humiliation cut deeper than the cold, a stark reminder that I was nothing but a spectacle to the world I once belonged to. I stopped walking. I closed my eyes, took a ragged breath, and forced the burning sensation in my tear ducts to recede. Crying was a luxury I couldn't afford. When I finally limped up to the ticket counter, the clerk took one look at my damp, ruined dress and my bruised face. His upper lip curled in obvious disgust. I lowered the brim of my cheap cap, the humiliation burning my cheeks like acid. I took the very last seat on the bus. The man next to me reeked of stale beer and unwashed clothes. The pungent smell made bile rise in my throat. I turned my head away, burying my nose deep into the collar of my damp dress, breathing through the thin fabric just to filter the foul air. The Manhattan skyline eventually bled into view. The towering glass monoliths of Wall Street pierced the gray clouds. Memories of charity galas and penthouse suites-my life before the fraud conviction-flashed behind my eyes. A dull, suffocating ache bloomed in the center of my chest. As the bus crawled through Times Square, a massive digital billboard flashed red. Breaking news. "KAYDEN WASHINGTON OUSTED FROM BOARD OF DIRECTORS." My eyes snapped wide open. My pupils dilated. The screen showed raw footage of Kayden, the untouchable heir to the Washington empire, being physically dragged out of his own building by security guards. His suit was rumpled. His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. A harsh, cynical laugh scraped its way out of my throat. The universe had a sick sense of humor. The bus hissed to a stop at a rundown downtown terminal. I grabbed my plastic bag and pushed my way off. The dense crowd of commuters slammed their shoulders into me, knocking me backward. I stumbled, barely catching my balance. I found a cheap motel two blocks away. The lobby smelled like bleach and despair. "Credit card for the authorization hold," the bored clerk demanded, not looking up. I dug into my pocket, my fingers brushing against lint, and pulled out the crumpled twenty-dollar bill. "Cash only," I rasped. The clerk finally looked up. His eyes hardened. "Get out before I call the cops." He shooed me out the glass doors just as the sky ripped open. A torrential downpour hit the pavement. Within seconds, my clothes were plastered to my skin. The cold was agonizing. I ducked under the rotting awning of a corner store. My shaking fingers reached up to my neck, tracing the cold metal of my silver cross necklace. The only thing of value I had left. My stomach cramped violently with hunger. I pushed off the brick wall and walked into the pawn shop next door, the neon 'OPEN' sign buzzing like an angry hornet. The owner leaned over the glass counter. His greedy eyes scanned the necklace, then trailed down my soaked, clinging dress. He threw out a number so insultingly low it felt like a physical slap to the face. "It's worth ten times that," I said, my voice shaking with cold and fury. He tossed the necklace back onto the scratched glass. "Take it or leave it, sweetheart." I swallowed the massive lump of pride lodged in my throat. My eyes burned. I took the few crumpled bills he handed me and walked out into the rain. The moment I stepped into the dark alley beside the shop, three men stepped out from the shadows. The glowing cherry of a cigarette illuminated their malicious grins. Their eyes were locked on the cash in my hand. I shoved the money down the front of my bra. I backed up until my spine hit the slick, wet brick wall. I dropped into a defensive stance. Five years in federal prison had stripped away the heiress and left an animal. The leader lunged, his filthy hand reaching for the collar of my dress. I didn't hesitate. I drove my knee upward with brutal force, connecting directly with his groin. He let out a strangled, high-pitched scream and collapsed onto the wet asphalt, vomiting. The other two men froze, then their faces twisted in rage. The sharp snick of switchblades echoed in the narrow alley. The steel caught the dim streetlights. I clenched my fists so hard my fingernails broke the skin of my palms. Warm blood pooled in my hands. Suddenly, a massive black Range Rover slammed on its brakes, sending a wave of dirty puddle water over the thugs' boots. The blinding high beams flipped on, washing the alley in harsh white light. The driver's side door flew open. A wild-haired man leaped out. I didn't know him, but he moved with a terrifying, manic energy. He was swinging a titanium golf club and laughing hysterically, a sound that echoed off the brick walls like a warning siren. The thugs took one look at the crazy man with the club and bolted down the alley. The tinted rear window of the SUV rolled down with a smooth mechanical hum. Kayden Washington sat in the shadows. His face was a mask of dark, brooding aggression. His deep-set eyes locked onto me, tracking my rapid breathing like a predator analyzing wounded prey. "You're going to freeze to death out here," Kayden said. His voice was a low, gravelly rumble that cut right through the sound of the pouring rain. He reached out the window. Pinched between his index and middle finger was a white plastic keycard. "I need a shield for the media," he said, his tone leaving absolutely no room for negotiation. "You need a roof." I stared at the keycard. The rain plastered my hair to my face. My lungs burned. I stepped forward and snatched the card from his fingers. The sharp plastic edge dragged across the fresh cut on my palm, sending a jolt of pain up my arm. I watched the red taillights of the Range Rover disappear into the storm. I gripped the card tightly. If I was going to survive, I had to make a deal with the devil.