One Night With The Unstable Billionaire

Arla sat in the back of the speeding cab, her hands locked together in her lap. Her fingernails dug so deeply into her own palms that the skin threatened to break. Outside the window, the wealthy estates of Long Island blurred past in the heavy rain. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, painful rhythm. The image of Caden's small, bruised body lying on the basement floor played on a loop behind her eyelids. She snatched her phone from her clutch and tapped the screen. Eleven-fifteen. The timeline was exact. In her previous life, this was the exact hour Blair had used the excuse of "checking his homework" to drag Caden up to the old attic storage room. The cab slammed on its brakes, jerking Arla forward as it stopped outside the massive wrought-iron gates of the Sargent estate. Arla didn't wait for the driver to speak. She shoved the door open and ran straight into the torrential downpour. She ignored the brightly lit main entrance. Her feet knew the hidden paths of this prison perfectly. She slipped behind the perfectly manicured hedges, moving silently toward the servant's entrance on the west wing. Years of walking on eggshells in this house had taught her how to survive. She pressed her back against the wet brick wall, waiting for the security guard's flashlight beam to sweep past, before darting forward. She pushed the heavy side door. It was unlocked, just as she remembered. But tonight, she had a head start. Clinton was still in the city, whatever his "meetings" really were. Blair thought she had hours before anyone would discover her. That was the key—Blair was acting alone right now, following whatever twisted ritual she'd developed, confident that no one would interrupt her. Not tonight. Not ever again. Arla slipped into the dark, narrow hallway. Water dripped from her ruined dress, leaving small puddles on the hardwood floor. She bent down, unbuckling her high heels and pulling them off. She gripped them in one hand. Her bare feet hit the freezing marble of the main corridor. She moved like a ghost, completely silent as she climbed the back staircase to the second floor. At the end of the main hall, the double doors to her adoptive parents' master suite were shut tight. Arla slowed her breathing. She crept toward the sharp corner that led to the old attic storage room. The heavy oak door was cracked open just an inch. A sickly, yellow light spilled out onto the hallway carpet. Arla pressed her shoulder against the wall. Her heart stopped beating. Her ears strained, picking up a sound that made her stomach violently twist. It was a tiny, muffled whimper. The sound of a small animal in agonizing pain. The blood in Arla's veins turned to absolute ice. Her pupils dilated, consuming her irises in pure, murderous rage. She slid closer to the gap in the door and looked inside. The storage room was choked with dust and broken furniture. Shoved into the furthest corner was Caden. He was wearing his thin cotton pajamas. His tiny knees were pulled up to his chest. His small hands were clamped tightly over his own mouth to muffle his cries, his massive eyes overflowing with terrified tears. Standing over him, with her back to the door, was Blair Sargent. She wore a pristine silk robe. Pinched between Blair's perfectly manicured fingers was a five-inch, heavy metal sewing needle. It glinted under the harsh bulb. Blair smiled. It was a twisted, sick expression. She took a step closer to the cornered child. "Why are you even in this house?" Blair hissed, her voice dripping with venom. "You don't even know who your father is. You're just a little bastard." Caden shook violently. His hands gripped the fabric of his pajama shirt, pulling it tight as he shook his head, too terrified to make a sound. Blair's hand shot out. She grabbed the collar of Caden's shirt and violently yanked him forward. Caden let out a sharp gasp as his bare knees slammed hard against the rough wooden floorboards. Blair raised the massive needle high in the air, aiming the sharp point directly at the soft flesh of Caden's arm. Her eyes lit up with a sadistic thrill. Outside the door, the last thread of Arla's sanity snapped. The hatred from her past life boiled over into a physical, burning need to destroy. She turned her head. Resting on the hallway console table was a heavy, solid silver letter opener.