Pampered By The Heartless Billionaire Monster

Bridget stood before the heavy mahogany door of the Baccarat Hotel suite. She pulled the spare keycard from her purse-the one he had given her for emergencies-and pressed it against the sensor. The green light flashed, and she pushed it open. The air inside smelled of expensive champagne and unfamiliar sweat. She took one step onto the thick carpet, and her heel caught on something soft. She looked down. A piece of black lace underwear lay discarded on the floor. It was not hers. A sharp cramp seized her stomach. The sound of heavy breathing and a woman's high-pitched moan echoed from the half-open bedroom door down the hall. Bridget's teeth sank into her lower lip until she tasted copper. She forced her legs to move, walking toward the sounds. She shoved the bedroom door wide open. The dim light from the bedside lamp illuminated the massive king bed. David, the man who had promised to marry her, was tangled in the sheets with a blonde woman. Bridget's fingernails dug so deeply into her palms that the skin broke. David froze. He turned his head and saw Bridget standing in the doorway. He did not jump out of bed in a panic. Instead, he slowly pulled the white hotel bathrobe over his shoulders, his face completely calm. The blonde woman screamed and pulled the duvet over her chest. Bridget raised her phone. Her thumb hit the capture button repeatedly. The harsh flash pierced the dim room, lighting up David's exposed chest and the messy bed. David lunged forward, reaching for the phone. "Give me that." Bridget stepped to the side. His hand grabbed empty air. She stared at him, her chest rising and falling rapidly. The coldness in her blood made her fingertips completely numb. David's face turned red with anger. He rubbed his nose, a habit he always had when he was caught in a lie, but this time his voice was full of mockery. "Stop acting so pure, Bridget. You are just an illegitimate daughter the Vincent family could throw away at any second. You need this marriage more than I do." The word hit her like a physical blow to the ribs. Her vision blurred for a second. The rational string in her brain snapped. She raised her right hand and slapped him across the face with all her strength. The sharp smack echoed in the room. David stumbled back, holding his cheek, cursing loudly. Bridget looked at the three-carat diamond engagement ring on her finger. It was a heavy, expensive symbol of a future she now realized was a complete lie. Instead of throwing it in a fit of rage, she slowly and deliberately slid the cold metal over her knuckle. She placed it carefully on the edge of the mahogany nightstand, the diamond catching the dim light. "The engagement is over." She turned around and walked out of the suite. Her steps were fast and heavy. The heavy door slammed shut behind her, cutting off the disgusting smell of the room. She walked into the empty elevator and pressed the lobby button. The metal doors closed. Bridget leaned her back against the cold mirror. Her chest tightened until her lungs burned for air. The tears she had forced down finally spilled over her eyelashes, hot and fast. The elevator descended. She wiped her face roughly with the back of her hand. She pulled a compact from her purse and fixed her red lipstick. She would never let anyone see her bleed. The elevator chimed and opened on the ground floor. Bridget walked straight into the hotel's crystal-lit bar. She sat on a leather stool in the darkest corner. The bartender handed her a menu. "A dry martini. Make it a double." She needed the alcohol to burn the image of that bedroom out of her brain. She took a large sip when the glass arrived. The liquid burned her throat. A man in an impeccably tailored suit, but with drunk, unfocused eyes, slid onto the stool next to her. He smelled of overpowering, expensive whiskey and arrogant entitlement. He leaned in close, trying to put his hand on her bare shoulder. "Get away from me." The man laughed, his breath hitting her neck. He reached out to touch her cheek. A large, pale hand suddenly clamped down on the man's wrist. A faint cracking sound of bone shifting followed. Bridget looked up along the dark fabric of the suit sleeve. She met a pair of deep, storm-gray eyes. "Get lost." Damond Oneill did not raise his voice. He did not have to. The absolute authority in his tone made the drunk man turn pale. The man ripped his arm away and stumbled out of the bar without looking back. Damond sat in the empty seat. He adjusted his left cufflink with long, precise fingers. He ordered a whiskey. "Thank you." Bridget kept her distance, her hand rubbing the skin of her collarbone. Damond picked up his glass and tapped it gently against hers. His eyes slowly dragged down her neck to her lips. The look was entirely predatory. The alcohol rushed to Bridget's head. She looked at the incredibly handsome man sitting next to her. A sudden, destructive urge took over her body. She wanted to erase David's touch. She wanted to prove she was not just a piece of trash to be discarded. She leaned closer to Damond. The scent of cedar and cold mint filled her nose. "Are you alone tonight?" Damond's gray eyes darkened instantly. He set his glass down on the marble counter. His hand shot out, gripping her waist, pulling her flush against his side. "You are playing with fire." Bridget tilted her head up. She looked straight into his eyes. "I am not afraid." Damond's jaw tightened. He stood up, pulling her with him. He did not say another word as he led her through the private back hallway of the bar, straight to the VIP elevator. The doors opened to the penthouse suite. Before Bridget could take a breath, Damond pushed her back against the heavy wooden door. His mouth crashed down on hers. The kiss was punishing, deep, and completely stripped her of oxygen. Bridget kissed him back with desperate clumsy energy. Her hands grabbed the front of his custom shirt. She pulled hard. Two buttons popped off and hit the floor. Damond picked her up by the thighs. He carried her across the room and threw her onto the massive bed. His large body covered hers, pressing her deep into the mattress. The cold night of Manhattan outside the floor-to-ceiling windows blurred into streaks of light. Bridget closed her eyes, letting the physical pain and pleasure drown out the absolute despair of her reality. When she opened her eyes again, the room was filled with morning sunlight. The space beside her in the bed was empty. The sheets were cold. Bridget sat up, her body aching. On the nightstand, resting on top of a folded piece of hotel stationery, was a solid black credit card with no name on it. Next to it was a handwritten note in sharp, aggressive ink. Buy yourself a new dress. You ruined yours.