Reborn Heiress: Claimed By The Ruthless Boss

The November wind slashed across the Manhattan streets like a razor. Giana pulled the oversized coat tight around her chest and pushed through the glass doors of a 24-hour CVS pharmacy. She walked straight past the makeup aisles. She ignored the cashier's stare. She stopped at the family planning section, grabbed a box of Plan B, and walked to the register. She paid with a crumpled twenty-dollar bill. As soon as she stepped back onto the sidewalk, she ripped the cardboard box open. She popped the pill out of the foil, tossed it into her mouth, and swallowed it dry. The pill scratched the back of her throat. She coughed, but a massive weight lifted off her chest. She was done with him. Across the street, parked in the shadows, a black armored SUV sat idling. Dave Ortiz lowered his camera lens. He pressed the button on his encrypted earpiece. Inside the glass-walled boardroom at the top of Stark Tower, Cornel sat at the head of a massive oak table. A senior VP was sweating through a presentation on quarterly margins. Cornel's phone vibrated against the wood. He glanced at the screen. Dave. Cornel held up one hand. The VP stopped talking instantly. Cornel answered the call. "Boss," Dave's voice came through the speaker. "She went into a pharmacy. Bought Plan B. Swallowed it on the sidewalk." Cornel's fingers tightened around his custom fountain pen. The metal casing snapped. The sharp edge sliced into his palm, and black ink bled all over the financial reports in front of him. A violent, blinding rage ripped through his chest. It felt like someone had poured gasoline on his lungs and lit a match. He stood up so fast his heavy leather chair screeched backward across the floor. "Meeting canceled," he said. The executives stared at him in terrified silence. Cornel walked out of the room without looking back. Twenty minutes later, Cornel sat in the back of his Maybach. His stomach cramped. His jaw ached from grinding his teeth. He ripped his tie off and threw it on the floorboard. "Take me to Nightingale," he told the driver. Inside the VIP room of Manhattan's most exclusive club, the manager lined up five top-tier models. Cornel sat on the leather sofa, holding a glass of whiskey. He stared at the women. They were beautiful. They meant absolutely nothing to him. A blonde woman in a tight red dress stepped forward. A heavy wave of Chanel No. 5 hit Cornel's nose. "Mr. Stark..." she purred. She reached out, placing her hand with long red nails onto his thigh. The second her skin touched his pants, Cornel's stomach violently heaved. A wave of pure, physical nausea shot up his throat. "Get off me!" he roared. He swung his arm out, striking her shoulder. The woman flew backward, crashing into the glass coffee table. The table shattered. Whiskey and glass exploded across the floor. The other women screamed and backed against the wall. Cornel clamped a hand over his mouth. He stumbled out of the room and kicked open the door to the private restroom. He turned on the faucet and splashed freezing water onto his face. He gripped the edges of the sink, breathing hard. He looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot. He couldn't stand the touch of another woman. His body was physically rejecting them. He was completely addicted to the girl who had just swallowed a pill to erase him. He pulled his fist back and punched the mirror. The glass spider-webbed outward. Blood dripped from his knuckles into the white porcelain sink. The bathroom door opened. Dave walked in and stopped. He looked at the broken glass and the blood. "Boss..." Dave held out a clean towel. Cornel ignored the towel. He let his blood drip. His gray eyes were dead and focused. "Did you get a name?" Cornel asked. His voice was terrifyingly calm. "Yes. Giana Caldwell. The adopted daughter of the Caldwell family." Cornel repeated the name in his head. A dark, twisted smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. "Tell the team," Cornel said. "I am taking over every aspect of her life."