Reborn To Love My Wheelchair Billionaire

Orville shoved Aubree hard into her bedroom. She stumbled forward as the solid wood door slammed shut behind her with a deafening thud. Click. The sharp sound of the lock turning echoed in the room. Trapped. Aubree threw herself at the door, slamming her palms against the wood. "Dad, please! Let me out!" she screamed. The only answer was the sound of his heavy footsteps fading down the hallway. Her legs gave out. She slid down the door to the floor, her soaked nightgown clinging to her shivering skin. Through the crack under the door, the muffled voices of two maids drifted in. "Did you hear? The head butler was on the phone. Mr. Phillips' private jet is prepped. He's leaving New York tonight. For good." The words struck Aubree like a physical blow. She shot up from the floor. She ran to the nightstand and grabbed her phone. The screen lit up. She checked the date and time. Ezra's flight was in less than two hours. There was no time to wait for her father to calm down. She turned to the large French windows and yanked the heavy velvet curtains open. The rain was coming down in sheets, but her eyes locked onto the sturdy ivy trellis bolted to the brick wall just below her window. An escape route. She stripped off her wet nightgown, her movements swift and purposeful. She pulled open her closet and grabbed a black hoodie and tight jeans. She shoved her feet into a pair of combat boots with thick rubber soles. Practical. Durable. She pushed the window open. The freezing wind blasted into the room. Aubree took a deep breath, swung her leg over the sill, and grabbed the wet iron of the trellis. The metal was freezing. The wind whipped at her, but she carefully lowered her foot onto the next rung and started to climb down. The rain blinded her. Halfway down, her boot slipped. Her body dropped. A short gasp escaped her lips as her hands clamped down on the iron bar, knuckles turning white. Flakes of rust sliced into her palms, but she didn't let go. She bit her lip, found her footing again, and climbed faster. When she was about six feet from the ground, she let go. She landed hard in the soft, muddy flowerbed. Ignoring the ache in her knees, she stayed low, using the dark bushes as cover as she moved toward the side gate. She peeked out. Gus McCoy was in the main guardhouse, sipping coffee, his back to her. Holding her breath, she scrambled over the low stone wall and dropped onto the public sidewalk. She ran down the empty street, pulling out her phone and opening the Uber app, her fingers shaking but steady enough. Ten minutes later, a black SUV pulled up. She yanked the door open and threw herself into the backseat. "The Phillips building. Upper East Side. Please hurry," she told the driver. The neon lights of New York blurred past the rain-streaked window. Aubree didn't wring her hands; she sat perfectly still, her mind racing, planning her words. The SUV finally pulled into the private underground garage of the Phillips building. Aubree threw a hundred-dollar bill at the front seat and jumped out. She ran toward the private elevator. Several men in black uniforms were loading massive suitcases into a transport van. Standing by the elevator doors was Kai Bishop, Ezra's personal bodyguard. Aubree ran straight toward him. Kai turned. He saw Aubree, covered in mud, her hair a wet mess. His eyes instantly darkened with pure disgust. He stepped sideways, physically blocking the elevator doors.