Rejected Heiress And The Ruthless CEO

The fifty-year-old, smoky Lagavulin burned like liquid fire as it slid down Krista Cain's throat. She sat in the darkest corner of The Obsidian Room, an exclusive, high-end jazz lounge, her fingers gripping the heavy crystal tumbler so hard her knuckles turned a stark, bone white. The heavy bass from the speakers vibrated violently against her ribs, but it couldn't drown out the frantic, shallow gasps tearing through her lungs. Every time she blinked, the nightmare from three hours ago flashed behind her eyelids. She saw the mahogany table in the Cain family estate. She heard the heavy, sickening thud of the DNA report hitting the wood. "Fatimah is the true bloodline." Warren Cain's voice had been as cold as a morgue slab, while Beatrice Cain, her adoptive mother, had simply stood beside him, her perfectly manicured hands resting on her silk dress, her silence a brutal, suffocating wall of complicity. "You are nothing but a mistake." The words had physically struck her. She had stumbled backward, her heel catching the edge of the Persian rug. The antique Ming vase had shattered against the marble floor with a deafening crash, leaving her standing in the wreckage of her twenty-year identity. She had run. She had fled to the garden, the freezing rain soaking her designer dress, desperate to find Dannie Rowland. Her fiancé. Her last anchor. Instead, she found him standing behind the floor-to-ceiling windows of the conservatory, a glass of bourbon in his hand, laughing with his friends. "Marry a fake?" Dannie's sneer had pierced right through the thick glass and the pouring rain. "I don't collect the Cain family's second-hand trash." Her dignity had snapped. The physical pain in her chest was so sharp it stole her breath. She had shoved the glass doors open, the storm blowing in with her. Dannie's laugh had died instantly. His eyes widened in caught panic. Krista didn't speak. She marched up to him, raised her hand, and slapped him across the face. The crack of her palm against his cheek echoed like a gunshot in the silent room. Her fingers trembled as she ripped the massive pink diamond engagement ring off her finger. She hurled it directly at his chest. "We are done." She had turned and walked back into the storm, leaving the ring in the dirt. Now, the bartender slid a fresh pour of the expensive whiskey across the polished marble bar, snapping her back to the deafening reality of the club. Krista reached for the glass. A single drop of water-maybe rain, maybe a tear-fell from her eyelash and splashed against the back of her trembling hand. Her vision blurred heavily from the alcohol. The room spun in a sickening circle. "Hey, gorgeous. You look lonely." The heavy scent of spilled spirits and an aggressively strong, overpowering cologne hit her face before the man did. A heavy, sweaty hand clamped down hard on her bare shoulder. Her stomach churned violently. Bile rose in her throat. "Don't touch me," Krista choked out. She shoved his hand away with all her remaining strength and stumbled out of the bar stool. She needed air. She needed to run. She spun toward the exit, but her stiletto caught on the edge of a thick velvet rug. Gravity vanished. She pitched forward, bracing for the bone-crushing impact against the polished mahogany floorboards. It never came. She crashed into a wall of solid muscle. A sharp, clean scent of cedar and expensive musk flooded her senses, instantly cutting through the stench of the bar. A low grunt vibrated against her ear. Two arms, thick and hard like steel cables, clamped around her waist, catching her effortlessly. Krista blinked her heavy eyes, tilting her head back. Through the flashing neon strobe lights, she saw a razor-sharp jawline. The man looked down. The moment his pitch-black eyes locked onto her face, his pupils dilated so fast it was almost violent. The drunk guy stumbled forward, reaching for Krista. "Hey, she's with-" The man holding Krista didn't even turn his head. He simply lifted his gaze. The sheer, terrifying aura of a predator radiated from him. The drunk froze, the color draining from his face, and he scrambled backward into the crowd. Krista's brain completely shut down. The alcohol hijacked her nervous system. Her hands reached up, her fingers twisting into the expensive fabric of his bespoke suit lapels. She stood on her tiptoes, pressing her feverish cheek against the cool, pulsing skin of his neck. She rubbed against him like a stray cat seeking warmth. The man went entirely rigid. His Adam's apple bobbed hard against her forehead. His breathing, previously calm, turned ragged and scorching hot against her hair. He didn't push her away. Instead, he bent his knees, scooped her up into his arms, and carried her straight toward the VIP exit. The cold night air hit her face as he carried her out to the alley. A black, bulletproof Maybach sat idling at the curb. He slid her into the backseat and climbed in after her. The heavy door slammed shut, cutting off the noise of the world completely.