The Coldhearted Billionaire's Violent Possession

Gisele locked herself in the nearest guest bathroom. She leaned over the marble sink, turning the gold faucet on full blast. The sound of rushing water drowned out her ragged breathing. She splashed freezing water onto her face, trying to wash away the phantom roughness of his handkerchief on her lip. He wiped his hand like I was garbage, she thought, her stomach twisting into a painful knot. She grabbed a thick cotton towel, dried her face, and stared at her reflection. Her eyes were bloodshot, her makeup slightly smudged. She looked exactly like what Constantine said she was: a desperate, pathetic mess. She pulled out her phone. The screen was cracked, but the ride-sharing app still worked. She typed in her Brooklyn address. No cars available in your area. Long Island was too far out, and the storm brewing outside was keeping drivers away. She was trapped. She had to find Channing. She had to swallow her pride, endure his temper, and beg him to have his driver take her back to the city. Gisele stepped out of the bathroom and began the long walk back toward the main entertaining areas. She chose the outer arched corridor, hoping to avoid the main crowds. The thick red carpet muffled her footsteps. As she approached a corner that opened onto a large stone terrace, she heard voices. High-pitched, perfectly modulated voices of the Manhattan elite. Gisele slowed her pace, pressing herself closer to the wall to pass unnoticed. "...did you see what she's wearing?" a woman laughed, the sound sharp and cruel. "It looks like she bought it at a mall." "I don't know why Channing keeps her around," another voice chimed in. "She's a nobody. A little Brooklyn girl trying to play dress-up." Gisele's chest tightened. She squeezed her eyes shut, preparing to walk past them and ignore the venom. "Oh, it won't last," the first woman said dismissively. "Constantine will never allow it. My husband was in a meeting with him last week, and Constantine made some off-hand comment about the 'Brooklyn parasite' Channing was keeping around. He despises her." "God, really?" the second woman giggled. "He actually noticed she exists? I heard he's so ruthless, he doesn't even see people below a certain net worth. He probably looks right through her." The words hit Gisele like a physical blow to the back of the head. It wasn't some old grudge. It was current. Active. He was talking about her in boardrooms, reducing her to a pest, a parasite. His hatred wasn't just a reaction to her presence in his home; it was a calculated, ongoing campaign. A wave of profound, sickening humiliation washed over her. Her hands shook so violently she dropped her clutch. She didn't bother picking it up. She turned blindly and practically ran down the opposite hallway, her vision blurred with hot tears. She just needed to get out. She needed air. She rounded a massive marble Roman column at full speed. She slammed face-first into a solid wall of muscle and bone. The impact knocked the breath out of her lungs. She stumbled backward, her ankles twisting in her high heels. She was going to fall hard onto the marble floor. Suddenly, a strong, heavy arm wrapped around her waist. The grip was iron-clad. It yanked her forward, pulling her flush against a hard chest. The familiar, intoxicating scent of cedar and bergamot flooded her senses. Gisele gasped, her hands flying up to press against the man's chest to steady herself. She looked up. Constantine's dark gray eyes were staring down at her. His face was inches from hers. For one split second, his eyes weren't cold. They were wide, his pupils blown wide open, his arm holding her so tightly against him that she could feel the heavy, rapid thud of his heart. Then, he looked up. Over Constantine's shoulder, Gisele saw five men in expensive suits. The senior executives of the Warner empire. They were all staring at their notoriously germaphobic, untouchable boss, who was currently holding a woman tightly in his arms. Constantine's expression morphed instantly. The brief flash of humanity vanished, replaced by a mask of absolute, freezing disdain. He released her waist so fast she almost fell again. He took a large step back, putting a cold, professional distance between them. "Watch where you are going," Constantine said. His voice was loud, flat, and completely devoid of emotion. It echoed down the hallway. The executives immediately murmured in agreement, shooting Gisele looks of intense disapproval. "I'm sorry," Gisele whispered, her face burning with shame. She looked down at the floor, unable to meet his eyes. Constantine didn't acknowledge her apology. He adjusted his cuffs, his jaw ticking. He stepped forward to walk past her. As he passed, he didn't move out of the way. His broad shoulder slammed hard into hers. The physical impact sent Gisele stumbling sideways. She had to grab the Roman column to keep from falling. As his shoulder hit hers, Constantine used the momentum to lean in, his head dropping just enough for his lips to brush the shell of her ear, his voice a lethal, vibrating whisper meant only for her. "Stop haunting my hallways like a ghost. Get out of my sight." He kept walking, his executives trailing behind him like a pack of wolves. Gisele clung to the cold marble column. Her shoulder throbbed from the impact. Her heart felt like it had been shredded into pieces. The sheer cruelty of his physical rejection in front of his staff was a masterclass in humiliation. She bit her lip, tasting the metallic tang of blood again. I will not let him break me, she told herself, her fingernails digging into the stone. One day, I will stand above him. "Miss Cooper." Gisele jumped. Channing's personal assistant, a man with a perpetually bored expression, was standing a few feet away. "Mr. Warner is waiting for you in the private lounge," the assistant said coldly. "He requests you join him immediately." Gisele took a deep, shuddering breath. She smoothed down the front of her cheap dress. She had to face Channing. She had to get the money. "Lead the way," she said, her voice hollow.