The Runaway Bride And The Disabled Billionaire

Constance, hovering by the door, feigned a delicate gasp. "Daddy? What happened?"

Preston's head snapped toward her, his eyes narrowed. "Warren Travis's son was attacked tonight. Stabbed in the neck. Stabbed in the neck. By Ana. The Travises are threatening to pull out of the merger."

Constance’s eyes widened in practiced shock, her hand flying to her mouth. "No! That's impossible! Ana wouldn't..."

"Don't play innocent with me, Constance," Preston sneered. "I know you arranged for her to be at his hotel. What kind of idiotic plan was that?"

Tears welled in her eyes. "Daddy, I was only trying to help! For the family! I never thought she would be so violent!"

Preston paced the length of the Persian rug, his hands clenched behind his back. He wasn't buying it.

"Amateur," he spat. "You've put the entire deal in jeopardy." His gaze swiveled, finding its true target. "Where is she? Where is that goddamn bastard child?"

As if on cue, a soft knock came at the door. The butler, Arthur Finch, entered, his face impassive. "Sir. Miss Anastasia has returned."

A cruel smile touched Preston's lips. "Send her in."

Ana walked into the study, her head held high. The sight of her father's rage and Constance's triumphant smirk was suffocatingly familiar.

She was the Kirk family's bastard. An inconvenient secret.

From the time she could walk, Constance and Veronica had made her life a living hell—sharp words, sharper nails, cold dinners and colder stares. And her father? He had seen it all. He had never once intervened.

When she was thirteen, he had shipped her off to a boarding school in Switzerland. Twelve years.

Twelve years without a single phone call. Not one question about whether she was alive or dead, happy or broken.

Then, five days ago, his call had finally come. I'm dying, he had said. Come home. I need to see you one last time.

She had rushed back.

She had actually believed him.

Only to discover the truth: the company was bleeding money, and her father needed her to marry Cory Travis—a man whose name was synonymous with scandal, a predator who had left a trail of ruined women in his wake.

She was nothing more than a bargaining chip.

"What did you do to Cory Travis?" Preston roared. "Are you trying to ruin this family?"

Ana's voice was calm. "I defended myself against a man who tried to assault me. Was that wrong?"

"Defended yourself?" he bellowed, his face turning a blotchy red. "He is your fiancé! You are to be his wife! You had no right!"

A cold wave of disappointment washed through her. She had told herself not to expect anything from this man. She had told herself she was past hoping.

But still—still—the words cut deep.

"Perhaps you should ask your daughter what sort of 'situation' she orchestrated," Ana said, her gaze flicking to Constance.

"She's lying, Daddy!"

Preston didn't care about the truth. He cared about the consequences.

He jabbed a finger in Ana's direction. "You will go to the Travis estate. You will get on your knees and beg Cory for his forgiveness."

Ana's spine went rigid. She met his furious gaze without flinching. "I did nothing wrong. I will not apologize."

Her quiet defiance was a trait he despised. A lifetime of resentment boiled over.

"You will do as you are told," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous level. "You will marry Cory Travis."

A bitter laugh escaped Ana's lips. "And if I refuse?"

Preston's face twisted. He took a step toward her, his large frame blocking the light.

"Then I will break your legs," he snarled, "and I will have you carried to the altar."

The air in the room grew thick and cold. Constance watched from the sidelines, a sick, excited smile playing on her lips.