The Unwanted Heiress And Her Cold Billionaire

The thick, coarse fibers of the hemp rope pressed tightly against Brea Sinclair's wrists.

She twisted her arms behind the wooden chair, her muscles screaming in protest. The friction tore the top layer of her skin.

She felt a sharp sting, and moisture seeped from her fingertips, dripping onto the dusty concrete floor.

A heavy iron door groaned on its rusted hinges at the far end of the room. The sharp, rhythmic click of high heels echoed through the cavernous space.

"You really thought they brought you back to New York because they missed you?"

Caitlynn Sinclair stepped into the dim, yellow light. She wore a pristine, white Chanel tweed suit. Not a single thread was out of place.

Brea jerked her head up. Her eyes, mapped with broken red blood vessels, locked onto the approaching figure.Her jaw ached under the crushing grip that followed.

This is her half-sister, whom she can never forget, because the appearance of Caitlynn's mother led her mother down a nightmare path, ultimately resulting in her death. They are the ones who killed her mother and brought her to this state.

She also understood. The phone call from her father after eighteen years in the Rust Belt. The fake warmth in his voice. The promise of finally coming home.

She thought her father had had a change of heart, wanting to make up for all those years of neglect, but they had other intentions.

She had believed him. Stupid, naive, hungry for a family that had never wanted her.

Caitlynn stopped inches away. A mocking, triumphant smile stretched across her perfectly glossed lips. She squatted down gracefully, bringing her face level with Brea's dirt-streaked cheeks.

"They just needed a walking bone marrow bank," Caitlynn stated, her nails digging into Brea's flesh. "To cure my illness."

So that's it, Brea thought, a cold, horrifying clarity washing over her. Not a daughter. A spare part.

Caitlynn watched the horror dawn on Brea's face. A soft, delighted laugh escaped her throat. She released Brea's jaw and stood up, towering over the tied-up girl.

"And Althea?" Caitlynn lowered her voice, leaning in slightly. "Your mother didn't die of a sudden illness. We poisoned her."

A guttural, animalistic scream tore out of Brea's dry throat.

She thrashed violently against the ropes. The wooden chair slammed against the concrete, the legs scraping loudly as she threw her entire body weight forward. She wanted to rip Caitlynn apart with her bare teeth.

Caitlynn took two quick steps back, her nose wrinkling in disgust as dust kicked up around her white heels.

She unclasped her designer handbag and pulled out a silk handkerchief. She meticulously wiped the lace fingers that had touched Brea's skin.

Without looking up, Caitlynn raised a hand and gave a sharp, downward signal to the shadows.

A heavily built contractor stepped forward. He carried a large red plastic jug.

He tipped it over. The harsh, chemical stench of gasoline flooded the air, splashing onto the concrete and soaking the legs of Brea's chair. The fumes instantly sucked the breathable oxygen from the room.

Brea coughed violently, her lungs burning, but her eyes never left Caitlynn. She stared with the pure, distilled hatred of a cornered wolf.

Caitlynn pulled a custom matchbox from her pocket. She struck a match. The small flame flared to life.

"We just need you alive enough to harvest the marrow," Caitlynn whispered, her eyes gleaming with malice. "A tragic fire leaving you with third-degree burns and in a comatose state will make the hospital paperwork so much easier. You won't be able to fight the transplant then."

With a serene smile, Caitlynn tossed the burning match onto the soaked concrete.

The air ignited with a deafening whoosh. A wall of orange fire erupted, instantly swallowing the space around the chair.

Caitlynn turned on her heel. The click of her shoes faded as she walked out the iron doors, never looking back.

The heat hit Brea like a physical blow. The skin on her arms began to blister and crack. The agonizing pain drilled straight into her nerve endings.

She bit down on her lower lip until the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth.

As the flames licked higher, melting her clothes to her skin, Brea swore a silent, bloody oath. If there is a next life, I will carve you all to pieces.

The smoke filled her lungs. Her vision went black.

But before the darkness claimed her completely, she saw a blurry figure—a tall man with desperate, anguished eyes—rushing toward her through the flames. She couldn't hear his voice over the fire's roar, but she saw his mouth form a single word. Her name. Brea.