Trapped By My Ruthless Billionaire Ex

The freezing Manhattan rain slashed against the heavy glass door of the Tribeca restaurant. Annette pushed her weight against the brass handle. Her muscles ached. She collapsed her cheap, black folding umbrella, the metal spokes groaning in protest. Water dripped from the hem of her faded trench coat. It formed a dirty puddle on the pristine, imported marble floor of the lobby. The maitre d' stepped forward. His eyes dropped to her scuffed flats, then traveled up to her soaked collar. His upper lip curled in a microscopic sneer. "Name for the reservation?" he asked, his voice flat. "I'm with the bridal party. Annette." The man tapped his tablet. He didn't bother to hide his disdain as he gestured toward the grand hallway. Annette peeled off her wet trench coat. Underneath, she wore a plain, ill-fitting navy dress she had bought off a clearance rack three years ago. A group of women in designer silk gowns stood near the coat check. They stopped talking as Annette walked by. Their eyes scraped over her cheap fabric like sandpaper. Annette's stomach twisted into a hard, painful knot. A familiar, gut-wrenching pain twisted inside her. She dug her fingernails into the center of her palms, using the sharp physical sting to ground herself. The hallway was hushed, the thick carpet swallowing the sound of her footsteps. The only noise was the distant hum of the building's ventilation. She took a shallow breath and pushed open the double walnut doors of the banquet hall. The noise of the rehearsal dinner hit her like a physical blow. Clinking crystal, loud laughter, and the smell of roasted truffles filled the air. At the head table, the groom, Leo, looked up. "Annette!" Leo shouted over the music. Fifty pairs of eyes snapped toward the doorway. The spotlight of their attention made Annette's skin crawl. Her chest tightened. Her lungs suddenly forgot how to process oxygen. She took a half-step backward, wanting to melt into the shadows of the hallway. But Leo was already striding across the room. He grabbed her wrist. His grip was warm and firm. "I told you to drop that legal aid case for one night," Leo scolded playfully, dragging her toward the brightest part of the room. Annette stumbled in her cheap shoes. She looked past Leo's shoulder toward the head table. Her heart stopped beating. Sitting at the center of the table, casually rolling an unlit cigar between his fingers, was a man she hadn't seen in five years. Declan Carter. He slowly lifted his gaze. His slate-gray eyes locked onto hers across the room. The air in Annette's throat turned to solid ice. The blood drained from her face so fast she felt dizzy. Her feet glued themselves to the thick carpet. Declan's eyes were like surgical blades. They sliced through the noisy room, dissecting her pale face, her trembling hands, and the frayed hem of her dress. His jaw locked. A muscle feathered in his cheek. Then, the corner of his mouth tipped up into a smile so cold it made Annette's stomach drop. He didn't say a single word. He just pressed the tip of his cigar into the crystal ashtray. The heavy glass made a dull, violent thud against the wood. The bride, Clara, jumped up from her seat. She waved frantically. "Annette! Finally! Sit right here," Clara said, pulling out the only empty chair at the table. Annette's vision blurred. The empty chair was directly across from Declan. The only thing separating them was a low arrangement of white roses. There was no place to hide. "I need to use the restroom first," Annette whispered, her voice shaking. She tried to pull away. Clara pushed her down into the chair by her shoulders. "Absolutely not. You're late. You have to take the penalty shot." A waiter slid a heavy glass of tequila across the table. It stopped right in front of Annette. The sharp, acidic smell of the alcohol hit her nose. Her hands began to shake violently. She couldn't drink. The tequila would trigger a lethal interaction with the cold tremor of withdrawal shaking her body. Her body was already vibrating from the missed dose. Across the white roses, Declan picked up his tumbler of whiskey. He raised it toward her in a silent, mocking toast. His eyes were dark, watching her squirm like a dying insect pinned to a board. Before Annette could push the shot glass away, Ciera Trujillo glided over to the table. Ciera wore a custom emerald gown. She held a flute of champagne. "Oh, my," Ciera said, covering her mouth in fake shock. Her voice was loud enough to carry. "Annette, honey. You have a loose thread right there on your collar." A few guests at the adjacent tables let out low, cruel laughs. The air grew thick with toxic humiliation. Ciera leaned down. The smell of her expensive floral perfume made Annette nauseous. "You worked so hard to climb into those penthouses five years ago," Ciera whispered, her voice dripping with venom. "And look at you now. You look like trash." Annette pressed her fingernails deeper into her palms. The skin broke. A tiny drop of blood welled up, but she kept her face completely blank. She refused to react. Leo cleared his throat loudly. "Anyway, let's go over the church schedule for tomorrow. I've put Declan on all the planning emails since he's my best man and is handling the logistics." Ciera ignored him. She stood up straight and looked directly at Annette. "Tell us, Annette," Ciera said loudly. "Where is that rich old man you left Declan for? Did he finally kick you to the curb?" The question was a live grenade. Annette's face turned the color of ash. A cold sweat broke out on the back of her neck. The entire table fell dead silent. The music in the background seemed to fade away. Clara tugged nervously on Ciera's dress. "Ciera, please stop." Declan leaned back in his chair. He didn't look at Ciera. His gray eyes were fixed entirely on Annette. "Answer the question, Annette," Declan said. His voice was a low, gravelly rasp. It scraped against Annette's eardrums and sent a violent shiver down her spine. Annette stared into the absolute hatred in Declan's eyes. Her stomach violently cramped. She was trapped.