Trapped By My Ruthless Billionaire Ex

Ciera sat in the back of her stretched Lincoln Town Car. The rain hammered against the tinted windows. She stared out at the entrance of the restaurant, her manicured fingers tapping anxiously against the stem of her champagne flute. The glass doors pushed open. Declan walked out. He didn't wait for the valet. He ignored the doorman holding out a massive black umbrella. He just walked straight out into the torrential rain. Under the harsh glare of the streetlights, Ciera saw his face. His expression was hollow, violent, and completely isolated. She saw the faint smear of blood on his bottom lip. Ciera gripped her glass so hard the crystal groaned. Her mind violently snapped back to a thunderstorm five years ago. She remembered the frantic phone call from the Carter estate manager. She remembered running into Declan's penthouse. The massive living room had looked like a war zone. Priceless antique vases were shattered into dust. Paintings were ripped from the walls. Declan had been standing in the middle of the room. He was barefoot. He was standing on a carpet of jagged glass shards. The thick Persian rug was soaked in his blood. He was clutching his phone in his bleeding hands, staring at a video. It was the security footage Annette had faked-footage of her walking into a hotel room with a wealthy older man. Ciera had tried to touch his arm. Declan had shoved her away so hard she hit the wall. He had thrown himself against the floor-to-ceiling windows, screaming a sound so guttural and broken it didn't even sound human. For three months after that night, Declan didn't eat. He didn't speak. The Carter family had to hire a private medical team to hook him up to IV bags just to keep his organs from shutting down. He was placed on a 24-hour suicide watch. A cheap, nobody girl from Brooklyn had almost killed the heir to the Carter empire. Ciera blinked, pulling herself out of the memory. She took a deep breath and pulled out her phone. She dialed her private investigator. "Find out where Annette is working," Ciera ordered, her voice cold and sharp. "And find out exactly where she lives. Now." Inside the restaurant lobby, Annette finally pulled herself together. She walked to the coat check, grabbed her wet trench coat, and practically ran out the front doors. Leo chased after her, holding an umbrella. "Annette, wait! I'm so sorry about tonight," Leo said, handing her the umbrella. Annette forced the corners of her mouth up into a painful, fake smile. "It's fine, Leo. I'll be at the church tomorrow for the rehearsal." She turned and walked into the freezing rain. She didn't walk toward the subway. She walked three blocks south, her shoes squishing with cold water, until she found a 24-hour pharmacy. The fluorescent lights inside the store burned her eyes. She walked straight to the cosmetics aisle and grabbed a tube of heavy-duty, industrial concealer. She stood in front of the small security mirror, her hands shaking as she dabbed the thick paste over the violent, red bite mark on her swollen lip. Suddenly, her phone vibrated violently in her pocket. She pulled it out. The caller ID showed a specific 1-800 number. It was the direct line to the Intensive Care Unit billing department. Annette's heart stopped. She swiped the screen, pressing the phone to her ear. "Is it my dad? Did his heart rate drop?" Annette asked, her voice cracking with panic. "Ms. Park," a cold, robotic female voice said. "Due to the severe overdue balance, we can no longer sustain his care in our private ICU. If payment isn't received, we will have to initiate a transfer to a state-funded long-term care facility by tomorrow." Annette's knees buckled. She leaned her weight against the glass display case. "Please," Annette begged, tears finally spilling over her eyelashes. "Please, give me three more days. I'll get the money. I promise." "Tomorrow morning, Ms. Park." The line went dead. The dial tone buzzed in Annette's ear like a flatline. She dropped the phone. She pressed her forehead against the cold glass of the pharmacy window, staring out at the dark, wet street. She was drowning, and there was no one left to save her. Across the street, parked in the shadows of an alley, a black Range Rover idled quietly. The driver's side window rolled down halfway. A massive man with a thick neck covered in gang tattoos sat in the driver's seat. He chewed on a cheap cigar. His dark, predatory eyes were locked onto Annette's crying figure in the pharmacy window.