Trapped By The Cold Billionaire Heir

Wren pushed open the heavy mahogany doors. The cold air conditioning from the hallway rushed over her bare arms, raising instant goosebumps on her skin. She stepped into the top-floor office of the Vance family headquarters.

Harold Vance slumped in his massive leather chair. His skin was the color of wet ash.

He lifted his head. His eyes were entirely bloodshot. He picked up a thick stack of papers and slammed it onto the glass coffee table. The sound cracked through the quiet room like a gunshot.

Wren walked closer. Her heels clicked sharply against the hardwood floor. She stopped at the edge of the table and looked down. The Ainsworth Financial logo sat at the top of the page. Below it, the words "Nasdaq Delisting Warning" were printed in bold black ink.

Her lungs stopped working. The air in the room suddenly felt too thick to breathe.

Harold opened his mouth. His voice shook violently. He told her the funding was completely gone. The family trust would be liquidated in forty-eight hours if they didn't accept the Ainsworth terms.

Heat flared in Wren's chest. She felt the blood rushing to her ears. She opened her mouth and yelled that Wall Street short-selling was illegal. She reached into her purse for her phone to call her contact at the SEC.

Harold lunged forward. He grabbed her wrist. His fingers dug into her skin, cold and trembling. He told her it wasn't a buyout. Cornelius Ainsworth wanted a marriage. Between Wren and his heir, Pierce.

Wren jerked her arm back. She stumbled away from him. Her shoulder blades hit the cold glass of the floor-to-ceiling window.

Harold covered his face with both hands. He begged her to go to the dinner at Le Bernardin tonight. Just to meet them.

Wren turned her head. She looked out at the Manhattan skyline. The tall buildings looked like bars on a cage. Her stomach twisted into a tight, painful knot. The humiliation burned in the back of her throat.

She walked back to the table. She grabbed the gold-embossed dinner invitation sitting next to the warning letter. She squeezed it in her fist. Her fingernails pierced the thick cardstock, digging into her palm. She told him she would go.

She shoved her apartment door open. The scent of her expensive vanilla perfume hit her face. She walked straight into her massive walk-in closet. She grabbed armfuls of silk dresses and cashmere sweaters and threw them onto the hardwood floor.

She dropped to her knees. She dug into the very back of the bottom drawer. She pulled out a faded, black leather jacket and a pair of torn fishnet tights. She stripped off her designer clothes and pulled the rough fabric over her skin.

She sat down at her vanity. She picked up a black eyeliner pencil. She pressed the tip against her eyelid so hard it snapped. She drew thick, dark circles around her eyes.

She grabbed a tube of dark purple lipstick and smeared it across her mouth. She stared at the mirror. The girl looking back at her didn't belong on the Upper East Side. She smiled.

Her phone lit up on the counter. A text from her mother, Eleanor, detailing exactly what pearls she should wear tonight. Wren pressed the volume button to silence it and flipped the phone face down.

She picked up a can of hairspray. She sprayed it directly into her blonde hair, using her fingers to tear through the strands until they stood up in messy, sharp angles.

She opened her jewelry box. She bypassed the diamonds and pulled out a thick leather choker covered in metal studs. She fastened it around her neck. The cold metal pressed against her pulse point.

The intercom buzzed. The lobby security guard announced the Vance family driver was waiting.

Wren grabbed a faded canvas tote bag. She walked out of the apartment. Her heavy combat boots hit the floor with loud, deliberate thuds.

She pulled open the door of the black Maybach. The driver turned his head. He sucked in a sharp breath. His foot slipped off the brake pedal for a second.

Wren climbed into the back seat. The silence in the car was suffocating. She pressed the button to roll down the window. The cold New York wind whipped through the car, slapping her face and tangling her stiff hair.

The Maybach pulled up to the curb outside Le Bernardin. The doorman stepped forward with a polite smile and opened her door.

Wren swung her legs out. She planted her combat boots onto the red carpet. She stood up and slammed the car door shut.

The doorman stared at her studded choker. He stuttered, asking if she had a reservation.

Wren looked him dead in the eye. She said the name Ainsworth. The doorman's face went completely pale. The restaurant manager rushed over, bowing his head, and led her inside.

She walked through the quiet, dimly lit dining room. She swung her canvas bag. It hit a tall porcelain vase on a pedestal. The vase scraped against the wood, making a loud, screeching sound.

People at the surrounding tables stopped eating. They stared at her torn fishnets. Wren turned her head and glared right back at them until they looked away.

The manager stopped in front of a heavy oak door at the back of the restaurant. His hand was sweating as he gripped the brass handle.

Wren took a deep breath. Her chest expanded against the tight leather jacket. She pulled her lips back into a cold, mocking smile. She was ready for them to scream at her and cancel the wedding.

The manager pushed the door open. Bright light from the crystal chandelier spilled out into the hallway. Wren stepped over the threshold.