Trapped By The Cold Billionaire Heir

Wren walked into the private room. She tossed her canvas bag onto the center of the table. It landed on the expensive white silk tablecloth with a heavy thud.

Cornelius Ainsworth Sr. sat at the head of the table. He stopped cutting his steak. His silver knife clinked sharply against the porcelain plate.

Pierce Ainsworth sat to his right. He lifted his head. His dark eyes scanned Wren's torn fishnets and heavy makeup. The skin between his eyebrows pinched together in deep disgust.

Wren pulled out a chair opposite Pierce. The wooden legs scraped loudly against the floor. She sat down, spread her legs wide, and crossed her arms over her chest.

She looked right at Pierce. She opened her mouth and told him he looked like a stiff corporate robot.

Pierce let out a short, cold breath. He picked up his white linen napkin. He wiped the corner of his mouth. He looked at her like she was a piece of rotting garbage on the sidewalk.

Wren waited for the explosion. She waited for them to kick her out.

Instead, Cornelius Sr. threw his head back. A deep, loud laugh erupted from his chest.

He dropped his napkin onto the table. He stared at Wren. He told her she was much more entertaining than the boring socialites he usually dealt with.

Wren's arms fell to her sides. Her mouth opened slightly. The purple lipstick cracked. Her brain completely stopped processing.

Pierce snapped his head toward his father. His jaw tightened. He opened his mouth to speak.

Cornelius held up a hand. He reached into the inside pocket of his tailored suit jacket. He pulled out a thick stack of papers. He slid it across the smooth table until it hit Wren's canvas bag.

Wren looked down. The bold letters at the top read "Prenuptial Agreement." She realized her entire rebellion was a joke to them. She was trapped.

She pushed her chair back and stood up. She slammed both hands flat onto the table. She told him she would never sign it.

Cornelius picked up his wine glass. He took a slow sip of red wine. He looked at her and stated the exact dollar amount of the Vance family's debt.

Wren's pupils dilated. Her breath hitched in her throat. That number was a secret. Only her father and the head accountant knew it.

Cornelius set his glass down. He told her she had two choices. Sign the paper, or the Vance family would be erased from Wall Street by tomorrow morning.

Pierce sat perfectly still. He watched Wren's shoulders start to shake. His eyes were completely empty of sympathy.

Wren bit down on her lower lip. She bit so hard she tasted the sharp, metallic tang of blood on her tongue. She turned her head and glared at Pierce, silently begging him to stop this.

Pierce leaned forward. He lowered his voice so his father couldn't hear. He told her to drop the act. He said she was just a gold digger who would do anything for a bailout.

The words hit her chest like a physical blow. Wren grabbed the crystal wine glass in front of her. Her fingers squeezed the fragile stem. She wanted to throw the red liquid right into his arrogant face.

Cornelius cleared his throat loudly. The two men in black suits standing outside the door stepped silently halfway into the room. Their massive, mountain-like builds instantly made the air in the room freeze. Their cold, dead eyes locked onto Wren, projecting a suffocating, oppressive weight that made the threat of their physical power absolutely clear without a single weapon ever being drawn.

Wren's hand froze in the air. Her lungs burned. The reality of the situation crushed her.

She slowly lowered the glass. Her hand shook violently as she reached for the Montblanc pen resting on top of the agreement. She pressed the nib into the paper. She signed her name. She pressed so hard the pen tore through the thick paper and gouged a deep mark into the white silk tablecloth beneath.

Cornelius smiled. He pulled the papers back. He looked at his assistant and announced the wedding would be early next month.

Pierce stood up. He buttoned his suit jacket. He looked at the wall behind Wren and told her his team would arrive tomorrow to measure her for a dress.

Wren didn't look at him. She grabbed her bag. She shoved past the bodyguard blocking the door and ran down the hallway.

She pushed through the front doors of the restaurant. The cold New York rain hit her face, washing the heavy black eyeliner down her cheeks.

She stood on the wet sidewalk. She looked at the bright lights of the Empire State Building. Her stomach churned with pure hatred.

Inside the room, Pierce stared at the deep gash Wren's pen had left on the white silk tablecloth. The fabric was torn, the edges frayed, and beneath it—if anyone cared to lift the cloth—the polished wood was untouched. His chest felt tight. He hated this marriage just as much as she did.