Trapped By The Coldhearted Billionaire's Game

The bathroom mirror reflected a stranger. Cassidy stared at her pale face, her wet hair clinging to her neck. On the marble counter lay the "clothes" Jaret had prepared. It was a silk slip dress, the fabric so flimsy it was practically transparent, the hemline barely brushing mid-thigh. It was a costume designed for one thing, and it wasn't warmth. She pulled it on, her hands shaking so badly she could barely tie the thin straps. The silk felt cold against her skin, a constant reminder of her vulnerability. She took a deep breath, gripping the door handle. She had to face him. She had to survive this. When she stepped out of the bathroom, Jaret was sprawled on the velvet sofa in the center of the room. The moment she appeared, his eyes raked over her, slow and deliberate. A flicker of something—shock, appreciation—crossed his features before he quickly smothered it with a mask of icy indifference. He patted the empty space on the cushion beside him. "Come here," he said. It wasn't a request. It was a command, the tone one might use to call a dog. Cassidy planted her feet on the carpet. Her hands balled into fists at her sides, her nails digging into the fresh crescent wounds on her palms. "What do you want?" she asked, her voice steadier than she felt. Jaret let out a cold, humorless laugh. He leaned back, spreading his arms along the back of the sofa. "Option one," he said, his eyes locking onto the thin fabric covering her chest. "You take that off yourself. Consider it... compensation for Burt's sins." Cassidy's face drained of color. She bit down on her lower lip, the metallic taste of blood filling her mouth. "No," she whispered, the word barely audible. "Option two," Jaret continued, completely unfazed. "I open that door, and I let my two guards outside come in and help you. And trust me, they aren't as gentle as I am." As if on cue, heavy footsteps thundered outside. The brass doorknob rattled, the door groaning under pressure. Pure, unadulterated terror seized her throat. She couldn't let them touch her. She couldn't survive that. As the door cracked open an inch, Cassidy's hand shot out. She grabbed the heavy crystal ashtray from the side table. With every ounce of strength and desperation in her body, she hurled it at Jaret's head. He moved like a snake, tilting his head to the side. The ashtray sailed past his ear and smashed into the antique vase behind him. Shards of porcelain exploded across the room. Cassidy didn't wait. She bolted for the door, shoving her shoulder against the gap, catching the guard off guard. She stumbled into the hallway, the cold air hitting her bare arms. Freedom was two steps away. A hand clamped down on the back of her neck like a steel trap. She gasped as Jaret yanked her backward, dragging her kicking and flailing back into the room. He slammed her against the hard wooden wall of the entryway with a sickening thud. He flicked his wrist at the guards. "Close it." The door shut with a definitive click. Jaret's facade of calm was gone. His eyes were wild, his chest heaving as he pressed his forearm against her throat, pinning her to the wall. "Fight me again," he hissed, his face inches from hers, "and I'll make sure you never walk out of this building." Cassidy clawed at his arm, her lungs screaming for air. Her vision blurred, dark spots dancing at the edges. She was forced onto her tiptoes, her eyes locked onto his, refusing to show weakness even as she suffocated. Something shifted in Jaret's expression. The anger was still there, burning bright. Her defiance was an unexpected variable, a challenge to his absolute control over the situation. He would crush it, not because he desired her, but because no one was allowed to defy him. Suddenly, he released her. Cassidy crumpled to the floor, her knees hitting the hard oak with a painful crack. She gasped, coughing violently, her throat burning. Jaret looked down at her from his towering height. "Kneel," he commanded. It wasn't a request. It was a statement of fact. She was already on her knees, but he wanted her to accept it. He wanted her to submit. Cassidy stared at the floor, the polished wood reflecting her tear-streaked face. Her pride lay in tatters around her. She had no weapons. No escape. Only survival. Jaret crouched down, his fingers gripping her chin, forcing her mouth open. He picked up a glass of amber liquid from the console table beside them. "Drink," he ordered, pressing the rim of the glass to her lips. He tilted it up. The harsh, burning liquid flooded her mouth, choking her. She tried to swallow, but it was too much, too fast. The whiskey spilled down her chin, dripping onto her collarbone, soaking the thin silk. She coughed and sputtered, tears streaming down her face, mixing with the alcohol. Jaret's thumb roughly wiped the spill from the corner of her mouth, his touch abrasive and possessive. He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "This is just the beginning," he whispered, his breath hot against her skin. "You will learn to obey." Cassidy squeezed her eyes shut. She swallowed the burning in her throat, along with every ounce of shame and hatred. She wouldn't forgive him. She would never forgive him. Jaret stood up, looking down at her crumpled form with a satisfied smirk. He adjusted his cuffs, his demeanor shifting back to the cold, untouchable billionaire. He turned and walked toward the private study adjacent to the main room, his back to her. The heavy oak door swung open, revealing a dimly lit office lined with leather-bound books. "Crawl," he said, his voice echoing through the suite. "Crawl to me."