Trapped By The Coldhearted Billionaire's Game

Cold. That was the first thing Cassidy felt. A deep, bone-chilling cold that seeped into her skin. She blinked, her eyes gritty and dry. She was curled up on the sofa, a thin cashmere throw the only thing covering her shivering body. The morning light stabbed through the gap in the curtains, blinding her. She sat up, her entire body screaming in protest. The ache in her muscles, the rawness in her throat-it wasn't a nightmare. It was real. She looked toward the bedroom. The massive bed was perfectly made. Empty. He was gone. On the glass coffee table in front of her sat a single slip of paper and a check. Cassidy reached out with a trembling hand, picking up the note. The handwriting was sharp and arrogant. "A tedious transaction. Disappear." Bile rose in her throat. She stared at the check. The zeros blurred together, a number that could pay off her student loans, could save her apartment. But the price was her dignity. It was the ultimate insult, a payment for a service she never agreed to provide. A short, hysterical laugh escaped her lips. It sounded alien, broken. She ripped the check in half. Then again. And again. She threw the confetti into the metal wastebasket, her chest heaving. She scrambled off the couch, finding her dress crumpled on the floor. She pulled it on, not caring that it was inside out. She didn't look back as she fled the penthouse, her bare feet slapping against the marble hallway. The Manhattan morning rush hour hit her like a wave. Horns blaring, people shouting, the smell of exhaust and stale coffee. Nobody looked at her. Nobody knew that she was walking around dead inside. She made it back to her tiny apartment and locked the door. She didn't stop there. She ran to the bathroom, turning the shower dial all the way to scalding. She stepped under the spray, still wearing her dress, and grabbed the loofah. She scrubbed. She scrubbed her arms, her neck, her lips, until her skin was raw and bleeding. She couldn't feel his hands anymore, but the phantom sensation of his grip, his breath, his eyes-it was a stain she couldn't wash away. Her phone buzzed on the counter, the shrill ringtone cutting through the steam. She turned off the water, wrapping a towel around her shivering body. She looked at the screen. Meredith Croft. Her boss. Calling for the fifth time. Cassidy cleared her throat, trying to force the hoarseness from her voice. "Hello?" "Where the hell have you been, Fox?" Meredith's voice was a sharp whip through the speaker. "I've been calling since last night. The A-round is hanging by a thread. We are on life support here." "I'm sorry, Meredith. I had a... personal emergency." Cassidy gripped the edge of the sink, fighting down the nausea. "I don't care if you were hit by a bus. Get to the office. Now." The line went dead. Cassidy stared at her reflection. The dark circles under her eyes looked like bruises. She looked like a ghost. She couldn't fall apart. She had student loans that could buy a house, rent that went up every year, and a career that was the only thing keeping her afloat. She wouldn't let Jaret Taylor take that from her too. She covered the angry red marks on her neck with layers of industrial-strength concealer, thankful for the high collar of her blouse. She put on her sharpest black pantsuit, a suit of armor. She walked out the door. The office was a warzone. Meredith was pacing in the conference room, her face red. The whiteboard was covered in red ink. They had one month of runway left. "Cassidy," Meredith barked, pointing a manicured finger at her. "Tonight is the Whitfield Charity Gala. Every major investor in the city will be there. You are going to get me a meeting with at least one top-tier VC. If you don't, you're fired, and this company is bankrupt." Cassidy's stomach dropped. A gala. A room full of billionaires. The exact kind of people she wanted to avoid. "I can't-" she started. "Can you pay your rent next month?" Meredith cut her off, her eyes cold. "Because I can't." Cassidy swallowed hard. She had no choice. She spent the next four hours calling in every favor, begging every contact, until finally, a client who had a last-minute business trip agreed to transfer his digital invite. By 7 PM, she was standing in front of her closet. She owned one dress that was remotely appropriate-a simple black slip that she had bought on sale. No diamonds, no designer bag. She would be the poorest person in the room. She looked in the mirror and practiced smiling. A fake, professional smile that didn't reach her eyes. She locked the trauma in a box and threw away the key. The subway ride was suffocating. The car was packed with bodies, the air thick and stale. Someone bumped into her from behind, and she flinched, her throat closing up. The memory of Jaret's hands on her neck sent her heart racing. She was trapped. She couldn't breathe. She pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the door, counting the seconds until the next stop. It's just work. Just get through tonight. The hotel lobby was a circus of flashbulbs and couture. Cassidy kept her head down, slipping past the photographers like a shadow. The ballroom was a cathedral of wealth. Crystal chandeliers, champagne fountains, the murmur of the elite. Cassidy felt like an imposter. She grabbed a flute of champagne from a passing tray, needing something to do with her hands. She turned, scanning the room for a friendly face or a lonely investor. Her blood turned to ice in her veins. Standing near the entrance, surrounded by a fawning circle of suits, was Jaret Taylor. He looked immaculate in a tailored tuxedo, his dark hair swept back, a champagne flute held loosely in his hand. He looked like a king holding court. And he was looking right at her.