Trapped By The Ruthless Billionaire Husband
Finley was forced by her dying grandfather to marry Haiden Mitchell, a ruthless corporate executive, just to secure the family's billion-dollar empire.
But right after their humiliating wedding, she discovered a sickening secret: he was hiding a dying mistress and a little boy who called him "Daddy."
Desperate to escape the marriage, she recorded them at the hospital and showed the evidence to her grandfather, begging for an annulment.
Instead, her grandfather coldly replied that loyalty was a luxury for the poor. As long as Haiden kept the stock prices high, he didn't care if the man had ten hidden bastards.
To silence her, her grandfather froze all her trust funds, confiscated her phone, and abandoned her, leaving her entirely under Haiden's absolute control.
Haiden even brought the illegitimate boy into their penthouse, pinning her against the wall with a ruthless threat.
"You will act as his mother in public, or you will have absolutely nothing."
Finley was completely trapped, stripped of her freedom and humiliated. She had always thought Haiden was just a greedy parasite waiting to drain the Blackwell fortune dry.
That was until she found a highly confidential fax hidden under his coffee table. It bore an ancient, gothic crest—a lion holding a sword—a symbol far more terrifying and powerful than anything in the New York corporate world. Her blood ran cold. Who exactly was she married to?
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Chapter 1
The bass in the Meatpacking District's VIP club vibrated so hard it rattled the ice in Finley's glass.
She held up a bottle of Ace of Spades champagne, throwing her head back in a loud, exaggerated laugh. The strobe lights flashed across her face, hiding the absolute deadness in her eyes. The trust fund kids around her cheered, oblivious to the fact that she wasn't looking at them at all.
Tinsley leaned in close, screaming some meaningless gossip over the deafening music.
Finley nodded, flashing a brilliant, empty smile. Beneath the edge of the table, her thumb swiped aimlessly across her phone screen, the bright display flashing with the latest high-end jewelry collections and designer handbags. Her heart beat as wildly as the heavy bass vibrating through the floorboards, a frantic rhythm that she hoped would drown out the suffocating emptiness echoing in her chest. She scrolled faster, pretending to care about the diamonds, just to keep her mind blank.
The heavy velvet door of the private booth burst open.
Four bodyguards in identical black suits shoved their way in. The music cut off abruptly. Someone screamed as the lead bodyguard marched straight toward Finley.
His face was a slab of granite. He snatched the champagne flute right out of her hand.
"Mr. Benton is in critical condition," the bodyguard said, his voice cutting through the sudden silence.
Finley's fake smile cracked. A cold sweat broke out on the back of her neck. Her grandfather.
She tried to rip her arm away from the bodyguard's grip. Her six-inch heels caught on the thick carpet, and she stumbled forward.
"Let go of me!" she yelled, but the men simply flanked her, half-dragging her toward the club's back exit.
A blast of freezing night air hit her face.
Before she could scream for help, she was shoved into the backseat of an armored SUV. The heavy doors slammed shut. The locks clicked into place with a sharp, final sound.
The SUV tore away from the curb. Finley slammed her fists against the tinted window, her chest heaving.
The bodyguard in the passenger seat turned and handed her a crisp, white medical waiver.
Finley's hands froze. She snatched the paper. The streetlights flickered across the text. Her stomach dropped to the floor.
At the very bottom of the critical care authorization, the signature read: Haiden Mitchell.
Bile rose in her throat. The sheer disgust of seeing his name mixed with a heavy, suffocating panic.
The tires screeched as the SUV plunged into the underground parking garage of Mount Sinai Hospital. The harsh, fluorescent lights stabbed at her eyes, making her squint.
The doors unlocked. Finley scrambled out, her heels clicking wildly against the concrete. She bolted for the elevator, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
The elevator doors slid open on the VIP floor. Finley rushed out and slammed directly into a solid wall of muscle.
A sharp scent of cold cedar and mint filled her lungs.
Large, warm hands gripped her shoulders, steadying her. Finley looked up.
Haiden Mitchell stared down at her. His dark eyes swept over her smeared eyeliner and her sequined dress, his jaw ticking with undisguised judgment.
"Get your hands off me," Finley spat, slapping his arms away. Her skin crawled where he had touched her. "Where is he?"
Haiden stepped aside, his face an emotionless mask. "His organs are failing. The doctors are doing what they can."
Finley pushed past him. Through the glass window of the ICU, she saw Benton. Tubes snaked out of his mouth and arms. The rhythmic beep of the heart monitor was too slow.
Her chest tightened so hard she couldn't breathe. She shoved the door open.
"Grandpa," Finley choked out, throwing herself at the edge of the bed. She grabbed his frail, wrinkled hand. Tears spilled hot down her cheeks. "Wake up. Please."
Benton's eyelids fluttered. He took a rattling breath.
Suddenly, his fingers clamped down on her wrist. The grip was shockingly tight, his nails digging into her skin.
"Marry Haiden," Benton wheezed, his voice barely a whisper, but heavy with absolute command. "Secure the board."
Finley felt the blood drain from her face. She yanked her hand back, jumping to her feet.
"Are you insane?" she screamed, her lungs burning. "He's a parasite! He's just waiting for you to die so he can steal everything!"
Haiden stood in the shadows near the door. He didn't say a word. His dark eyes locked onto Finley's shaking shoulders.
Benton slammed his weak fist against the mattress. "You are reckless! A fool! You know nothing about this company!"
Finley bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted copper. The humiliation burned her throat. But beneath the rage, a cold, calculating part of her brain—the part she kept hidden from everyone, the part that had secretly aced every finance elective at Columbia before dropping out—whispered that her grandfather wasn't wrong about her public persona. She had spent years playing the dumb heiress, letting everyone underestimate her. It was the only way she had survived her mother's death and her father's abandonment. But the act was suffocating.
Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted the edge of a document sticking out of Haiden's suit pocket. It was covered in dense charts and strings of numbers. She could read them—every last goddamn derivative and valuation model—but admitting that would mean exposing the one weapon she had left. So she clenched her fists and pretended to be lost. A sudden, inexplicable irritation flared in her chest. She hated those numbers. She hated everything they represented. An impulsive urge washed over her to snatch the papers and rip them to shreds, just to wipe that smug, controlling look off his face.
Finley grabbed the heavy glass water pitcher from the bedside table and hurled it at the wall.
The glass shattered into a hundred pieces, exploding across the linoleum floor. "I won't do it!" she shrieked.
A nurse peeked her head through the door. Haiden shot her a look so lethal the woman instantly vanished, pulling the door shut.
Benton started to cough. It was a wet, violent sound.
The heart monitor suddenly shrieked. A flashing red light bathed the room. The numbers on the screen plummeted.
Finley stumbled backward, her hands flying to her mouth. Her heart hammered against her ribs.
Doctors burst through the door, shoving her out of the way.
Haiden stepped forward. He wrapped a thick arm around Finley's waist and hauled her backward, dragging her out of the chaotic room.
Finley fought him the entire way down the hall. She stomped her stiletto heel down hard onto his leather shoe.
Haiden didn't even flinch.
He slammed her against the cold wall at the end of the corridor. He planted both hands on the wall beside her ears, caging her in.
"If he dies tonight," Haiden said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble, "the board will tear Blackwell Industries apart by morning. You will have nothing."
Finley stared up at him. His eyes were completely black in the dim light. For the first time, the sheer, suffocating weight of his power terrified her.
Down the hall, the emergency lights flashed. A doctor stepped out, his face grim. "He's stable for now, but he could crash at any second."
Finley's knees gave out. Haiden caught her by the waist.
She squeezed her eyes shut. A single tear dropped onto the back of Haiden's hand.
"Fine," Finley gritted out, the word tearing her throat. "I'll do it."
Haiden stared at the wet spot on his hand. A complicated, dark emotion flickered in his eyes before his mask slammed back into place.
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9.5
My boyfriend, Jefferson, convinced me to give up my Yale scholarship for him. He was my secret, my escape from the shame of my mother's past, and I threw away my future for our love.
Then, at a gala, he publicly announced his engagement to Aubrey Carroll-the girl who made my high school years a living hell.
He trapped me in his mansion, forcing me to become her personal servant. She tortured me daily, culminating in her brutally killing our dog, Charlie, with a garden trowel.
When her friends arrived, they joined in, stripping me half-naked and live-streaming my panic attack for the world to see.
The man who once promised to protect me watched as they destroyed me.
But as I lay bleeding out on the floor, it wasn't an ambulance that arrived. It was the private security of Alexzander Stevens-my estranged, billionaire grandfather.
He revealed I was his sole heiress, and now, we were going to make them pay for every last tear.
7.1
For seven years, I hid my identity as a wealthy heiress to be with my boyfriend, Ewing. I followed him across the country and made myself small so he could feel big.
On Thanksgiving, he ditched our celebration for his first love, Bree, who supposedly had a "burst pipe."
Later, she posted an intimate selfie with him, calling him her "hero."
Then she sent me a video of him at a bar, laughing with his friends.
"She's just being dramatic," he slurred, smirking at the camera. "A new necklace and she'll forget all about it. She's easy."
Easy. Seven years of my life, my love, my sacrifice-all reduced to that one word. I realized I was never his partner. I was just a placeholder.
I didn't cry. I packed my bags, booked a one-way flight to New York, and sent him one final text before blocking his number.
"Don't bother coming home. I'm getting married."
7.9
Eileen Goff was a nobody, scrubbing diner tables to survive while her greedy family bled her dry.
On the eve of her twentieth birthday, the government's mandatory marriage algorithm matched her with a spouse.
It wasn't a plumber or a teacher. It was Harrison Butler, the ruthless, untouchable billionaire king of Butler Industries.
At the registry, Harrison's glamorous intended fiancée threw a half-million-dollar check at her.
"Take the money, get out of here, and never show your face again."
The registry supervisor even offered her a million dollars to sign a cancellation agreement, trying to erase her from the system.
At their first high-society gala, Harrison's stepmother and the fiancée locked Eileen in an empty room, plotting to humiliate her and prove she was just cheap trash.
Eileen was terrified and confused. Men like Harrison Butler didn't just accept federal matches with girls who smelled like fried onions.
But instead of abandoning her, Harrison smashed the door open, publicly banished his own family, and kissed her in front of the entire city's elite.
Why was this billionaire going to such extreme lengths to protect a complete stranger?
Then she overheard his assistant talking about a marriage clause in his grandfather's trust fund.
He didn't love her; he just needed a powerless, state-mandated wife to lock his parasitic family out of his empire.
Realizing she was a highly valuable pawn, Eileen stopped trembling, looked the billionaire in the eye, and spoke.
"I believe we can have more than just a legal relationship. We can have a business arrangement."
8.0
Aliya woke up in a dingy, freezing apartment with a throbbing headache, only to realize a horrifying truth.
She had transmigrated into the American romance novel she read just last night, becoming the ultimate vicious supporting character. The exhausted man walking through the front door was Cyrus Pace, an amnesiac billionaire currently living under the delusion that he was a broke laborer.
The original owner had trapped him with fabricated memories of being childhood sweethearts. Worse, she relentlessly abused him. Her phone was filled with toxic texts calling him a useless loser, and she had just staged a psychotic hunger strike to force him to buy a designer bag. Cyrus already looked at her with bone-deep, visceral disgust. In the original plot, the moment he regained his memory, his ruthless revenge would send her straight to a maximum-security prison for the rest of her life.
"Are you done playing your hunger strike game?"
Hearing his cold, mocking voice, the sheer terror made Aliya's blood run cold. How was she supposed to survive living with a future tyrant who already despised her? Every time his massive shadow fell over their cramped, shared mattress, her heart stopped. A single wrong move—even a microscopic mistake like accidentally crossing a physical line—would completely seal her doom.
Staring at the torn box of condoms hidden under the bed, Aliya made a desperate, life-or-death decision.
She had to completely rewrite her toxic persona, secretly hustle a high-commission real estate job, and save enough money to flee the country before the billionaire remembered exactly who he was.
7.6
Cora thought she was the luckiest woman alive, married to a devoted tech billionaire who showered her with custom haute couture and obsessive care.
But his "protection" involved locking her inside their San Francisco estate, forcing her to swallow foul neon-green supplements, and drawing her blood with highly classified veterinary needles.
She thought it was just his extreme paranoia, until a cynical doctor cornered her at a charity gala.
"Kendrick isn't raising a wife. He's curating a very rare, very fragile medical specimen. You're his personal pharmacy."
Terrified, Cora broke into Kendrick's hidden safe and found a medical report approving her total bone marrow and stem cell depletion.
Kendrick wasn't a doting husband. He was raising her as a human bloodbag to save his terminally ill cousin.
When she nearly uncovered the truth, Kendrick cried fake tears, claiming he only needed her antibodies.
"Tomorrow, we are going to my private island in the Caribbean. Just the two of us. No internet. No guards. Just peace."
Cora almost believed his vulnerable act, deeply confused by how a man who kissed her so tenderly could plan to slaughter her in cold blood.
Then, while packing for the trip, she dropped a wooden box, revealing a hidden flight manifesto.
Kendrick's return date was listed. Hers was completely blank.
Stapled to the back was a clinical schedule: Intensive Marrow Harvesting - Final Stage. Patient will not require return transport.
Hearing his heavy footsteps echoing in the hallway, Cora gripped the sharp edges of the broken box.
She was not going to be a slaughtered lamb on that island.
9.5
I joined a brutal wilderness survival reality show, playing the perfect role of a pathetic, uneducated girl from a trailer park.
I needed the five million dollar prize to fund my revenge against the wealthy family that drove my father to his death.
I played everyone flawlessly. I outsmarted the arrogant contestants, ruined a corrupt restaurant owner, and secured enough food to guarantee my absolute victory.
But just as I was dominating the game, a massive black helicopter landed in our camp.
The show's new billionaire sponsor had arrived, and he immediately ordered his tactical guards to confiscate every ounce of food I had earned.
My hard-won advantage was wiped out in seconds. The other contestants cheered, pointing at my empty hands.
"Take that, you greedy bitch!"
But the real nightmare wasn't the stolen food or the sudden rule change. It was the man who stepped out of the chopper.
Glenn Ryan. The ruthless CEO from my past life as an elite heiress.
He took off his sunglasses, his dark eyes locking onto my muddy shoes and frayed flannel shirt with a terrifying, obsessive smirk.
Why was he here? Why did he instantly target me the moment I started winning?
He didn't just know my true identity.
He had bought this entire game just to hunt me down.