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 2
The morning light filtered through the massive windows of the Long Island estate, but Finley felt nothing but cold.
She sat frozen in front of the vanity mirror. The stylist pinned the delicate lace of the Vera Wang veil into her hair. Finley's fingers dug into the heavy silk of her wedding dress, twisting the fabric until her knuckles turned white.
"You look absolutely breathtaking, Miss Blackwell," the stylist gushed.
Finley let out a dry, bitter laugh. She grabbed a pair of silver scissors from the table and raised them toward her veil.
The stylist shrieked and scrambled backward.
The bedroom door opened. Arthur, the head butler, stepped in. He calmly reached out and took the scissors from Finley's shaking hand.
"Mr. Benton sends his regards," Arthur said smoothly. "The press is waiting outside."
Finley sucked in a sharp breath. Her lungs felt tight.
She stared at her reflection, her chest rising and falling with jagged breaths. A reckless, destructive urge clawed at her throat. She wanted to scream. She wanted to march down that aisle and throw a massive tantrum, to knock over the floral arrangements and make a spectacular scene. She was going to embarrass him and the entire Blackwell family in front of the whole city today. She had to do something to make them pay for locking her in this cage.
Four maids surrounded her, lifting the train of her dress as they escorted her down the grand staircase and out the front doors.
A stretched Rolls Royce waited in the driveway. Finley was practically shoved inside.
The car smelled of fresh leather and expensive flowers. Finley stared out the tinted window as the Manhattan skyline came into view. Her brain worked in overdrive, calculating the distance to the nearest subway station, the timing of the traffic lights.
The Rolls Royce hit a wall of traffic on Fifth Avenue.
Finley's hand shot to the door handle. She pulled it hard.
Nothing happened.
She looked up and caught Arthur's apologetic gaze in the rearview mirror. The child locks were engaged.
"Damn it!" Finley screamed, kicking her heavy heel into the back of the leather seat. The dull thud echoed in the quiet cabin.
The car finally rolled to a stop in front of St. Patrick's Cathedral.
A sea of paparazzi swarmed the vehicle. The flashbulbs exploded like a continuous lightning storm, blinding her through the glass.
Bodyguards formed a human shield, dragging Finley through the heavy wooden doors of the cathedral vestibule. The doors slammed shut, cutting off the screaming reporters.
Tinsley rushed forward, holding out a silver flask. "Vodka. Drink."
Finley grabbed it and took a long, burning swallow. The alcohol seared her throat, sending a rush of reckless heat straight to her brain.
The massive pipe organ began to play the wedding march. The sound vibrated in her chest, heavy and suffocating.
Finley suddenly dropped to a crouch on the marble floor. "My heel broke," she lied, her voice shaking.
The bridesmaids panicked, fluttering around her in a chaotic mess of silk and tulle.
Finley used the distraction to crawl toward the side exit. Just a few more feet.
A tall shadow fell over her.
Haiden stood blocking the door. He wore a custom Tom Ford tuxedo that fit his broad shoulders perfectly. He looked down at her bare feet, his eyes like shards of ice.
"Your shoes are fine, Finley," he said, his voice flat and merciless.
Finley stood up, tilting her chin in defiance. "I'm not walking down that aisle. Go tell the press the bride ran away."
Haiden's jaw clenched. The muscle in his cheek ticked.
He stepped forward, wrapping one thick arm tightly around her waist. Before she could process the movement, his other arm swept under her knees.
He lifted her entirely off the ground.
Finley gasped, her hands instinctively flying up to grip his neck. "Put me down!" she hissed, slamming her fists against his solid chest.
The main doors to the sanctuary swung open.
Haiden carried her straight into the blinding light of the cathedral. Hundreds of New York's elite gasped. The cameras clicked frantically.
To keep her underwear from flashing the front row, Finley had no choice but to bury her face into the crook of Haiden's neck. He smelled of power and danger.
"Smile," Haiden whispered against her ear, his voice vibrating through her skin. "Unless you want to be the laughingstock of the city tomorrow."
Humiliation burned behind Finley's eyes. She forced her lips into a stiff, agonizing smile.
Haiden reached the altar and set her down. His touch was surprisingly gentle, but his eyes promised absolute control.
The priest began to speak. The vaulted ceiling felt like it was closing in on her. Finley scanned the front pews, desperately looking for her grandfather, but Benton wasn't there.
"Do you, Finley Blackwell, take this man..."
When it was her turn to say 'I do', Finley clamped her mouth shut.
Ten seconds passed. Then twenty. The entire cathedral fell into a dead, horrifying silence.
Haiden's large hand slid to the small of her back. He pinched the soft flesh right above her hipbone, hard.
Finley gasped at the sharp pain. "I do," she choked out.
Haiden grabbed her left hand. He shoved the massive, pigeon-blood diamond ring onto her ring finger. It was half a size too small. The metal dug painfully into her skin, a physical reminder of her cage.
"You may kiss the bride."
Finley turned her head away.
Haiden's fingers dug into her jaw, forcing her face back. He crashed his lips onto hers.
It wasn't a kiss. It was a punishment. His mouth was hard, bruising, tasting faintly of blood and dominance. Finley's knees went weak under the sheer force of his invasion.
The organ music swelled. Haiden pulled back, flashing a flawless, victorious smile to the cameras.
Finley stood there, her lips swollen, feeling completely and utterly defeated.
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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.