Trapped By The Ruthless Billionaire Husband

The heavy bass of 1OAK was the last place Finley wanted to be tonight. Instead, she had a far more destructive destination in mind. She hadn't gone to the club. Not this time. The moment she'd stormed out of the Tribeca penthouse, her heels clicking against the marble hallway, her brain had shifted from reckless impulse to calculated sabotage. If Haiden wanted to freeze her cards and treat her like a child, she would embarrass him where it actually hurt: in front of the board. She pulled out her backup phone—a cheap burner she'd hidden in the secret compartment of her Birkin, the one even Arthur didn't know about—and called a car. "Blackwell Industries headquarters," she told the driver. "And step on it." The Aston Martin devoured the midnight streets of Manhattan. Finley's mind raced faster than the engine. She had no official power at the company, but she had something better: her name. The Blackwell name still carried weight with the old-guard directors, the ones who remembered her grandfather's father. They would listen to her if she cried loud enough about Haiden Mitchell, the outsider who was bleeding the company dry. She didn't have proof. But she didn't need proof. She needed chaos. The underground parking garage was empty at this hour. Finley used her personal keycard—still active, thank God—to slip into the service elevator. She rode it to the 68th floor, the executive suite where the board kept its private conference room. A late-night strategy session was scheduled. She had seen the calendar notification on her grandfather's iPad months ago, before he'd locked her out. The directors were meeting to discuss the London acquisition. Perfect. The elevator doors slid open. The long hallway was dimly lit, the glass walls of the executive offices reflecting the city lights. Finley walked straight to the walnut double doors of the boardroom. She could hear muffled voices inside. Without hesitating, she shoved the doors open. Twelve faces turned to stare at her. The directors—gray-haired men in expensive suits, plus two women who had clawed their way onto the board—sat around a massive oval table. Their expressions shifted from surprise to confusion to barely concealed annoyance. And there, at the head of the table, sat Haiden. He was mid-sentence, a laser pointer in his hand, a complex financial model displayed on the wall screen. His eyes landed on Finley, and for a fraction of a second, something flickered there—something that might have been surprise, or perhaps exhaustion. Then his face went blank. "Finley," he said, his voice flat. "This is a closed session." Finley laughed. She stepped into the room, letting the doors swing shut behind her. "Closed? You're discussing my family's company, and you think you can keep me out?" Her eyes scanned the screen—a waterfall chart of projected synergies from the London acquisition. She understood every line of it. The valuation was aggressive, the debt structure risky, but not criminal. She had expected worse. Still, she wasn't here to audit. She was here to burn things down. She slapped her hands on the table, leaning forward so her sequined dress caught the light. "Do you know what this man did tonight?" She pointed at Haiden, her voice rising to a dramatic pitch. "He locked me in a penthouse. He froze my accounts. He treats me like a prisoner, and my grandfather is too sick to stop him. So I'm asking you—all of you—how long before he does the same to you?" Murmurs rippled through the directors. An older man—Sterling, head of the audit committee—cleared his throat. "Miss Blackwell, this is highly irregular—" "Irregular?" Finley shrieked. "What's irregular is a stranger sitting in my grandfather's chair, making decisions about a company he has no blood right to!" Haiden set down the laser pointer. Very slowly, he stood up. His towering frame cast a shadow across the table. "Finley," he said, his voice soft and deadly, "you are going to leave this room. One way or another." She lifted her chin. "Make me." Haiden reached into his suit pocket and pulled out his phone. He tapped the screen twice, then turned it to face the directors. A video began to play. Finley's stomach dropped. It was footage from last week—her, stumbling out of a different club, drunk, screaming at a paparazzo, her dress halfway up her thighs. The sound was off, but the images spoke for themselves. "Miss Blackwell has struggled with substance abuse for years," Haiden said, his tone clinical. "Her grandfather has spent millions on rehab. She is not well. And she is certainly not competent to weigh in on corporate strategy." The directors' faces hardened. Sterling looked at Finley with pity. Another director shook his head. Finley's hands curled into fists. She wanted to scream that it wasn't true—or rather, that the drinking was a symptom, not the cause. That she had been playing the fool for so long, no one believed she could be anything else. But the truth was, she had cultivated this image. She had traded her reputation for freedom, and now the bill had come due. "You bastard," she whispered. Haiden stepped around the table. He grabbed her arm, his grip like iron, and began dragging her toward the doors. "Let go of me!" Finley thrashed, her heels skidding on the polished floor. She grabbed the edge of a chair, but he pried her fingers off one by one. The directors watched in uncomfortable silence as Haiden hauled her out of the boardroom and into the hallway. The moment the doors closed behind them, Haiden spun her around and slammed her against the glass wall. His face was inches from hers, his breath hot. "You want to play games?" he growled. "Fine. But you will lose every time. That video is now on every board member's phone. If you ever pull a stunt like this again, I will leak it to the press. Your reputation will be ash." Finley's chest heaved. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving behind a cold, familiar emptiness. She had lost this round. But she had learned something important: Haiden was prepared for her. He had footage waiting. Which meant he had been watching her long before tonight. She filed that knowledge away in the hidden compartment of her mind, next to the financial models she pretended not to understand. Haiden released her. He straightened his cuffs and looked at her with disgust. "The car is waiting. You're going back to Long Island. And if you run again, I will put a tracker on you." He grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward the elevator. Finley didn't fight this time. She let him lead her, her heels clicking a hollow rhythm on the marble floor. Downstairs, an armored SUV idled at the curb. Haiden shoved her into the backseat and climbed in after her. The doors locked. The vehicle pulled away. Finley stared out the tinted window, watching the Manhattan skyline disappear. Her reflection stared back at her—the smeared mascara, the snarled hair, the hollow eyes. She looked exactly like the mess everyone thought she was. That was the point. But behind those hollow eyes, a plan was forming. The London acquisition. The frozen accounts. The video. Haiden had shown his hand. Now she needed to find his weakness. She reached for the minibar inside the SUV, pulling out a small glass bottle of sparkling water. Her hands were still shaking. She twisted off the cap, but the pressure made the bottle erupt. The cap flew out of her grip, and the glass bottle slipped, crashing against the metal door jamb. A sharp shard sliced into her bare calf before she could pull her leg away. "Shit!" she hissed, looking down at the thin line of blood welling up on her skin. The cut was shallow but stinging. She pressed her palm against it, cursing under her breath. Haiden didn't even glance at her. He was already on his phone, barking orders in a low voice. Finley wrapped a cocktail napkin around the cut and leaned her head against the cold window. The pain was minor, but it would leave a mark. Just one more thing to remember this night by. And she had a feeling it had something to do with the little boy who had called him Daddy.