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 6
The morning sun pierced through the gap in the heavy velvet curtains, hitting Finley right in the eyes.
She groaned, rolling over on the massive king-sized bed. Her hand reached out instinctively, but the sheets beside her were cold and perfectly flat.
Finley's eyes snapped open. She sat up. She wasn't on the sofa.
She looked down at her leg. A neat, white bandage covered the cut on her calf. Confusion washed over her, quickly replaced by a sharp spike of suspicion.
A soft knock came at the door before Brenda, the head maid, wheeled in a silver breakfast cart.
"Good morning, Mrs. Mitchell," Brenda said, keeping her eyes respectfully lowered. "Mr. Mitchell left the estate late last night. He has not returned."
Finley's stomach twisted into a hard knot. She let out a harsh, bitter laugh.
Of course. The hospital. The mistress. Any fleeting thought that he had carried her to bed out of kindness vanished, replaced by a burning, acidic anger.
She grabbed her phone from the nightstand to order coffee from her favorite place in the city.
The screen lit up with dozens of push notifications.
Page Six: Blackwell Heiress Carried Out of 1OAK in Tears! Trouble in Paradise on Night One?
Finley clicked the link. A massive, high-definition photo of Haiden throwing her over his shoulder filled the screen. Her dress was hiked up, only covered by his jacket. She looked like a complete mess.
"Son of a bitch," Finley hissed, throwing the phone onto the mattress.
Her chest heaved. She needed retail therapy. She grabbed her iPad, opened Net-a-Porter, and added three limited-edition bags to her cart.
She clicked 'Purchase'.
A red error message popped up: Transaction Declined.
Finley frowned. She pulled out her wallet and entered the details of her Chase Sapphire card.
Declined.
She tried her Amex.
Declined.
A cold sweat broke out across her forehead. She grabbed her phone and dialed her private wealth manager.
"What is going on with my accounts?" Finley demanded, her voice shaking.
"I'm so sorry, Miss Blackwell," the manager stammered. "Mr. Benton issued a direct order this morning. All your liquid assets and credit lines have been frozen indefinitely."
Finley dropped the phone. The blood drained from her face. They had cut off her oxygen.
Rage, hot and blinding, exploded in her chest. She threw off the covers, marched into the walk-in closet, and pulled out a blood-red, razor-sharp blazer and matching skirt.
Her hands trembled as she buttoned the blouse. The secret burner phone—the one she kept in a false-bottomed drawer—buzzed. She glanced at the screen. A message from an encrypted number she had memorized months ago, when she first started following the market on her own, teaching herself to read balance sheets and cash flow statements in the dead of night, away from prying eyes. "Jordan margin call approaching. Need update."
Finley's stomach clenched. The Jordan family. The old rivals her grandfather had never beaten. She had been quietly building a short position against their holding company for six months, using a shell company and an offshore broker she'd found through Tinsley's shady cousin. It was her secret war chest—or it would be, if it ever paid off. But the margin calls were eating her alive, and without access to her trust fund, she was one bad day away from getting wiped out.
She typed back: "Working on it. Hold." Then she deleted the thread, locked the phone, and shoved it back into the drawer.
An hour later, Finley's red-soled Christian Louboutins clicked furiously across the marble lobby of the Blackwell Industries headquarters in Manhattan.
The receptionist stood up, her eyes wide. "Miss Blackwell, you can't-"
Finley shot her a look so venomous the woman froze mid-sentence.
Finley swiped her grandfather's master keycard, stepped into the private executive elevator, and hit the button for the 68th floor. The elevator shot upward, her stomach dropping with the speed.
The doors dinged open.
Rhys, Haiden's assistant, jumped up from his desk outside the CEO's office. "Mrs. Mitchell, he is in a highly confidential transatlantic video conference. You cannot go in there."
Finley shoved Rhys hard in the chest. She grabbed the heavy walnut handles of the double doors and threw them open.
Haiden sat behind the massive mahogany desk. His eyes were bloodshot, dark circles bruising the skin beneath them. He looked exhausted. On the massive screen behind him, three European executives stared in shock.
Haiden's jaw locked. He leaned forward and hit a button on his console. "We will reconvene in ten minutes," he said coldly, cutting the feed.
Finley marched right up to the desk, slamming both hands down on the polished wood.
"You froze my cards," she snarled, her voice vibrating with fury.
Haiden leaned back in his leather chair. He steepled his fingers, his expression infuriatingly calm. "It is a consequence of the public relations disaster you caused last night."
Finley laughed, a sharp, hysterical sound. "My disaster? You spent your wedding night at a hospital with your whore! You don't get to lecture me about scandals!"
Haiden stood up. His massive frame cast a shadow over her, forcing her to tilt her head back to meet his eyes.
"You will play the role of the devoted wife until you turn twenty-five," Haiden said, his voice dangerously low. "You will obey my rules, or you will have absolutely nothing."
"I am not your puppet!" Finley screamed, her chest heaving. "I'll go to the press! I'll tell them everything about your little side piece!"
Haiden's hand shot out. He slammed his palm flat against the wall right beside her head, his massive frame caging her in completely. He leaned in close, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous warning that left no room for argument. "Do not test my patience, Finley," he whispered, his breath hot against her face.
Finley grabbed his wrist and yanked it away. She stumbled backward.
As she caught her balance, her eyes darted across his desk. A file folder sat half-open. The header read: Project London. The dense legal jargon and complex financial terms scattered across the page would have made most people's eyes glaze over. Finley scanned them in half a second. Her secret training kicked in: non-disclosure agreement, asset swap, earn-out clause. Nothing incriminating. But the name of a shell company caught her attention—a Caymans entity she had never seen before. She committed it to memory.
On the surface, she let her face go blank, the way she always did. "I can't understand any of this," she muttered, playing the part. But inside, her mind was racing.
Finley grabbed a heavy crystal paperweight from the edge of the desk and hurled it at the floor.
The crystal shattered into a dozen jagged pieces.
Haiden's eyes flared with rage. He hit the intercom button. "Security. Get up here and escort my wife out."
Finley backed toward the door, pointing a shaking finger at him. "I'm going to rip you out of that chair, Haiden. I swear to God."
She spun on her heel and stormed out of the office, her heels crunching over the broken glass.
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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.