Bound To The Disabled Apocalyptic Tycoon

Jessie's eyes snapped open.

The blinding glare of the crystal chandelier stabbed into her retinas like shattered glass. She gasped, a harsh, ragged sound, as her hands instinctively flew to her throat. Her fingers dug into her own skin, frantically searching for the jagged, torn flesh where the mutated hound had ripped out her windpipe just seconds ago.

There was no blood. No rotting stench of the apocalypse. Just the smooth, unblemished skin of her neck and the suffocating scent of expensive vanilla room spray.

A heavy stack of paper slapped against the glass coffee table, the sharp smack vibrating through the velvet sofa where Jessie sat.

"Sign it," Brenda snapped.

Jessie's lungs burned as she sucked in a breath of clean, unpolluted air. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, somatic rhythm that told her she was alive. She dragged her gaze away from the ceiling and focused on the woman standing over her. Brenda Aguilar. Her biological mother.

Martin stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, adjusting his silk tie with stiff, jerky movements. "You will marry the Ramsey heir. The family needs this capital injection, Jessie. It's the least you can do after we brought you back from that Rust Belt wasteland."

Jessie's stomach plummeted, not from fear, but from the sheer, dizzying reality of the moment. She was back. Back in the Manhattan penthouse. Back to the exact day they sold her off to a paralyzed man to save their own skin.

Across the room, sitting on a single designer chair, Harley dabbed at her perfectly dry eyes with a tissue. "Mom, Dad, please," Harley choked out, her voice trembling with practiced fragility. "I'll do it. I'll marry him. I can't let my sister ruin her life for me."

Brenda rushed over, wrapping her arms protectively around Harley. "Don't be ridiculous, sweetheart. You are a delicate girl. Jessie grew up in Pennsylvania, shoveling dirt. She has no manners, no future. She is perfectly suited to take care of a cripple."

Jessie slowly lowered her hands from her neck. Her pulse began to steady, the frantic drumming fading into a cold, heavy beat. She looked at the three of them. Her blood relatives. The same people who, three years from now, would shove her into a swarm of infected corpses just to buy themselves ten seconds to run.

Jessie stood up. Her heels sank into the plush Persian rug, the sound muffled to a dull thud.

Martin's jaw tightened. He took a step forward, his hand hovering near his phone. He thought she was going to scream. He thought she was going to tear the gold-stamped marriage agreement to shreds.

Instead, Jessie picked up the heavy Montblanc pen resting beside the papers.

She pulled the cap off.

Harley's fingers twisted the fabric of her silk dress, her eyes gleaming with a sick, hidden anticipation. She wanted Jessie to throw a tantrum. She wanted Jessie to prove she was white trash.

Jessie didn't even blink. She flipped to the