Captured By The Obsessive Billionaire King

Fredy stood in his private study, breathing heavily. He grabbed a priceless Ming dynasty vase from the mantel and hurled it against the wall. It shattered into dust.

Sylvia stood near the door, wringing her hands. "We cannot let that feral girl ruin our reputation, Fredy. She's out of control."

Fredy took a deep breath, forcing his heart rate down. A cold, mercenary light entered his eyes. "She's beautiful," he muttered. "And she's a Kramer. There's value in that. We just need to break her."

Half an hour later, the head butler knocked timidly on Helen's bedroom door. He held out a thick stack of legal documents.

"Mr. Gallagher requires your signature, miss," the butler said nervously. "It's the paperwork to legally change your surname to Gallagher."

Helen didn't even read the first line. She snatched the papers from his hands, walked over to the small paper shredder by the desk, and shoved the entire stack into the slot.

The machine whined and ground the documents into confetti.

"Tell him," Helen said over the noise, her voice like grinding stone, "I would rather die than carry his filthy name."

The butler wiped sweat from his upper lip and scurried away to report to Fredy.

Fredy ground his teeth together when he heard the news, but he swallowed his rage. He had a better trap to set.

At three in the afternoon, Candice kicked Helen's door open. Two maids followed her, their arms full of outdated, heavily sequined Chanel and Dior gowns.

Candice lifted her chin, looking down her nose at Helen. "These are my cast-offs," she sneered. "You can borrow one for the charity gala tomorrow night. Your trashy clothes will embarrass us."

Helen was sitting on the floor by the window. She had a heavy, antique pocket watch spread out on a towel, methodically calibrating a tiny metal gear with a micro-screwdriver, though the casing hid a highly advanced encrypted signal jammer. She didn't look up.

"I'm in mourning for my mother," Helen said flatly. "I don't wear neon garbage."

Candice's face flushed with anger. She marched forward, grabbing a hot pink dress from a maid, intending to throw it directly onto Helen's face.

Helen's eyes snapped up. Her wrist flicked.

A solid brass gear from the watch flew through the air with a sharp flick of her wrist. It grazed right past Candice's ear, shattering the heavy crystal vase on the hallway console table directly behind her head with a violent crack.

Candice screamed. She dropped the dress and stumbled backward, clutching her face in absolute terror.

Helen stood up slowly. She walked toward Candice, her presence filling the room with a suffocating pressure. "Take your trash and get out."

Candice burst into tears and ran down the hall. The maids dropped the dresses and fled.

That night, Fredy came to Helen's door. He didn't enter. He stood in the hallway, his voice hard.

"You will attend the Montgomery charity gala tomorrow night," Fredy demanded. "If you refuse, I will cut off every cent of funding to the nursing home where your grandmother is staying."

Inside the room, Helen's hands stopped moving. A violent, murderous rage spiked in her chest.

Her grandmother had been dead for years. Fredy didn't know that. He was using a ghost to blackmail her. It was a test of control.

Helen opened the door. She looked at Fredy's smug face. "Fine. I'll go."

Fredy smiled, a greasy, victorious look. He thought he had found her leash.

Helen watched him walk away. Her stomach twisted with disgust, but her mind was already calculating. She would use his gala to find the information she needed, and then she would burn his world down.

The Gallagher estate was in chaos the next afternoon.

A team of elite stylists and makeup artists swarmed Candice's bedroom, spraying perfume and pinning up her hair.

Helen's room was dead quiet. No one came to help her. She didn't care.

She reached into the very bottom of her canvas duffel bag and pulled out a simple, black velvet slip dress. It had no designer tags. Her mother had sewn it by hand years ago. The cut was flawless, designed to move like a second skin.

At six o'clock, Candice strutted down the hallway and stopped at Helen's open door. She was squeezed into a blindingly bright, diamond-encrusted gown.

Candice touched the massive diamond necklace resting on her collarbone. "Tonight is the most exclusive event in New York," she bragged, her voice shrill.

She leaned against the doorframe. "The guest of honor is Damian Montgomery. He runs the city. If I can get his attention tonight, everyone will bow to me."

Candice looked Helen up and down, waiting to see jealousy or insecurity on her face.

Helen stood in front of the mirror, calmly braiding her dark hair into a simple French plait. She raised one eyebrow.

"Do all the Montgomery men have a fetish for cheap disco balls?" Helen asked, her tone deadpan.

Candice gasped, her face turning ugly with rage. "You listen to me! You hide in the corner tonight! Don't you dare try to speak to anyone important!"

Helen didn't even look at her. She picked up her small black clutch. "Boring."

Candice let out a frustrated scream. She spun around and stomped down the hall. As she turned the corner, she crashed into a maid carrying a tray of water glasses.

Water splashed onto Candice's expensive hem. Candice shrieked and slapped the maid hard across the face.

Helen watched from her doorway. A cold knot of disgust tightened in her stomach.

At eight o'clock, the Gallagher limousines pulled up to a towering luxury hotel in Manhattan.

The red carpet was blinding. Flashbulbs exploded as Fredy and Sylvia posed for the paparazzi, pushing Candice to the front.

Helen hung back. She stepped out of the car and walked quickly past the cameras, keeping her head down.

The black velvet dress clung to her tall, athletic frame. She wore no jewelry, but her cold, untouchable aura made several wealthy guests turn their heads to stare at her.

Candice noticed the attention. She bit her lip so hard it bled, intentionally stepping in front of Helen to block her from view.

Helen ignored her. As soon as she stepped into the massive, gold-leafed ballroom, her eyes began to scan the architecture.

Her muscles tensed, her brain automatically mapping the exits, identifying the blind spots behind the pillars, and counting the armed security guards in plain clothes.

Just as she finished her mental map, a massive wave of noise rolled through the room.