Claimed By The Ruthless Billionaire Boss

The heavy silk of the haute couture wedding dress felt like a straightjacket.

Cordelia stood in the center of the Plaza Hotel's VIP dressing room. She pulled a deep breath into her lungs, trying to ease the tight pressure in her chest.

Tonight was her engagement party. It was supposed to be the night she secured her future.

On the polished mahogany vanity, her backup work phone suddenly lit up. The harsh white glare cut through the dim, warm lighting of the room.

Cordelia frowned. Only her private assistant, Rosa, had this number.

She walked over and picked up the device. Her thumb swiped across the screen.

It wasn't a text from Rosa. It was an anonymous, encrypted email. The subject line was empty. The only content was a cloud video link that required no password.

A cold prickle of unease crawled up the back of her neck.

She tapped the link. The screen buffered for a second before a high-definition security feed filled the display.

The time stamp in the corner indicated the footage was from exactly one hour ago. The location was the penthouse suite of this very hotel.

Cordelia's breath hitched.

On the screen, her fiancé, Julian, was pushed against the edge of a king-sized bed. His hands were tangled in the blonde hair of the woman straddling him.

The woman threw her head back and laughed.

It was Isabelle. Cordelia's stepsister.

"Julian, stop," Isabelle moaned in the video, her voice echoing through the phone's small speaker. "What if Cordelia comes up here?"

"She won't," Julian panted, his mouth moving down Isabelle's neck. "She's busy playing the perfect bride. Besides, you said you took care of her staff."

"I did." Isabelle smirked, looking down at him. "A hundred thousand dollars was all it took for Marlene to send Rosa away on a fake errand. We have the whole floor to ourselves."

Cordelia's stomach violently dropped.

A wave of pure, acidic nausea rushed up her throat. She clamped a hand over her mouth, swallowing down the bile.

Her heart kicked into a frantic, painful rhythm against her ribs.

She stared at the screen. Her fingers gripped the edges of the phone so tightly that her knuckles turned a stark, bone-white. The metal casing dug into her palm, but she couldn't feel the pain.

Four years of building a relationship. Four years of compromising her own architectural firm to support his family's business.

All of it was a lie.

The shock only lasted for ten seconds. Then, the cold set in.

It started in her fingertips and spread through her veins like ice water, freezing the nausea and replacing it with a sharp, absolute fury.

Cordelia didn't cry. She didn't scream.

She tapped the screen, copied the video file, and opened her messaging app. She found the contact for the AV technician working the ballroom tonight-a college student she had personally sponsored two years ago.

She pasted the file and typed a single sentence: Play this on the main