Healed By The Ruthless Billionaire's Touch

Abigail pushed through the heavy glass doors of Vance Media headquarters. Her heels clicked sharply against the pristine marble floor.

She gripped the leather folder in her right hand. Inside was the finalized investment contract. It was a lifeline for the company, and she couldn't wait to see the look on Preston's face.

The receptionist at the front desk jerked upright. Her eyes widened in a sudden, frantic panic.

She opened her mouth, her hand reaching for the desk phone.

Abigail noticed the erratic movement. She offered a warm smile and waved her hand, signaling that no announcement was necessary.

She bypassed the desk and walked straight to the executive elevator. The receptionist found her voice, half-standing. "Ms. Bruce, wait, you can't-!"

Abigail stopped dead. She slowly turned her head. She locked eyes with the terrified girl and delivered a single, ice-cold glare that promised absolute professional destruction if she spoke another word. The receptionist swallowed hard, her hand dropping away from the phone, paralyzed by the sheer authority radiating from Abigail.

Abigail swiped her keycard. The doors slid shut, cutting off the receptionist's pale, defeated face.

The elevator chimed at the top floor. The doors parted.

The hallway was dead silent. The heavy blinds of the CEO's office were pulled tight, blocking out the California sun.

Abigail walked over the thick carpet. She stopped in front of Preston's solid mahogany door.

She raised her knuckles to knock.

A sound leaked through the narrow crack of the door.

It was a wet, breathless moan.

Abigail's knuckles froze in the air. Her lungs stopped expanding.

"Preston..."

The voice was sweet. Too sweet. It belonged to Lorelai Thorne, the agency's top-tier actress. The woman Preston publicly claimed as his stepsister.

Abigail's stomach dropped. A cold sweat broke out across her neck.

She leaned forward. Her body moved without her permission. She pressed her ear near the cold wood.

"Someone will see us," Lorelai giggled, her tone dripping with raw invitation.

"Let them," Preston's voice rumbled. It was the same voice that whispered he loved Abigail every night. "As long as I have that scarred, ugly bitch playing the perfect shield, no one will ever suspect a thing."

The words hit Abigail like a physical blow to the chest.

A sharp, violent spike of pain erupted in her left cheek. The thick, jagged scar tissue burned as if someone had pressed a lit match against her skin.

She bit down on her lower lip. Hard.

The metallic taste of blood flooded her mouth. It forced her to swallow her own scream.

The crushing weight of sadness vanished. It was instantly replaced by a cold, clinical numbness. Her brain shifted into a terrifying state of absolute clarity.

She placed her palm flat against the wood. She pushed the door open just a fraction of an inch.

Her eyes adjusted to the dim light.

A custom-made couture gown lay discarded on the Persian rug. Preston's silk tie was tangled in the tulle.

On the leather