Married To The Ruthless Billionaire Husband

The heavy revolving doors of the Waldorf Astoria pushed the biting New York winter wind away. Adaline Bennett stepped into the heated lobby. The sudden change in temperature made her skin prickle.

She looked down at the expensive paper bag in her arms. Inside rested a custom-tailored shirt for Baker. Her fiancé. She adjusted her grip on the bag, trying to smooth out the wrinkles on her own cheap coat.

A lobby manager in a pristine suit cast a brief, calculating glance at her wind-tangled hair. It was the kind of look that weighed her net worth and found it lacking.

Adaline bit the inside of her cheek. She ignored the burn of his stare and walked straight past the front desk. She headed directly for the VIP elevator bank hidden behind a wall of frosted glass.

She reached into her coat pocket. Her fingers brushed against the cold plastic of the black keycard Baker had given her. She pulled it out and tapped it against the sensor panel.

A small green light flashed. The elevator button illuminated in a stark red, indicating a direct, non-stop route to the presidential suites on the eighth floor.

The doors slid open. She stepped inside. The elevator shot upward with a sudden, aggressive speed. The loss of gravity made her stomach cramp. Acid rose in her throat, mixing with the exhaustion that had been sitting in her bones for weeks.

The elevator chimed. The metal doors glided apart.

A dimly lit, silent hallway stretched out before her. The air up here smelled different. It smelled like money, quiet and suffocating.

She stepped onto the thick wool carpet. Her boots made no sound. She pulled out her phone, checking the text message Baker had sent her earlier. Room 802.

She walked down the corridor, her vision blurring from the sheer, bone-deep exhaustion weighing her down. In the dim, suffocating light of the hallway, she misread the brass numbers and stood in front of the heavy mahogany door of 801. She reached for the handle, but her fingers froze.

The door was already cracked open.

A sliver of darkness spilled out into the hallway. From that narrow gap, the sharp scent of expensive cedarwood drifted out, heavily laced with the raw, burning smell of hard liquor.

"Baker?" Adaline called out softly. Her voice was a fragile thread in the heavy silence.

She pushed the door open and stepped into the entryway.

Behind her, the heavy hydraulic closer caught the door. It swung shut with a solid, terrifying click. The lock engaged.

The suite was pitch black. The heavy blackout curtains were drawn tight, sealing off the glowing New York skyline. It was a sensory void. She couldn't see her own hand in front of her face.

Adaline reached out, her hand sliding along the wall, searching for a light switch.

Instead of smooth wallpaper, her fingertips brushed against something scorching hot. It was bare skin. Hard muscle.

Before she could pull her hand back, a