The Billionaire's Doll: Her Secret Escape

The weight of Garrick Head's arm across Ever's chest was heavy enough to crush bone, or at least that was how it felt in the gray light of dawn. It was a tangible reminder of her place in this world-pinned, owned, and breathless.

Ever lay still, staring at the ceiling of the Manhattan penthouse. The plaster was intricate, hand-molded by artisans who probably went home to families they loved. Ever just went home to this. A sprawling, cold masterpiece of architecture that felt more like a mausoleum than a living space.

Garrick shifted in his sleep. His breathing was deep, rhythmic, the sleep of a man who had never questioned his right to take up space. Ever tried to inch away, moving a fraction of an inch at a time to avoid waking him. The silk sheets rustled, a sound that seemed deafening in the silence.

Suddenly, his arm tightened. It was a reflex, a subconscious clamp. He pulled her flush against his back, his face burying into the pillow near her shoulder.

"Cathy..."

The name was a low growl, vibrating with a dark, simmering resentment. It wasn't a lover's whisper; it was a curse. Ever's breath hitched. She froze, her muscles locking up as a cold wave of nausea washed over her.

Cathy.

He was dreaming of her again. Not with love, but with the specific, icy hatred he reserved for the woman who had destroyed his family. Or maybe he was dreaming of Imo, his brother's wife, the woman who bore the same face and the same burden of the Head family's tragic history. To him, that name was synonymous with weakness, with the ruin of his brother Esley. Hearing it from his lips was a reminder of why he viewed marriage as a trap and women as liabilities.

Ever lay there for a long moment, letting the humiliation settle into her bones. It was a familiar weight, one she carried alongside the diamond necklaces and the couture dresses he insisted she wear. She was the placeholder. The warm body. The distraction from the ghosts that haunted this bloodline.

Garrick stirred again. This time, his eyes opened.

Ever felt the change in him instantly. The vulnerability of sleep vanished, replaced by the cold, sharp awareness that defined him. He released her and sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed without a word. There was no morning kiss. No soft murmur of acknowledgment. Just the immediate, efficient transition from lover to titan of industry.

Ever sat up, pulling the silk robe tightly around herself. The air conditioning was always set too low, keeping the apartment in a perpetual state of winter. Her bare feet made no sound on the plush rug, but the moment she stepped onto the marble floor of the hallway, the cold bit into her skin.

She went to the kitchen. It was her routine. The one thing she did that felt somewhat domestic, even if it was just another form of