The Coldhearted Billionaire's Violent Possession

The air in the Long Island Warner estate ballroom was too thick. It tasted like expensive champagne, melted wax, and a suffocating amount of old money.

Gisele stood in the darkest corner she could find, her spine pressed hard against the silk-lined wall. Her lungs burned. Every time she tried to take a breath, the invisible corset of anxiety around her ribs pulled tighter.

She didn't belong here. Her cheap, off-the-rack black dress screamed Brooklyn, while the women around her floated in custom couture. But she couldn't leave. The final notice from the hospital billing department was burning a hole in her cheap clutch. She needed Channing. She needed her boyfriend to stop ignoring her and write the check he had promised.

Above her, the massive crystal chandelier flickered.

Once. Twice.

Then, a loud pop echoed through the cavernous room, and the entire ballroom plunged into absolute, pitch-black darkness.

Gasps and the shattering of dropped crystal glasses erupted from the crowd.

Gisele didn't hesitate. This was her chance. She pushed off the wall, slipping through the panicked bodies. She knew the layout of the estate. She knew Channing retreated to his private study on the second floor when he was bored with his family's parties.

She navigated the grand staircase by memory, her hand trailing along the cold mahogany banister. Her heart hammered against her sternum. The image of her mother's pale face in the hospital bed flashed behind her eyelids, forcing her legs to move faster.

She reached the end of the second-floor hallway. Her fingers found the heavy brass handle of the oak door. It was slightly ajar.

She pushed it open and slipped inside.

The study was a void of darkness. The only light came from the faint, silver glow of the moon filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. It cast a harsh silhouette of a tall, broad-shouldered man standing with his back to her, staring out at the grounds.

A crisp, intoxicating scent hit her senses. Cedarwood and sharp bergamot. The custom cologne the Warner men had blended exclusively in Paris.

Relief washed over her, making her knees weak. It was Channing.

Gisele kicked off her heels. They sank into the thick Persian rug, completely silencing her footsteps. She crossed the room, her desperation overriding her usual hesitation. She needed him to listen. She needed him to care.

She stepped right behind him, wrapping her arms tightly around his narrow waist. She pressed her cheek against the solid wall of his back.

The man's entire body went rigid.

It wasn't a subtle stiffening. The muscles beneath his tailored suit jacket locked into stone. He stopped breathing.

Gisele didn't notice the danger. She was too focused on the crushing weight in her chest.

"Please don't be mad at me," she whispered into the expensive fabric of his jacket, her voice trembling. "You've been ignoring me all night. I need you. I need your help with the project... with everything."

He didn't push her away. He didn't speak. The