Trapped By My Sister's Billionaire Fiance

Alyssa Medina's fingers tightened around the satin ribbons of her pointe shoes until her knuckles turned white. She was trying to slip past the dead end of the backstage corridor at Lincoln Center when an arm shot out from the shadows and blocked her path. Her heart slammed against her ribs so hard she felt it in her throat.

"Going somewhere, little swan?"

Gregg Ashley stepped into the dim light. The smell of expensive cologne mixed with bourbon hit her first. Then his body. He moved closer, crowding her until her spine pressed against the cold brick wall and there was nowhere left to retreat.

"Mr. Ashley." Her voice came out steadier than she felt. "I have five minutes to curtain."

Gregg reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a plastic hotel keycard. He held it toward the neckline of her costume. Alyssa's hand shot up and smacked his wrist hard. The card clattered to the concrete floor.

His face darkened. He grabbed her chin, fingers digging into the soft flesh beneath her jaw. Alyssa didn't think. She lifted her foot and brought the hard box of her pointe shoe down on his leather oxford with all her weight.

Gregg howled and released her.

She didn't wait. She grabbed her skirt and ran, her breath ragged, her ankle screaming from the impact. The stage manager's voice echoed through her headset. "Places for Act One. Five minutes."

Alyssa forced the air into her lungs and pushed it down. By the time she reached the wings, her eyes had gone professional cold.

The curtain rose. The stage lights hit her retinas like physical blows. She took one breath and launched herself into the opening sequence. Her muscles obeyed. Her fingertips stopped trembling. No one in the audience could see the pain shooting through her left ankle with every landing.

Tchaikovsky swelled. She entered the fouetté turns, spotting a fixed point in the darkness beyond the footlights to keep her balance. Her rotation was perfect. Muscle memory carried her through sixteen counts.

Then her gaze drifted to the front row.

The VIP section sat in shadow, but she could make out the silhouette. A man in a dark suit, legs crossed, holding a program he wasn't reading. He was looking directly at her.

Alyssa's spot faltered. Her ankle twisted on the landing. White-hot pain lanced up her calf, but she didn't stop. She couldn't stop. She finished the sequence, held the final arabesque, and smiled through her teeth as the applause thundered.

The man in the front row never looked away. His eyes were dark, flat, predatory. He watched her like she was a painting he was considering buying.

She knew that face. She'd seen it on the front page of The Wall Street Journal. Cornell Knight. The name attached to more zeros than she could count. Something flickered in her memory, a ghost from ten years ago, but the pain in her ankle and the lights in her eyes made it