Trapped By The Coldhearted Billionaire's Game

A sharp, splitting pain drilled through Cassidy Fox's skull, yanking her up from the deep, dark void of unconsciousness.

She forced her eyes open, her lashes sticking together. The room spun in a lazy, nauseating circle before slowly snapping into focus. This was not her bedroom. The ceiling was too high, the air too cold, and the surface beneath her was impossibly soft, like lying on a cloud of pure silk.

She tried to push herself up, but her limbs felt filled with wet sand, heavy and uncooperative. Thick, blackout curtains draped over the massive windows, swallowing the room in a heavy, suffocating dusk. Only a thin sliver of light cut through the gap, slicing across the floor like a blade.

The penthouse sprawled around her—an open-plan expanse of marble and velvet, the sleeping area flowing seamlessly into a sitting room, with a private study visible through a half-open door to the left. It was beautiful and terrifying in equal measure, a gilded cage designed by someone with infinite money and no soul.

Clink. Clink.

The sharp, rhythmic sound of ice cubes hitting crystal made her heart stutter. She whipped her head toward the sound, the sudden movement sending a fresh wave of agony through her temples.

A silhouette stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, tall and imposing, holding a glass. The neon lights of Manhattan bled through the glass, carving out the hard, uncompromising line of his jaw. He turned slowly, the amber liquid swirling in his glass, and his eyes locked onto her. They were cold, assessing, looking at her the way a buyer looks at damaged goods.

Jaret Taylor.

Panic, cold and sharp, flooded her chest. Cassidy scrambled backward on the mattress, her fingers clutching the heavy velvet duvet. She wrapped it tightly around her trembling body, her voice cracking as she spoke.

"Where am I? Why am I here?"

He didn't answer. He just walked toward her. His Italian leather shoes made no sound on the plush carpet, but the sheer presence of him, the oppressive weight of his authority, pressed the air from her lungs.

When he reached the edge of the bed, he casually flicked his wrist. A smartphone landed on the mattress right in front of her knees, the screen lighting up on impact.

Cassidy stared at the screen. Her blood turned to ice in her veins.

The image burned into her retinas. It was a photo, explicit and damning. A man and a woman tangled in white sheets, their faces clearly visible. The man was Burt Reese. Her Burt. The woman was a stunning blonde she had never seen before, wearing a massive diamond ring that caught the camera flash.

Cassidy's stomach roiled. She wanted to look away, but the timestamp and the intimate, sweaty details held her gaze hostage. There was no explaining this away. No room for denial.

"Your boyfriend," Jaret's voice was a low, mocking rasp above her head, "slept with my fiancée."

The words hit her like a physical