Trapped By The Ruthless Billionaire Husband

The bass in the Meatpacking District's VIP club vibrated so hard it rattled the ice in Finley's glass.

She held up a bottle of Ace of Spades champagne, throwing her head back in a loud, exaggerated laugh. The strobe lights flashed across her face, hiding the absolute deadness in her eyes. The trust fund kids around her cheered, oblivious to the fact that she wasn't looking at them at all.

Tinsley leaned in close, screaming some meaningless gossip over the deafening music.

Finley nodded, flashing a brilliant, empty smile. Beneath the edge of the table, her thumb swiped aimlessly across her phone screen, the bright display flashing with the latest high-end jewelry collections and designer handbags. Her heart beat as wildly as the heavy bass vibrating through the floorboards, a frantic rhythm that she hoped would drown out the suffocating emptiness echoing in her chest. She scrolled faster, pretending to care about the diamonds, just to keep her mind blank.

The heavy velvet door of the private booth burst open.

Four bodyguards in identical black suits shoved their way in. The music cut off abruptly. Someone screamed as the lead bodyguard marched straight toward Finley.

His face was a slab of granite. He snatched the champagne flute right out of her hand.

"Mr. Benton is in critical condition," the bodyguard said, his voice cutting through the sudden silence.

Finley's fake smile cracked. A cold sweat broke out on the back of her neck. Her grandfather.

She tried to rip her arm away from the bodyguard's grip. Her six-inch heels caught on the thick carpet, and she stumbled forward.

"Let go of me!" she yelled, but the men simply flanked her, half-dragging her toward the club's back exit.

A blast of freezing night air hit her face.

Before she could scream for help, she was shoved into the backseat of an armored SUV. The heavy doors slammed shut. The locks clicked into place with a sharp, final sound.

The SUV tore away from the curb. Finley slammed her fists against the tinted window, her chest heaving.

The bodyguard in the passenger seat turned and handed her a crisp, white medical waiver.

Finley's hands froze. She snatched the paper. The streetlights flickered across the text. Her stomach dropped to the floor.

At the very bottom of the critical care authorization, the signature read: Haiden Mitchell.

Bile rose in her throat. The sheer disgust of seeing his name mixed with a heavy, suffocating panic.

The tires screeched as the SUV plunged into the underground parking garage of Mount Sinai Hospital. The harsh, fluorescent lights stabbed at her eyes, making her squint.

The doors unlocked. Finley scrambled out, her heels clicking wildly against the concrete. She bolted for the elevator, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

The elevator doors slid open on the VIP floor. Finley rushed out and slammed directly into a solid wall of muscle.

A sharp scent of cold cedar and mint filled her lungs.

Large, warm hands gripped her shoulders,