The Night The CEO Claimed Me

The Morning After

Beauty’s POV

The sunlight hitting my face felt like a personal insult. I groaned, pulling the duvet over my head, trying to block out the reality of the previous night. My brain was a jagged mess of images: Marcus’s hand on Juliana’s waist, the cold rain on my skin, and the silver-grey eyes of Travis Pierce.

Travis Pierce.

I sat up abruptly, my head spinning. Had that actually happened? Had the most powerful man in the city really driven me home in a car that cost more than my apartment building? Had he really asked me to… marry him?

"It was the shock," I whispered to the empty room, rubbing my temples. My throat felt like I’d swallowed glass. "I was hallucinating from the cold. People like Travis Pierce don’t just offer marriage contracts to analysts they find on the side of the road."

I looked at my bedside table. No missed calls from Marcus. No "I’m sorry" texts. He was probably still wrapped in Juliana’s expensive sheets, laughing about the girl who was too "predictable" to keep. The thought brought a fresh sting to my eyes, but I forced it down. I couldn't afford to cry. My father was offshore again working the oil rigs where the reception was spotty and the shifts were brutal. He only came home on some weekends, leaving me as the de facto "sensible one" of the house. If I fell apart, the whole house felt the tremor.

A sharp, rhythmic knock on my bedroom door shattered my thoughts.

"Beauty! Mom says if you don’t come down now, she’s giving your bacon to the dog! And she's making the 'special' coffee, so you know she's in a mood!"

It was Dave, my fifteen-year-old brother. He didn't wait for an answer before pushing the door open, his school tie hanging lopsided around his neck. He stopped mid-stride, eyeing the ruined emerald dress crumpled on the floor like a dead, glittery snake.

"Whoa. Did you get into a fight with a lawnmower?" he asked, pointing at the mud-stained silk crumpled on the floor. "And why do you look like you’ve been haunted?"

"Get out, Dave," I croaked, reaching for my robe. "And don't touch the dress. It’s... trash now."

"Mom’s on a warpath," he added, leaning against the doorframe with the typical annoying energy of a younger brother. "She’s been up since six making a 'celebration breakfast' because she thinks you and Marcus had some big engagement last night. She saw the dress on the floor through the c***k in the door and assumed you were too 'distracted' to hang it up."

I felt a fresh wave of nausea. Mrs. Whitefield loved a good romantic ending. To her, Marcus was the "nice young lawyer" who was going to take her daughter away from spreadsheets and into a life of country clubs and safety. She didn't know that the "safety" she craved for me was bought with Juliana’s money.

"There’s no engagement, Dave. Tell her I’ll be down in a second."

I scrubbed my face in the bathroom, staring at the stranger in the mirror. My eyes were puffy, and there was a faint scratch on my cheek from a stray branch on the road. I looked like a disaster. I pulled my hair into a tight, professional bun, dressed up and headed downstairs, my heart heavy with the task of breaking my mother's heart.

The kitchen smelled of burnt toast and maple syrup. My mother was humming, flipping pancakes with a vigor that usually meant she was planning a wedding in her head.

"There she is!" she chirped, turning around with a beaming smile. "So? Don't keep your mother in suspense. Did he do it? I told your father on the satellite call this morning that a Greenwich gala was the perfect place for a ring. He’s so excited to see you this weekend."

I pulled out a chair, the wood creaking under me. "Mom, sit down. Please."

The tone of my voice made her stop. She set the spatula aside, her smile faltering as she wiped her hands on her floral apron. "Beauty? What’s wrong? Did you guys have a fight? It's just nerves, honey, men get scared"

"It’s over," I said, the words feeling like lead. "Marcus and I are done. He... he wasn't who I thought he was. He’s been with Juliana. The car, the clothes... she bought him."

"Oh, Beauty..." She moved toward me, her face crumbling, but before she could start the inevitable interrogation or the "I told you so's" about high-society girls, a heavy, authoritative thumping sounded at the front door.

Dave beat us to it, sprinting from the living room. "I'll get it! Maybe it's the delivery guy!"

"If that's Marcus coming to apologize, I'm going to hit him with this pan," my mother muttered, her protective streak finally overriding her disappointment.

But it wasn't Marcus.

"Uh, Beauty?" Dave’s voice came from the hallway, sounding uncharacteristically small. "There’s a guy in a suit outside. And a car that looks like an armored tank for celebrities parked in our driveway."

My heart did a violent, painful somersault. I stood up, my legs feeling like they were made of water, and walked to the door.

Standing on our modest porch was a man in a crisp black suit, holding a tablet. Behind him, idling silently against the curb, was a black Cadillac-Escalade with tinted windows so dark they looked like ink. It looked completely out of place against our neighbor's rusted minivan and the basketball hoop over our garage.

"Ms. Whitefield?" the man asked, his voice a smooth, professional baritone. "Mr. Pierce sent me. He’s expecting you at eight o'clock sharp."

I looked at the clock on the wall. 7:45 AM. Travis Pierce didn't just give orders; he enforced them.

"Beauty, who is that?" my mother asked, peering over my shoulder, her eyes widening as she took in the luxury vehicle. "Is that a chauffeur? Since when do you have a chauffeur? Did your father get a massive bonus offshore?"

"It's... it's for work, Mom," I lied, my mind racing at a hundred miles an hour. "A special project. A high-priority audit. I have to go, or I'll lose the opportunity."

"In your old work suit? And without breakfast?" she asked, grabbing a piece of toast and trying to shove it into my hand.

"I'll eat at the office." I grabbed my bag, not daring to look back at the confusion on her face or the way Dave was currently filming the car for his social media.

I walked down the steps, the cool morning air hitting my face. As the driver opened the heavy door for me, the scent of expensive leather and Travis Pierce’s cedarwood cologne hit me, and I realized there was no turning back.

Travis wasn't joking. He was waiting. And in my world, you didn't keep the Ice King waiting, especially when he was offering you a way to burn down the old world that had just betrayed you.