TRAPPED IN MARRIAGE WITH THE RUTHLESS BILLIONAIRE

CHAPTER TEN

AVA‘S POV

“How much is your soul worth to you, Ava? Or have you already factored that into the asking price?”

The question hung in the air, cold and jagged as a shard of glass. Lucas didn't look up as he spoke. He was leaning back in his high-backed leather chair, a glass of amber liquid held loosely in his right hand. The ice clinked against the crystal, it gave a sharp, rhythmic sound that felt like a countdown in the oppressive silence of the study.

I stood in the doorway, my fingers curled so tightly into the fabric of my robe that my nails were biting into my palms. The shadows of the hallway were at my back, but the room ahead of me felt like a furnace of cold, calculating judgment.

“I’m not for sale, Lucas,” I said, my voice steadier than the trembling in my knees suggested.

“Everyone is for sale,” he countered, finally lifting his gaze. His eyes were like flint, striking sparks in the dim light of the desk lamp. “The only variable is the number of zeros. My grandfather thinks you’re a saint. My stepmother thinks you’re a parasite. I’m simply the man holding the pen that determines which one you get to be on paper.”

He gestured to the chair across from him. “Sit. We have business to discuss.”

LUCAS’S POV

I watched her move, and for a split second, I hated how effortless her grace was.

Ava Hart walked as if she were trying to leave as little of a footprint on the world as possible. It was a practiced modesty, a performance of humility that I had spent the last hour convincing myself was a lie. Everything about her irritated the hell out of me, from the way the servants whispered her name with reverence to the way she was currently sitting in my guest chair, looking like a sacrificial lamb who had already forgiven her executioner.

I slid the ten-page document across the ebony surface of the desk.

“That,” I said, nodding toward the stack of paper, “is the reality of your future. You’ve had years of playing the 'damsel in distress' under this roof while my grandfather picked up the tab. Consider this the clock striking midnight.”

I watched her eyes scan the title: PRE-NUPTIAL AGREEMENT.

I wanted to see the flinch. I wanted to see the sudden flash of calculation in her eyes as she realized I was cutting her off from the Carter billions before she even had the ring on her finger. I had seen that look a thousand times in boardrooms, in the eyes of my father’s "business partners," and most vividly, on Sonia’s face the night I realized she loved my portfolio more than my person.

But Ava didn't flinch. She didn't even blink.

She reached out, her fingers pale against the dark wood, and pulled the document toward her. The sound of the paper sliding across the desk felt like a blade being drawn over silk.

“Read Clause 4,” I prompted, taking a slow, burning sip of my Scotch. “It stipulates that in the event of a divorce, which we both know is an inevitability, you leave with exactly what you brought into this house. Which, if I recall correctly, was nothing but a name that had been dragged through the mud.”

I expected a gasp. A plea. Perhaps a tearful reminder of her "loyalty" to Nicholas.

Instead, there was only the crisp sound of a page turning.

I leaned forward, my shadow stretching across the desk until it touched her hands. “Do you understand what that means, Ava? It means if you’re doing this for the money, you’ve made a very poor investment. You’ll be my wife in name, you’ll share my table, and you’ll play your part for the cameras. But when the curtain falls, you’ll be right back where Nicholas found you.”

She looked up then. The lamplight caught the amber flecks in her dark eyes. There was no greed there, no fear, just a hollow, echoing exhaustion that made me feel like I was the one being scrutinized.

“Is that what you think this is?” she asked softly.

“I don’t ‘think,’ Ava. I observe. And I observe a woman who has managed to secure a billionaire’s inheritance by playing the role of the grateful ward. I’m just making sure the play has a very specific budget.”

AVA’S POV

The ink on the pages looked like barbed wire.

I read the words—waive, forfeit, exclude, terminate. Lucas was using legal language to tell me that I was an intruder. That I was a transaction he intended to close with as little loss as possible.

He thought he was hurting me. He thought he was stripping me of my hope.

What he didn't realize was that I had already survived the end of the world. The girl who had a home, a father who was a "respected businessman," and a future full of light. She died the day the movers carried our piano out of the house while the neighbors watched from behind their curtains with a mixture of pity and spite.

When you have slept on a thin piece of cardboard in a city that wants you to disappear, a document telling you that you won't get a "settlement" isn't a threat. It’s a relief.

“There’s a pen in the tray, Ava,” Lucas said. His voice was a low, dangerous rumble. “Unless you want to call a lawyer? Although, I imagine finding one who isn't already on my payroll might be a challenge.”

I looked at the gold fountain pen. It was a beautiful thing. It was heavy, expensive, and cold. Just like the man who owned it.

“I don’t need a lawyer, Lucas,” I said.

I picked up the pen. My hand was steady, more steady than it had been since the moment Nicholas made that announcement at breakfast. For years, I had lived in this house feeling like a guest who had overstayed her welcome. I had felt the weight of Nicholas’s kindness like a debt I could never repay.

But this? This was a contract. This, I understood.

If I signed this, I wasn't his "charity case" anymore. I was his partner in a lie. And in a lie, we were equals.

I flipped to the signature page, skipping the hundreds of lines that detailed how little I was worth.

“You aren't even going to read the monthly allowance?” Lucas asked, his voice sharp with sudden, genuine confusion.

“No,” I said, pressing the nib of the pen to the paper.

The ink flowed, dark and permanent. Ava Hart.

I set the pen down with a soft click. The sound seemed to echo in the vast, book-lined room.

“Why?” he demanded. He was standing now, his tall frame looming over the desk, his knuckles white where they gripped the edge of the ebony wood.

“Because you want to believe I’m here for the money, Lucas,” I said, standing up to meet his gaze. I felt a strange, cold peace. “If I read the numbers, I’m participating in your fantasy. If I sign it without looking, I’m telling you that your money is the least interesting thing about you.”

I saw the muscles in his jaw ripple. He looked like I had slapped him. For a man who used wealth as both a shield and a weapon, my indifference was a flaw in his armor.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Ava,” he hissed, stepping around the desk until he was inches from me. I could smell the Scotch on his breath, the scent of expensive soap, and the underlying heat of a man who was losing his grip on a situation. “Innocence is a very expensive mask to wear. Eventually, it slips.”

“It’s not a mask, Lucas,” I whispered, refusing to back away even though every instinct told me to run. “It’s all I have left. You’ve taken my name, you’ve taken my future, and tonight you’ve taken my right to your family’s legacy. But you don't get to take my dignity.”

I turned and walked toward the door.

“Ava!”

I stopped, my hand on the cold brass knob.

“Seventy-two hours,” he said, his voice dropping back into that clinical, detached tone. “Don't be late to the rehearsal. I’d hate for the press to think the bride had second thoughts.”

“Don't worry, Lucas,” I said, looking over my shoulder one last time. “I always finish what I start.”

I stepped out into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind me like the locking of a vault.

I was officially a Carter on paper. But as I walked through the dark, silent mansion, I realized that for the first time in years, I didn't feel like a ward.

I felt like an enemy. And in this house, an enemy was much safer to be than a friend.