Claimed by the Cold-Hearted Tycoon

The crimson silk sheets sprawled beneath her like a sea of heat and want. Kirsten Clarke lay tangled in them, wrapped in the heady warmth of Marion Ballard's body. His kisses weren't sweet—they were hard, desperate, like waves crashing in a storm. He devoured her lips, forced her mouth open, and claimed her like a conqueror with no mercy. This was their new home. She'd designed every inch of it with love, filled it with warmth, dreams, and the hope of a fresh start. But Marion had turned that warmth into fire—wild, consuming, impossible to control. Her body gave in under his expert touch, nerves unraveling with each stroke. She arched her neck, offering it like a swan baring its throat. His hand slid under her nightgown, just about to take things further... A sharp vibration shattered the moment. The phone on the nightstand buzzed again and again, breaking the heat between them. Marion froze, jaw tight, clearly annoyed. He gave her lip a possessive bite before reaching over and grabbing the phone. "What is it?" His voice dropped, cold and sharp. On the other end, Brixton Russell—his best friend—sounded frantic. Kirsten couldn't make out the words, but she saw the way Marion's gaze flicked toward her. That one look—it wasn't affection. It was something else. Calculating. "Perché l'hai sposata?" Brixton asked. (Why did you marry her?) Kirsten's flushed cheeks drained of color. Then, Marion spoke. In Italian. "Parli di Verena?" His voice lowered, a warning in every word. (You're talking about Verena?) Brixton's voice boomed through the receiver, heated and incredulous. "Certo! Mentre continui a illudere Kirsten! Hai perso la testa? Hai registrato il matrimonio con Verena, cosa pensi di fare con Kirsten?" (Of course! While you're still stringing Kirsten along! Are you out of your mind? You already registered a marriage with Verena, what are you going to do about Kirsten?) It felt like lightning cracked right over her head. Kirsten's world shattered. Her blood ran cold. The heat of their earlier intimacy vanished, leaving only a bitter chill behind. She couldn't breathe. Couldn't speak. Her face drained of color as she stared at the man beside her. Marion sensed her shift. He turned toward her, covering the phone's speaker with one hand, voice full of fake concern. "What's wrong, Kirstie? You okay?" She nodded numbly, forcing a weak smile that barely held together. Marion seemed convinced. He got up, his bare chest catching the light as he strode to the floor-to-ceiling window. With his back to her, he kept speaking in Italian, his voice low and full of grim resolve. "La famiglia Sanderson voleva darla in sposa a quel vecchio pervertito. Non potevo restare a guardare." (The Sandersons were going to marry her off to that old creep. I couldn't just watch.) "Sai che le devo molto." (You know I owe her.) "Terrò questa faccenda nascosta. Per quanto riguarda Kirsten, le darò un certificato di matrimonio falso. Lei non lo scoprirà mai." (I'll keep this under wraps. As for Kirsten, I'll give her a fake marriage certificate. She'll never find out.) "Lei è troppo semplice, non sospetterà nulla." (She's too naive. She won't suspect a thing.) Kirsten froze. Every word hit like a dagger to her chest. The engagement ring on her finger burned. She clenched the sheets so tight her knuckles turned white, the delicate fabric nearly tearing under her grip. She'd spent countless nights learning Italian, the so-called language of love, just to feel closer to him. To stop feeling like an outsider when he chatted with foreign clients. To understand his world a little better. She'd wanted to surprise him at their wedding with a heartfelt "Ti amo." Now that same language had ripped her soul open. What had she gotten in return? A betrayal so deep, it cut her to the bone. The phone call ended. Moonlight through the window carved out Marion's perfect profile—like some Greek god carved in ice, too beautiful to be real, too cold to be human. He came back to the bed, kissed her forehead like nothing happened. "Sorry, babe. That kinda killed the mood. Want to pick up where we left off?" Kirsten flinched. Pulled away. Marion paused, his eyes narrowing with a flicker of suspicion. Silence. Then, ding, his phone lit up again. A custom w******p alert. He glanced at it. His expression softened instantly. Then, without another word to her, he jumped out of bed and started buttoning up his shirt. "Work emergency. Gotta go. Be good, okay? I'll make it up to you." He didn't even look back. The door clicked shut. To Kirsten, it sounded like the end of everything. She crumpled in on herself, hugging her knees to her chest. Her sobs came fast and silent, shaking her whole body. Tears soaked her nightgown, burned her cheeks. The crimson sheets mocked her now. They weren't passion anymore. They were blood. Memories slammed into her. The first time she met Marion, he was teaching her to play pool—his warm chest against her back, his hands guiding hers on the cue. "Kirstie," he'd whispered in her ear, "you don't need to know a thing. Just stand by me, I'll handle everything." For his birthday, she'd stayed up for nights on end, hand-translating his favorite obscure Italian poetry book, combing through dictionaries to get every word just right. She thought it proved how deep their love ran. Now? It all felt like a cruel joke. A twisted test she didn't know she was taking. She had sacrificed her career for him, reshaped herself into the perfect woman, and even learned Italian just to feel like she belonged in his world. But the truth hit her like a slap—every step she'd taken toward him hadn't brought her closer. It had only led her deeper into a cage he'd built, wrapped in the illusion of love. Verena Sanderson. That's who he really cared about. Morning broke slowly. Pale light crept across the room and landed on Kirsten's ashen face. She sat up. Her eyes were dry now—no more tears left. They looked empty. With trembling hands, she reached for her phone. She scrolled through her contacts. Found the name. And pressed call. On the other end, a voice answered. "Kirsten?" It was Marion's mother. Lauren Ballard. Kirsten took a breath. Her voice came out hoarse but steady. "Mrs. Ballard, I'm taking your offer." "I'm leaving Marion." She paused. Then said it, clear as day. "I want five hundred million dollars."