Bound To The Cold Tycoon

9 : The Trap

The invitation had arrived that morning, slipped into an elegant white envelope with embossed gold lettering. A charity gala, hosted by the Whitmore Foundation. Amelia knew the name—an event attended by New York’s most influential women.

She didn’t ask Alexander for permission. She didn’t even tell him. After his outburst the night before, every instinct screamed at her to show she wasn’t just his silent possession.

So when evening came, Amelia dressed herself in a sleek black gown, her hair pinned into a graceful twist. As she arrived at the venue, flashes from photographers nearly blinded her, the crowd buzzing at the unexpected appearance of Mrs. Stone—without her husband.

Inside, the ballroom was alive with chatter and candlelight. Amelia drew steady breaths, keeping her shoulders straight, her smile polite. She could do this. She would prove she belonged in this world, with or without Alexander by her side.

It was going well—until Clara appeared.

“Amelia,” Clara purred, gliding toward her in a gown of emerald silk that shimmered under the chandeliers. “What a surprise. Out without your husband? How… bold.”

Amelia’s pulse quickened, but she forced her expression into calm neutrality. “It’s a charity event, Clara. No one needs a chaperone.”

“Oh, but the press won’t see it that way,” Clara said sweetly, gesturing to the corner where photographers lurked like vultures. “A lonely bride, abandoned by her husband? It makes quite the headline, don’t you think?”

Before Amelia could respond, a waiter passed by with champagne. Clara snatched a glass and “accidentally” tipped it forward, spilling golden liquid across Amelia’s gown. Gasps rippled through the crowd as Amelia froze, the cold drink soaking her bodice.

“Oh, dear,” Clara said with mock sympathy. “So clumsy of me. Though I must admit, black does suit tragedy better.”

The whispers began at once. Cameras clicked furiously. Humiliated. Rejected. Alone. The words buzzed like hornets in Amelia’s ears.

Her throat tightened, but she refused to crumble. Slowly, deliberately, she set her own glass down, straightened, and looked Clara dead in the eye.

“You’re right,” she said evenly. “Black does suit tragedy. Pity it isn’t mine you’ll be writing about.”

With that, she lifted the corner of the soaked fabric, sweeping past Clara with regal poise, ignoring the whispers and the stares.

But as she reached the door, the crowd parted—and there he was.

Alexander Stone, tall and commanding in his tailored suit, his storm-gray eyes locked on her. His jaw was set, his fury barely contained as he took in the scene: the ruined gown, the cameras, Clara’s triumphant smirk.

The room fell silent.

Alexander crossed the floor in long strides, his hand wrapping firmly around Amelia’s waist. His voice cut through the tension like a blade.

“Take your pictures,” he snarled at the paparazzi. “And make sure the headline reads this: She is my wife. And anyone who touches her answers to me.”

Gasps filled the air as he swept Amelia from the ballroom, leaving Clara’s smile frozen in place.