Escaping My Vicious Billionaire Husband

The sound of the shower was still running in the bathroom when the bedroom door swung open. Alistair Pemberton stood in the doorway. His face was pinched with disdain. Two maids with hard expressions flanked him. "The master will not have you sullying his linens," Alistair announced, his voice devoid of any warmth. "He ordered your relocation to the basement. He expects the stylists to fix whatever damage the night air might do." One of the maids marched over to the sofa. She grabbed Colette's arm and yanked her upward. Colette groaned as her bruised back protested, but she didn't fight back. She had no energy left. The other maid pulled a black plastic trash bag from her apron. She swept Colette's lone sneaker and her cheap jacket off the floor, tossing them into the bag like garbage. They pushed Colette out of the master suite. They didn't take the grand staircase. Instead, they shoved her down a narrow, steep set of wooden stairs meant for the servants. The further down they went, the colder the air became. The smell of mildew and damp earth filled her lungs. The overhead lights flickered, casting long, eerie shadows on the concrete walls. They reached the end of the hall. A maid shoved open a chipped wooden door and pushed Colette inside. The heavy door slammed shut. The deadbolt clicked loudly into place. "Keep quiet," Alistair's voice came through the wood. "Do not test the master's temper." Colette stood in the center of the tiny room. A single yellow bulb hung from a wire on the ceiling. There was a narrow cot with a thin mattress against the wall. The room was suffocating. It smelled faintly of damp mildew and old dust, and the freezing cold radiating from the concrete floor seeped through her thin sneaker and numbed her bare toes, sending a familiar, terrifying chill up her spine. She felt as though she had merely been transferred from one concrete cage to another, more exquisite prison. Her legs gave out. She collapsed onto the edge of the cot. The wooden slats shrieked in protest. The silence of the night pressed in on her. Suddenly, the image of her father's warm smile flashed behind her eyes. Then, the horrific thought of his body falling from the top of the Wheeler building ripped through her mind. She clamped both hands over her mouth to muffle the agonizing sob that tore out of her throat. Tears poured down her face, soaking into the rough, musty fabric of the mattress. The basement was freezing. The damp cold seeped through her thin clothes, sinking straight into her bones. She pulled her knees to her chest, shivering violently in the dark. Outside, the wind howled off the Long Island Sound, rattling the tiny, dirt-caked window near the ceiling. She didn't sleep. She couldn't. She stared at a water stain on the concrete ceiling until her eyes burned. Hours later, a sliver of pale gray light crept through the dirty glass. Morning. Colette's eyes were swollen to the size of golf balls. Her skin was the color of ash. The deadbolt snapped open. The sudden flood of bright hallway light made her flinch. Three maids stormed into the room. They grabbed her by the arms and hauled her to her feet, dragging her out of the basement and up to the second floor. They pushed her into a massive, brightly lit dressing room. Julian, a top-tier celebrity makeup artist, and Roxanne, an elite stylist, were waiting with their assistants. Julian grabbed Colette's chin, turning her face left and right. He clicked his tongue in disgust. "Look at this disaster. She looks like a corpse." Roxanne carefully unzipped a garment bag, revealing a breathtaking, pure white haute couture gown. They forced Colette into a chair in front of a massive Hollywood mirror. For two hours, it was pure physical torture. Heavy concealer was spackled over her bruised cheek and dark circles. Hairpins scraped aggressively against her scalp as her hair was pulled into an intricate updo. Cold setting spray hit her face like ice water. When they finally forced her into the gown, she stood in front of the full-length mirror. The woman staring back at her was flawless. Radiant. Expensive. But her eyes were completely dead. She looked like a beautifully painted porcelain doll with no soul. Roxanne clapped her hands together, a wide smile on her face. "Perfect," she declared. "Now we just wait for Mr. Vance to inspect his bride."