Betrayed Wife: Claimed By The Ruthless CEO

The brass door handle was cold against her sweaty palm. Isolde Mitchell stared at the heavy oak door of the private suite, her chest tight with a mixture of dread and reckless fury. The image of Clark's hands roaming over Kelsey Byrd's body in the back of his Mercedes flashed behind her eyelids. It burned away her hesitation. She pushed the handle down. The door clicked open.

The suite was dim, bathed only in the neon glow bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows. A tall silhouette stood facing the glass, the outline of his shoulders broad and unyielding. Isolde stepped inside, her heart hammering against her ribs. She pushed the door shut behind her, the lock engaging with a solid, final thunk.

She had paid for discretion. She needed a tool, a stranger who could erase Clark's touch from her skin without asking a single question.

"I think we both know why we're here," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "So let's... skip the boring preamble."

The silhouette turned. The city lights caught the sharp angle of his jaw, the straight line of his nose. His eyes were dark, piercing, locking onto her with an intensity that made the air in her lungs turn to ice. He didn't move to unbutton his shirt. He didn't look like a man who took orders.

He took a step forward. Then another. The sheer size of him filled her vision, erasing the rest of the room. Isolde's breath hitched. She took a step back, her spine hitting the door.

"Excuse me?" His voice was a low rumble, vibrating in the small space between them.

"I said..." Isolde swallowed, trying to regain control. "I paid for a service. I want you to start."

A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips. He closed the remaining distance, crowding her against the wood. His hand came up, his long fingers wrapping around her chin, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. His thumb brushed across her lower lip, the touch burning hot against her chilled skin.

"Do you even know what kind of fire you're playing with?" he asked, his voice dropping to a whisper that brushed against her cheek.

The scent hit her. Cedar. Smoke. A faint trace of leather. The world tilted sideways. The intoxicating, overwhelming aroma wrapped around her, suddenly triggering a suffocating sense of dread, as if touching a dark, terrifying switch buried deep within her mind. She gasped, her eyes flying wide. No. That was the past. This was now. This was her choice.

She grabbed the lapels of his suit jacket, her fingers digging into the expensive fabric. She pulled him closer, desperate to overwrite the old memory with a new reality, desperate to scrub Clark's betrayal off her skin.

Jacques Valdez looked down at her hands, then back at her face. His gaze drifted down, snagging on her collarbone. The silver bracelet resting there, the Mitchell family crest glinting in the low light. His pupils contracted. His body went rigid.

The shrill, piercing ringtone of a cell phone shattered the moment.

Isolde flinched, her head snapping toward her clutch bag on the side table. The screen glowed with a name: Clark.

Reality crashed back over her like a bucket of ice water. What was she doing? She shoved Jacques back with all her strength. He stepped back, caught off guard. Isolde stumbled away from the door, her hip catching the edge of the side table. A crystal whiskey glass wobbled, tipped, and shattered on the floor, amber liquid splashing across the hem of her dress.

"I'm sorry," she stammered, her voice cracking. "I have to go."

She grabbed her bag and ran. Her heels slipped on the thick carpet, but she didn't stop. She yanked the door open and fled into the hallway, the sound of her ragged breathing drowning out the persistent ringing of her phone.

She didn't look back. She couldn't.

Inside the suite, Jacques stood motionless. The smell of her perfume still hung in the air, mixing with the sharp tang of spilled whiskey. He looked down at the carpet. A silver bracelet lay there, its clasp broken. He bent down, his fingers closing around the cool metal. He rubbed his thumb over the engraved crest. The Mitchell crest. He had been looking for this for four years.

He slipped the bracelet into his inner jacket pocket, right against his heart. He walked to the door and pulled it open.

"Ken," he said to the large man standing in the hall.

His bodyguard stepped forward. "Sir?"

"Find out who that woman was. Now."

Isolde drove like a maniac, her hands shaking so badly the steering wheel vibrated. She glanced in the rearview mirror. Her makeup was smudged, her hair a mess. The thrill of revenge she had expected never came. Only a deep, gnawing fear. That man wasn't an escort. He was a predator. And she had just walked right into his den.

The gates of the Ruiz estate swung open. As she pulled up the long driveway, her stomach dropped. The main house was ablaze with light. Every window on the ground floor glowed. A shadow moved behind the curtains of the living room. Agnes Ruiz.

Isolde cut the engine and sat in the dark for a moment, trying to slow her racing heart. She had to pull herself together. She had to face whatever was waiting for her inside.

She walked through the front door and nearly collided with Linda McCoy. The older housekeeper balanced a tray with a steaming cup of tea, her eyes filled with pity.

"Mrs. Ruiz," Linda murmured, glancing toward the living room. "Your mother-in-law is waiting for you."

Isolde nodded, smoothing down her ruined dress. She pasted on a blank mask and walked into the living room.

Agnes Ruiz sat on the velvet sofa, her spine straight as a ruler. Beside her, arranged neatly on the coffee table, was a stack of pastel-colored baby blankets and a set of ivory feeding bottles. Isolde's steps faltered. A cold dread settled in her stomach.

"Sit down, Isolde." Agnes's voice was like dry leaves scraping against stone.

Isolde remained standing. "What is all this?"

Agnes took a delicate sip of her tea, her pinky finger extended. "It's time we addressed the elephant in the room, isn't it? Your father's company went under years ago. The Mitchell name is worthless now. And you..." Agnes set her cup down with a sharp clink. "You couldn't even give this family a proper heir."

"I gave you Bria," Isolde said, her nails digging into her palms.

Agnes scoffed, a cruel sound that made Isolde flinch. "A frail little girl who spends more time at the doctor than the playground. What can she do for the Ruiz family? She cannot carry on the legacy or continue our bloodline."

Isolde's stomach cramped. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying, Isolde, that since you are clearly incapable of performing your duties, Clark has found someone who can." Agnes smiled, a thin, venomous line. "Kelsey Byrd is pregnant. And she is carrying a boy."

The room spun. Isolde gripped the back of a chair to steady herself. Four years ago, she had given birth in agony, only to be told her son was dead. And now, Clark was parading his bastard child as the savior of the family line.

"She will not step foot in this house," Isolde said, her voice trembling with rage.

"She already has," Agnes countered, rising to her feet. She walked toward Isolde, her posture imposing. "Clark is bringing her here. To live. Under this roof. So the rightful heir can be born under the Ruiz banner."

"Over my dead body," Isolde spat. "I am his wife. As long as I am breathing, that woman will never cross that threshold."

Agnes laughed, a hollow, grating sound. "You foolish girl. You think you have a choice? If you don't accept this arrangement, Clark will divorce you. And with that ironclad prenup you signed, you will leave here with nothing. Worse, you will leave without Bria. We will take her, Isolde. And you will never see her again."

The threat hung in the air, suffocating. Isolde stared at the older woman, seeing the malice in her eyes, the absolute certainty that she would follow through. Isolde's nails broke the skin of her palms, the sharp pain the only thing keeping her grounded.

She turned on her heel and walked out of the room, slamming the heavy oak door behind her. She wasn't going to stand there and take it. She wasn't going to be a lamb waiting for the slaughter. She was getting out.