Escaping From My Ruthless Billionaire Husband

Janelle sat on the crinkling paper of the examination table, her hands clamped together so tightly her knuckles ached.

The air in the Manhattan private clinic smelled of sterile alcohol and expensive lavender room spray, but it did nothing to calm the violent hammering against her ribs.

Faye, the ultrasound technician, squeezed a dollop of freezing gel onto Janelle's flat stomach.

Janelle flinched. The cold seeped through her skin, straight into her trembling muscles.

Faye pressed the wand down, gliding it across the lower curve of her abdomen. On the monitor mounted to the wall, a grainy black-and-white storm swirled before settling into a distinct, tiny shadow.

"There," Faye said, her voice soft. She pointed a manicured finger at a rapid, flickering pulse of light in the center of the shadow. "That's the heartbeat."

Janelle stared at the screen. Her breath hitched, and a hot tear spilled over her lower lash line, tracking down her pale cheek.

It was real. There was a life inside her.

The heavy oak door swung open. Dr. Finch walked in, his eyes glued to the medical chart in his hands. The deep lines on his forehead deepened.

"Janelle, your weight is dangerously low," Dr. Finch said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Your cortisol levels are off the charts. This is a high-risk pregnancy. If you don't manage your stress and get proper rest, your body will reject this fetus."

Janelle quickly wiped her face with the back of her hand. "I will. I promise. I'll fix my schedule."

Faye handed her a glossy printout of the ultrasound. Janelle's fingertips shook as she took it.

She carefully slid the photograph into a blank white envelope, sealing it tight.

She shoved the envelope into the deepest zippered pocket of her Hermes Birkin bag, making sure it was completely hidden.

The moment she stepped out of the clinic's glass doors, the phone in her bag vibrated with a harsh, buzzing sound.

Her stomach dropped to the pavement. She pulled the phone out.

It was a text from Bryant's executive assistant: Mr. Whitaker requires you at the penthouse immediately.

Bile rose in the back of Janelle's throat. She knew exactly what a daytime summons to the penthouse meant. It was the physical obligation written into their ironclad prenuptial agreement.

Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard. She typed: I'm not feeling well. I need to rest.

Before she could hit send, a second text popped up.

Mr. Whitaker's patience is at zero. Do not make him wait.

Janelle bit down on her lower lip until she tasted copper. She deleted her excuse and typed: Received.

She stood on the corner of Fifth Avenue, the biting wind whipping her hair across her face, and raised her hand to hail a yellow cab.

During the agonizing crawl through Midtown traffic, Janelle kept her arms crossed, her hands pressing protectively over her flat stomach. She had no one to call for help. Bryant's obsessive control meant his security team had compiled exhaustive dossiers on the few friends she ever had, specifically monitoring her old college roommate, Brenda. He watched her every move.

The car pulled up to the towering glass facade of the Whitaker Building. She swiped her access card and stepped into the private elevator.

The doors slid open to the penthouse. The massive living room was empty, echoing with the silence of a tomb.

She walked toward the master bedroom. The door was slightly ajar.

Bryant stood with his back to her, his broad shoulders flexing under his custom-tailored dress shirt as he loosened his silk tie.

He didn't turn around. He caught her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling window.

"Go shower," Bryant commanded, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated through the floorboards.

Janelle froze in the doorway. Her legs felt like lead.

"I... I have a severe migraine today," she lied, her voice shaking. "I feel sick, Bryant."

Bryant turned slowly. His dark, piercing eyes locked onto hers, stripping away her lie in a fraction of a second. A cruel smirk played on his lips.

He closed the distance between them with slow, deliberate strides.

The sheer physical dominance of his presence forced Janelle to step backward. Her spine hit the cold wall of the hallway.

Bryant reached out. His large, warm hand clamped around her jaw, his thumb pressing into her cheekbone, forcing her to look up into his predatory gaze.

"As long as the Wheeler family owes me," he whispered, his breath fanning across her face, "you don't get to say no."

Janelle squeezed her eyes shut. A single tear of pure humiliation leaked out, sliding over his thumb. Her hands gripped the hem of her shirt, her knuckles white.

Bryant ignored her silent plea. He dropped his hand from her jaw, wrapped his arm around her waist, and hoisted her off the floor.

He carried her toward the massive king-sized bed in the center of the room, his jaw set in stone.