The Coldhearted Billionaire's Violent Possession

The air in the Long Island Warner estate ballroom was too thick. It tasted like expensive champagne, melted wax, and a suffocating amount of old money.

Gisele stood in the darkest corner she could find, her spine pressed hard against the silk-lined wall. Her lungs burned. Every time she tried to take a breath, the invisible corset of anxiety around her ribs pulled tighter.

She didn't belong here. Her cheap, off-the-rack black dress screamed Brooklyn, while the women around her floated in custom couture. But she couldn't leave. The final notice from the hospital billing department was burning a hole in her cheap clutch. She needed Channing. She needed her boyfriend to stop ignoring her and write the check he had promised.

Above her, the massive crystal chandelier flickered.

Once. Twice.

Then, a loud pop echoed through the cavernous room, and the entire ballroom plunged into absolute, pitch-black darkness.

Gasps and the shattering of dropped crystal glasses erupted from the crowd.

Gisele didn't hesitate. This was her chance. She pushed off the wall, slipping through the panicked bodies. She knew the layout of the estate. She knew Channing retreated to his private study on the second floor when he was bored with his family's parties.

She navigated the grand staircase by memory, her hand trailing along the cold mahogany banister. Her heart hammered against her sternum. The image of her mother's pale face in the hospital bed flashed behind her eyelids, forcing her legs to move faster.

She reached the end of the second-floor hallway. Her fingers found the heavy brass handle of the oak door. It was slightly ajar.

She pushed it open and slipped inside.

The study was a void of darkness. The only light came from the faint, silver glow of the moon filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. It cast a harsh silhouette of a tall, broad-shouldered man standing with his back to her, staring out at the grounds.

A crisp, intoxicating scent hit her senses. Cedarwood and sharp bergamot. The custom cologne the Warner men had blended exclusively in Paris.

Relief washed over her, making her knees weak. It was Channing.

Gisele kicked off her heels. They sank into the thick Persian rug, completely silencing her footsteps. She crossed the room, her desperation overriding her usual hesitation. She needed him to listen. She needed him to care.

She stepped right behind him, wrapping her arms tightly around his narrow waist. She pressed her cheek against the solid wall of his back.

The man's entire body went rigid.

It wasn't a subtle stiffening. The muscles beneath his tailored suit jacket locked into stone. He stopped breathing.

Gisele didn't notice the danger. She was too focused on the crushing weight in her chest.

"Please don't be mad at me," she whispered into the expensive fabric of his jacket, her voice trembling. "You've been ignoring me all night. I need you. I need your help with the project... with everything."

He didn't push her away. He didn't speak. The only sound in the pitch-black room was the sudden, heavy shift of his breathing. The air around them grew thick, crackling with a sudden, suffocating heat.

Thinking he was just giving her the silent treatment, Gisele grew bolder. She slid her hands up his chest, her palms flattening against the hard planes of his muscles beneath the crisp cotton shirt.

His breathing turned ragged.

Suddenly, a massive, ice-cold hand clamped down on her wrist.

The grip was bone-crushing. The rough calluses on his long fingers scraped against her delicate skin, sending a violent, unfamiliar shiver straight down her spine. This wasn't Channing's soft, manicured touch.

To break the terrifying tension, Gisele rose on her tiptoes. She pressed her warm lips to the back of his neck, inhaling the cedar scent. She let her teeth lightly graze his earlobe.

"Please, Channing," she breathed against his skin. "Fund my project."

The reaction was explosive.

The man spun around in the dark. Before Gisele could process the movement, a heavy hand gripped her hip, and she was shoved backward. Her spine slammed against the freezing glass of the floor-to-ceiling window.

The cold glass bit into her back, but the body caging her in was radiating a scorching, aggressive heat.

Gisele gasped.

A large hand shot up, his long fingers wrapping around her jaw, holding her head in place. His rough thumb dragged across her lower lip-the same lip that had just brushed against his skin. The touch was possessive. Dangerous.

Panic flooded Gisele's veins. The sheer size of him, the terrifying aura of absolute authority-this wasn't the lazy, careless boyfriend she knew.

"Channing, stop," she whimpered, trying to twist her face away. "Let me go."

The moment his brother's name left her mouth, the man's grip on her jaw tightened to the point of pain.

He leaned in. His nose brushed hers. His breath was hot and smelled of expensive whiskey. She could feel the violent vibration in his chest as he prepared to speak.

Outside the heavy oak door, the crackle of a security radio shattered the silence. Heavy footsteps ran past.

"Check the backup generators!" a voice yelled in the hallway.

Gisele froze. If the guards found her in the dark with Channing, the scandal would give his family the perfect excuse to cut him off. She grabbed the lapels of the man's suit, her fingers digging into the fabric.

"Don't make a sound," she begged in a frantic whisper.

A low, dark vibration rumbled in the man's chest. It was a laugh. A cruel, mocking laugh that sent a block of ice dropping into Gisele's stomach.

Channing never laughed like that.

Deep in the bowels of the estate, the heavy mechanical hum of the backup generator kicked in.

The crystal chandelier above them buzzed with electricity.

A blinding, harsh light flooded the study.

Gisele squeezed her eyes shut against the sudden glare. When she opened them, her vision blurred, then focused on the face inches from hers.

Her heart stopped beating. The blood in her veins turned to absolute ice.

She wasn't looking at Channing.

She was staring straight into the cold, arrogant, and violently dark gray eyes of Constantine Warner. The true head of the Warner empire. The man who despised her more than anyone else on earth.