Pampered By The Ruthless Billionaire Uncle

A searing bolt of pain tore through Vivienne Sterling's skull, dragging her back to consciousness. The icy, damp concrete bit through her silk dress, and her body trembled uncontrollably. A thick, cloying metallic taste flooded her mouth. Blood.

She tried to move, but her wrists were bound tight to the legs of a steel chair. The rope bit into her skin, raw and red, burning like a live wire. The air in the abandoned Brooklyn warehouse reeked of rust and decay.

A heavy boot stomped down beside her head. One of the thugs, the one with the cobweb tattoo crawling up his neck, crouched down. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and wrenched her head back until her neck screamed in protest.

"Look at me," he grunted, his breath stale with old cigarettes.

A phone buzzed in his pocket. He fished it out, glanced at the screen, and a cruel smile spread across his face. He answered, putting it on speaker.

Sophia Reed's voice, sweet as poison, filled the cavernous space. "Is it done? Give her another lesson, but don't kill her. Brant would be upset."

Vivienne's blood turned to ice. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, caged bird. Sophia. Her best friend. The woman she'd loved like a sister.

The thug grunted a laugh. "Anything you say, boss."

He ended the call and slammed his fist into her gut. The air left her lungs in a silent gasp. Explosions of pain detonated behind her eyes, hot and blinding. She curled into herself as best she could, nausea clawing up her throat.

Through the haze of agony, she saw a glint of light on the floor a few feet away. Her phone. The custom one Brant had ordered for their anniversary. The screen was lit, displaying a name that now felt like a cruel joke.

My Love – Brant.

The tattooed thug picked it up, his filthy fingers swiping the screen to answer. He put it on speaker again and held it to her ear.

Brant's voice, laced with impatience, came through the speaker. "Sophia, where are you? I shook Vivienne off. She won't bother us tonight."

The frantic bird in Vivienne's chest stopped. It just stopped. The world collapsed into the sound of his voice, twisting a knife through her soul.

She tried to scream, to make a sound, to let him know she was there, but only a gurgled, bloody rasp escaped her throat.

Brant's voice softened, dropping into an intimacy she'd once mistaken for hers alone. "Of course I love you, baby. The engagement to Vivienne was just business. It was about the Hayes & Sterling merger. Once the deal is locked in, I'll tell her it's over."

Each word was another nail in her coffin. She thought of everything she'd given up. Yale architecture program, because of him. Fighting his battles with skeptical board members. Arguing with her own father for him. All of it. All of it had just been... business. A disposable transaction.

The thugs seemed to be getting bored. The other one, a hulking shadow, picked up a lead pipe from the corner.

A primal, desperate surge of survival instinct flooded Vivienne. In one last burst of desperate strength, she wrenched her body to the side, trying to tip the chair over, to make a sound, any sound Brant might hear.

It was futile. The hulking man kicked the chair back upright, the impact jarring every bone in her body.

The pipe came down on her back. Explosions of pain erupted, and the edges of her vision went black.

As consciousness slipped away, the warehouse door burst open. A tall, commanding figure stood silhouetted against the sudden light. She couldn't make out his face, but she instantly recognized the aura of power and chilling authority.

Julian Carlisle. Brant's elusive, intimidating uncle.

The irony was bitter. She'd argued with him, defended Brant to his face. How stupid she'd been.

She tried to call out to him, to beg for help. Her lips moved, but no sound came.

In her final moments, as the pipe raised for the last blow, all she saw was a wave of regret and a burning, all-consuming hatred.

If I could do it all over again... I would never let them win.

Her world went dark.

Then, as suddenly as it had happened, it was ripped away.

Blinding sunlight stung her eyes. She heard Brant's voice, laced with that familiar impatience. "Vivienne, what the hell is wrong with you? Sophia's waiting."

Her eyes snapped open. She wasn't on a cold concrete floor. She was in the plush leather passenger seat of Brant's Bentley, the familiar storefronts of Fifth Avenue rolling past the window.

She looked down at her hands. They were clean, unmarred, nails perfectly manicured. She was wearing that Chanel dress from the charity gala. From a year ago.

She was alive. She was back.

Brant was still talking, his tone pissy. "Come on, Viv, we're going to be late."

Slowly, she turned her head to look at him. Really look at him. The handsome face she'd once adored looked like a grotesque mask. All the pain, all the betrayal, all the hatred from a life cut short condensed into a single, blazing point of energy in the center of her chest.

She raised her hand. And with every ounce of strength she possessed, she slapped him across the face.