Pampered By The Cruel Mafia Boss

Everlee Booker dragged her sprained right ankle out of the private elevator, the hem of her trench coat crusted with dried mud. Raw red rope burns throbbed across her palms from where she had sawed through the kidnappers' zip ties an hour ago.

She drew a shaky breath to slow her racing heart and pushed open the heavy oak double doors of the Boston penthouse.

Deafening jazz music and the blinding glare of a crystal champagne tower hit her instantly. Everlee threw a hand up to shield her eyes.

Peering through the crowd of Boston socialites, she froze. Hangings across the main stage was a massive silver banner that read: Happy 23rd Birthday Ayla.

Her arms, raised for a fifth-anniversary hug, dropped to her sides. It felt as if an invisible fist had reached into her chest and squeezed her heart until her lungs locked up. She curled her fingers, digging her fingernails deep into her bruised palms.

In the center of the room stood her husband, Jamison Ingram, the billionaire heir to the Ingram Corporation. Dressed in a bespoke three-piece suit, he was gently adjusting a cashmere shawl around a petite girl's shoulders.

Ayla Simon, the Ingram family's adopted daughter, leaned against Jamison like a proud swan. She was wearing the limited-edition couture gown Everlee had ordered for tonight, soaking in the guests' applause.

Whispers broke out near the entrance. Several guests turned, eyeing Everlee's muddy coat and tangled hair with open disgust.

Jamison glanced over. Behind his gold-rimmed glasses, his gray-blue eyes held zero concern-only annoyance at having his evening interrupted.

He strode through the crowd and stopped in front of her, lowering his voice to a harsh whisper.

"Where the hell have you been? Tonight is Ayla's birthday party. Look at what you're wearing. You're embarrassing me."

Everlee's throat burned like sandpaper. She raised her scratched arm and pointed at the silver banner.

"Jamison, today is our fifth wedding anniversary."

Before Jamison could answer, Ayla hurried over, lifting the hem of the stolen gown. She looped her arm through Jamison's and spoke in a syrupy, breathless voice.

"Please don't blame Jamison, Everlee. My health has been so poor lately, so he gave me your anniversary venue to cheer me up."

Ayla pressed a white embroidered handkerchief to her lips and let out a weak cough, though her eyes darted down to Everlee's muddy shoes with a triumphant glint.

Jamison immediately wrapped his arm around Ayla's waist, his frown deepening.

"Ayla has a weak heart. She can't handle stress. Do you really have to throw a tantrum today?"

Everlee stared into her husband's cold eyes. The terror of escaping a kidnapper's blade earlier tonight vanished, replaced by a bucket of ice water pouring from her head to her heels.

She parted her lips to tell him about the warehouse, but a sharp, arrogant voice cut through the air behind them.

"You are dragging the Ingram name through the mud."

Her mother-in-law, Beatrice Kensington, approached with a champagne flute in hand, looking down her nose at Everlee.

"An orphan with no family backing, and you can't even keep your husband's attention. Showing up looking like a street beggar just to make a jealous scene-pathetic."

Low snickers rippled through the surrounding circle of old-money elites. Every laugh felt like a heavy slap across Everlee's face.

Jamison didn't say a word to defend her. Instead, he rubbed the bridge of his nose impatiently.

"Enough. Go to the bedroom and change. Stop making a spectacle of yourself."

Everlee bit her lower lip until the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth. Looking at this family of Boston blue-bloods, a soft, icy laugh escaped her throat.

Not a single tear fell. When Jamison reached out to shove her shoulder toward the hallway, she slapped his hand away with enough force to make him stumble back.

"Don't touch me."

Her voice was raspy and dead cold.

Ayla gasped, clutching her chest as she shrank into Jamison's suit jacket, her eyes reddening on cue.

"Is Everlee mad at me? I'll tell the guests to leave right now..."

"Nobody is leaving! Ayla doesn't need to walk on eggshells around you!"

Jamison pulled Ayla behind him, glaring at his wife with blazing anger.

Everlee didn't spare the faux siblings another glance. Straightening her spine, she dragged her injured leg past the sneering crowd.

Her muddy boots left tracks across the Persian rug as she walked past the towering champagne glasses and down the long corridor to the master bedroom.

Pushing the door open, she saw the nightstand where their wedding photo usually sat. The frame was gone, buried under a pile of Ayla's torn birthday wrapping paper.

Everlee stepped inside and slammed the heavy oak door shut, locking out the music with a loud bang.

Her back hit the wood, and she slid slowly to the floor. Wrapping her arms around her knees, she let the violent tremors rack her body, while her amber eyes hardened into pure ice as she stared out at the dark Boston skyline.