Reborn Heiress: Escaping My Contract Marriage with the Cold CEO-Chapter 66: Shotgun Brides & Moral Kidnappings

ANNABETH SAINT

Marry me.

The words hang between us.

Did my brain melt in the fire? Or did his? "What?"

Devon leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, his gaze unyielding. "A contract marriage. Three years."

I let out a weak, disbelieving laugh, which immediately dissolves into a cough. My ribs scream in protest. Devon reaches for the water again, holding the straw to my lips until I steady.

"You’re serious."

"Very."

I study him—the hard set of his jaw, the shadows beneath his eyes, the way his fingers flex against his thigh like he’s restraining himself from reaching for me again.

The Saint family disowned me. My job—gone. My fiancé—a traitor who left me to burn. My home? I had none.

"Sean and Giselle won’t face charges for what happened. Your parents and my aunt already made moves. Between sending in teams of lawyers and suppressing news and social media, they’ve already created the narrative."

I felt tears gather in my eyes. Devon gripped my hand. "The authorities won’t touch them." His voice is ice. "Because the law won’t touch them. But I will."

The promise in his words is lethal. It should scare me. Instead, something hot and vicious uncoils in my chest.

"And marrying you helps how?"

"You’ll have my name. My resources. My power." He leans closer, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "Three years, Annabeth. In exchange, I’ll give you everything you need to destroy them."

I stare at him, my pulse hammering. He’s offering himself to me. I can use him as a shield and a sword.

The doctor chooses that moment to enter, clipboard in hand, smiling . "Ms. Saint! Good to see you awake."

Devon leans back, his mask sliding into place—polite, detached. But his fingers brush mine under the blanket, a silent think about it.

The doctor prattles on about my injuries—second-degree burns, smoke inhalation, a concussion. I nod along, but my mind is elsewhere.

Three years.

Three years tied to Devon Thorne, the real King of Hell.

Three years to ruin the people who ruined me.

When the doctor leaves, Devon stands. "I’ll give you time."

I catch his wrist. "Wait."

He stills.

I take a breath. "What happens after three years?"

His thumb traces the inside of my wrist, slow, deliberate. "I’ll make sure you have enough money to live in luxury for your next three lifetimes, and we go our separate ways."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that."

I search his face for the lie. But Devon has always been a paradox—ruthless and gentle, distant and possessive. The boy who saved me. The man who let me suffer.

And now, the devil offering a deal.

I tighten my grip. "I want conditions."

A faint smirk. "Name them."

"I keep my independence. My own accounts. My own choices."

"Done."

"And when it’s over, I walk away clean. No debts. No strings."

His eyes flash, something dangerous flickering in their depths. But he nods. "Agreed."

I exhale. "Then yes."

For a heartbeat, he doesn’t move. Then, slowly, he lifts my hand to his lips. His kiss against my knuckles is searing, a brand.

"I won’t let you regret it, firefly."

"You might," I say.

He chuckles. "No. I won’t. You’ll need to sign papers. My lawyers will draft them by tomorrow."

"What do you get out of this arrangement?"

"Getting married will shut down my family’s efforts to find me a marriage partner. My Nana is the queen of arranging blind dates." He pats my hand. "Rest. We’ll talk tomorrow."

As he turns to leave, I call after him, "Why three years?"

He pauses at the door. "Three’s my lucky number."

***|***|***|***|***

GRACE WITHERSTONE

When my eyes opened, my first thought was about the weight of a hand curled around mine, fingers calloused and warm.

I blinked against the fluorescent lights, my throat raw and my lungs aching.

Marcus Lu sat in the chair beside my bed, his suit jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms dusted with fading soot and fresh bandages. His dark eyes locked onto mine the moment I stirred, his grip tightening almost imperceptibly.

"Grace."

I tried to speak, but my voice came out as a croak. Marcus reached for the water on the bedside table, holding the straw to my lips without a word. I drank greedily, the cool liquid soothing the burn in my throat.

"How long?" I rasped.

"Eighteen hours." His thumb brushed over my knuckles. "You inhaled more smoke than the doctors liked. They sedated you to keep you still."

Of course they did. I hated hospitals almost as much as I hated being helpless.

I pushed myself up on my elbows, ignoring the twinge of pain from the bruises mottling my arms. My gaze darted to the door, then back to Marcus. "Devon? Annabeth?"

Marcus’s jaw tightened. "Alive. Thorne has a concussion and minor burns. Annabeth’s was unconscious for longer, but she’s awake now. Smoke inhalation, like you—but stable."

A breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding escaped me. Good. They’d made it out.

Then the memories surged back—the fire, the beam collapsing, Marcus hauling me out of the wreckage. And before that—

Robby’s smug grin. Bethany’s laughter as they left me tied up in that chair.

My fingers curled into fists. "Where are they?"

Marcus didn’t pretend to misunderstand. "In custody. Arson. Kidnapping. Attempted murder." A pause. "Your father’s lawyers are already circling."

I scoffed. Of course they were. The Witherstone name had deep pockets and shallow morals.

Before I could respond, the door swung open.

"Grace!"

My father stood in the doorway, his designer suit wrinkled, his usually slicked-back hair disheveled. Behind him, my mother—Lillian—clutched her Birkin like a shield, her Botoxed face contorted in something between concern and disdain.

Marcus didn’t move, but I felt the shift in him—the quiet, lethal stillness of a predator sizing up prey.

My father ignored him entirely. He rushed to my bedside, hands fluttering like he wanted to touch me but thought better of it. "Thank God you’re awake. We’ve been—"

"Save it," I cut in, voice flat. "What do you want?"

Lillian stepped forward, her heels clicking sharply against the tile. "Grace, darling, we’re here because we’re family. And family takes care of each other."

I laughed—a hoarse, ugly sound. "Funny. I don’t remember you taking care of me when Robby and Bethany left me to burn."

My father’s face darkened. "They made a mistake—"

"A mistake?" I hissed.

"They’re kids," Lillian snapped, her mask slipping. "They were scared, they panicked—"

"They kidnapped me. They set a fire." My pulse roared in my ears. "They left three people to die."

My father’s jaw clenched so hard I could see the taut muscles in his cheeks. Then, quietly, venomously: "And what did you expect, Grace? After everything you’ve done?"

A cold weight settled in my chest.

Marcus shifted beside me, his voice a blade. "Careful."

Lillian ignored him, leaning in. "You’ve been nothing but a problem since the day we took you in. Bethany is our child—our real daughter. We owe her a good life. And you—" Her lip curled. "You’re just the orphan we pitied."

The words should have hurt. Once upon a time, they would have.

But now?

Now, I smiled.

Slow. Cold.

Marcus’s fingers brushed mine again—silent approval.

"Get out," I said softly. fгeewebnovёl.com

My father stiffened. "Grace—"

"Get. Out."

Lillian’s face twisted. "You’ll regret this. When the lawyers are done, you won’t have a penny left to your name and your reputation will be in shreds."

Lillian grabbed my father’s arm, dragging him toward the door. But before they left, my father turned back, eyes blazing. "This isn’t over."

The door slammed behind them.

Silence.

Then—

Marcus exhaled, long and slow. "You’re handling this better than I expected."

I leaned back against the pillows, exhaustion creeping in. "I’ve had years to practice."

A knock at the door interrupted us. A nurse stepped in, her gaze darting between Marcus and me with poorly concealed curiosity. "Miss Witherstone, I need to change your bandages and give you meds."

I nodded, though every muscle in my body protested. Marcus stood, his hand lingering on mine for a second longer than necessary before he stepped back.

"I’ll be outside," he murmured.

The nurse helped me sit up, her touch clinical and efficient. As she adjusted the IV, she glanced at the door, then lowered her voice. "That man—he hasn’t left your side since they brought you in. Refused to let anyone else stay with you."

"He did?"

She nodded, checking my vitals. "Security had to ask him to leave when they needed to treat you. He just... stood in the hallway like some kind of sentinel." A small, knowing smile tugged at her lips. "You’re lucky to have such a loving husband."

I looked up and saw Marcus standing in the doorway. I felt my cheeks flush. He no doubt heard the "loving husband" comment. He didn’t look displeased.

He returned and sat on the bed next to me. "What do you want now?"

I met his gaze. "What do I want?" I bashed my first against the mattress. "Revenge."

This chapter is updat𝙚d by f(r)eew𝒆bn(o)vel.com