Trapped by Two Billionaires’ Twisted Love

"She locked him in the attic again, Clara. There is blood everywhere."

Sophie’s panicked voice crackled through my phone, cutting through the howling winter wind.

"I am on the last Metro-North," I told my desk mate, gripping the freezing metal pole of the train car. "I will be at the Greenwich estate in twenty minutes. Keep him awake."

"Victoria lost her mind over his grades," Sophie sobbed. "She threw an antique vase at his head."

"I am almost there. Do not let her back in."

When I found Ethan Sterling shivering in that dark, freezing attic, I did not see a billionaire heir. I saw a bleeding boy.

"You do not deserve the Sterling name!" Victoria's manic screams echoed from the floors below.

I knelt beside him, pressing a warm mug into his hands. "Drink the cocoa, Ethan. Let me fix your head."

I smoothed a bandage over his cut. He stared up at me, his chest heaving.

"You came for me," he whispered, his fingers gripping my wrist.

"I will always help a friend," I replied softly.

I thought I was saving him. I did not know I was handing him the chains he would use to bind me.

Two years later, the summer after our St. Andrew's graduation, my world collapsed.

"It is a foreclosure notice," the federal marshal stated, handing me the paper outside my family's Cambridge brownstone. "You have thirty days to vacate."

"My uncle signed that co-signer contract, not my father," I argued, my hands shaking as I held the document.

"Take it up with the bank, kid."

I spent three days crying in my grandmother's dusty New Hampshire attic, until Ethan shoved the door open.

"Pack your bags," he commanded, pulling me to my feet.

"Leave me alone, Ethan. I have nowhere to go."

"I paused the foreclosure through the Sterling trust." His eyes locked onto mine, hard and unyielding. "You are coming to Martha's Vineyard with me."

August felt like a hallucination.

"Give me the dress, Clara. I will wash the seawater out," he insisted one afternoon, taking the damp fabric from my hands.

"You do not have to do that," I murmured.

"I want to."

At dinner, he ate the cold half of my lobster roll. When we argued over a movie, he surrendered instantly.

"This is my girlfriend, Clara," he announced at a Vineyard Haven gala, wrapping a heavy arm around my waist.

"Nice to meet you," I smiled politely at the guests, leaning into his warmth.

I ignored the twenty unread emails on my phone.

*Clara, are you okay? Call me.* Liam Brooks, my childhood neighbor at Yale. The boy I used to protect from his abusive relatives, now desperately trying to reach me.

"Who keeps emailing you?" Ethan asked, snatching my phone from the kitchen counter later that night.

"Just Liam," I said, reaching for it. "Liam Brooks."

"The neighbor boy from Yale?" Ethan scoffed, holding the device out of my reach. "You do not need to talk to him anymore."

"He is my friend, Ethan. I used to protect him from his aunt and uncle."

"You have me now. You do not need charity cases." He dropped the phone into the trash can.

"Ethan!" I gasped, fishing it out.

He just smiled, wiping a smudge of dirt from my cheek. "I will buy you a new one tomorrow. A better one."

I ignored the red flags. Just like I ignored the silent stares of Julian Vane.

The MIT student who transferred from Zurich always watched me from the corners of the room at parties.

"He treats you like some untouchable moonlight," Ethan sneered once, noticing Julian's gaze. "Ever since he saw you play that cello."

"He is just quiet," I defended.

I should have paid attention to Ethan's tightening jaw.

On the last night of summer, the ocean wind whipped against the villa's glass windows.

Ethan tossed a thick stack of papers onto the glass coffee table.

"The bank is handled." Ethan poured a glass of scotch. "But there are terms."

I reached for the document. "I will get a job. I will pay back every cent of the loan, Ethan."

"I do not want your money." He stepped closer, his shadow falling over me. "Read the bottom line."

I scanned the heavy print. "Five years? Ethan, what is this?"

"You belong to me for five years." He tapped his glass against the table. "Your time, your body, and your social circle belong to me."

My stomach dropped. I fell to my knees on the hardwood floor.

"Ethan, please," I begged, staring up at him. "Make it a normal loan. Do not force this on me."

"Get up." He grabbed my arms, hauling me off the floor and throwing me over his shoulder.

"Put me down!" I screamed, beating my fists against his back. "Are you insane?"

"I have been insane since the freshman dinner." He kicked the master bedroom door open.

He tossed me onto the king-sized mattress.

"Since I watched you play Saint-Saëns' *The Swan* on that cello. I wanted to ruin you."

I scrambled backward, hitting the headboard. "We are friends, Ethan."

"I am your owner." He grabbed my ankles, dragging me back to the center of the bed. "You looked so pure up there. *Nessun dorma*. None shall sleep. Your untouchable look makes me fucking crazy, Clara."

"No, Ethan, stop!" I sobbed as he ripped my shirt down the middle.

"Shut up and spread your legs," he commanded, pinning my wrists above my head with one massive hand.

He yanked my underwear down, his eyes dark and manic.

"I am going to fuck you until you forget every other man exists," he growled.

He shoved his fingers inside my pussy, stretching me rough and fast.

"Ethan, it hurts!" I cried out, twisting my hips to escape.

"Good. Feel it." He unzipped his pants, freeing his hard cock. "Tell me you are mine, Clara. Say it."

"Please do not do this," I whimpered.

"Fucking say it!" he yelled, positioning the heavy head of his dick at my entrance.

"I am yours," I choked out, tears spilling down my cheeks.

He thrust forward, burying his cock deep inside my tight pussy in one brutal shove.

A sharp, tearing pain ripped through my core. My virginity, my freedom, my illusions of love—shattered in an instant.

"Fuck," he groaned, his hips slamming against mine. "You feel so fucking good, Clara. Wrapping around my dick perfectly."

He pounded into me, his heavy balls slapping against my wet thighs.

"Look at me," he demanded, biting down on my neck. "I am stretching your pussy out. I am fucking you, Clara."

I squeezed my eyes shut, enduring the violent friction.

"Open your fucking eyes," he snapped, pinching my nipple hard. "Watch me claim you."

I stared at the ceiling, feeling his hot skin sliding against mine, his cock relentlessly stretching my aching cunt.

"From now on, you answer only to me," he panted, his thrusts turning frantic.

He came with a loud grunt, filling me with his hot, sticky cum.

He collapsed beside me, pulling my naked, trembling body against his chest.

A single tear slipped from the corner of my eye, soaking into the expensive pillowcase.

I had no money to pay this debt. My body was the only currency left.

But as I lay there, feeling his heartbeat slow down, a cold clarity washed over my grief.

I remembered every single word printed on that contract downstairs.

I remembered the manic look in his eyes.

And I remembered the date of my birth.

I was exactly seventeen years old.

The contract was illegal.

I just had to survive long enough to burn his world down.