Left My Ex, Married The Billionaire CEO

"Who will you save, Mr. Morrow?"

The question hung in the air like a death sentence. I lifted my head, my vision blurred from the blood trickling down my temple. The warehouse smelled of rust and cement, and the cold concrete beneath me had long since numbed my legs. Across the room, Cassidy Monroe whimpered, her perfectly styled blonde hair now matted with dirt and tears.

Between us stood Jude Morrow, my fiancé of five years, the man who had promised me forever just three months ago when he slipped that diamond ring onto my finger.

In a heartbeat, a response came. "Cassidy. I'll save Cassidy."

A small laugh rippled through me, bitter and sharp. It clawed its way up my throat before I could stop it. This man was my fiancé, yet he chose to save another woman. I had been kidnapped alongside my fiancé's best friend, Cassidy Monroe, and something about their relationship had always been off-putting to me, but I never questioned it. I was stupidly blinded by love.

All their late-night calls that Jude dismissed as "Cassidy having a crisis." The business meetings that somehow always required her presence and ran late into the evening. The way she touched his arm when she laughed, letting her hand linger just a second too long. The hugs that seemed more intimate than what Jude and I had ever shared, her face buried in his neck like she belonged there.

I had swallowed every excuse, every reassurance that I was being paranoid. What kind of woman doubted her fiancé's loyalty to his childhood best friend?

Apparently, the kind who was right all along.

I cast a glance at the man I had given five years of my life to, watching as he rushed forward and cut Cassidy's bonds with shaking hands. He held her as though she was the most fragile thing in the world, cradling her face and checking her for injuries with a tenderness he'd never shown me.

"I'll come back for you, Maddison. I promise." Jude said, his back already turned away from me as he guided Cassidy toward the exit.

Cassidy looked back at me over her shoulder, her tear-stained face transforming as a small, triumphant smile spread across her lips. It was the smile of a woman who had won a war I hadn't even known we were fighting.

Then they were gone, their footsteps echoing down the metal staircase until even that faded into nothing.

The men who had taken us, five of them in total, watched the door slam shut with amusement. The leader, a man whose face looked like it had lost a fight with a brick wall, approached me slowly. His lips peeled back in what might have been a smile if you were generous enough to call it that.

"Well, well, well." His voice was like gravel scraping against metal. "Looks like your prince isn't coming back for you, princess."

The others laughed, a chorus of hyenas circling wounded prey.

"You are such a pretty face," he continued, crouching down until his foul breath, cigarettes and something rotten, fanned across my face. His thick fingers ran across my collarbone, tracing the neckline of my dress. "I wonder what you taste like."

My stomach turned. Every instinct screamed at me to recoil, but the ropes binding my wrists to the chair held firm. I had spent the last two hours working at the knots, feeling the rough fiber tear into my skin until my wrists were slick with blood.

With a wave of his hand, he dismissed his men. "Get out. All of you."

"Boss, are you sure?"

"I said GET OUT!"

The men shuffled toward the stairs, casting knowing glances at each other. The door at the bottom banged shut, and then it was just the two of us. Just me and the monster who was already undoing his belt with fumbling, eager hands.

The moment his attention shifted downward, I made my move.

Years ago, my father had insisted I take self-defense classes. "The Whiter name makes you a target," he'd said. I'd rolled my eyes then, thinking he was being overdramatic. Now, those lessons might save my life.

I'd finally worked one hand free while he was distracted. The rope hung loose around my right wrist. When he stepped closer, reaching for me with one hand while the other worked at his buckle, I didn't hesitate.

I drove my knee up with every ounce of strength I had left, connecting with the soft flesh between his legs.

The sound he made was inhuman, a strangled, wheezing gasp that would have been satisfying if I'd had time to appreciate it. Instead, I shoved him backward and yanked my other hand free, ignoring the burning pain as the rope tore away skin.

Then I ran.

"YOU BITCH!" His roar echoed through the warehouse. "She must not escape! GET HER!"

Feet pounded up the stairs behind me. I couldn't go down, the exit was blocked by the men who'd been dismissed, already charging back in response to their boss's screams. My only option was up.

I mounted the stairs, my heels catching on the rusted metal grating. I kicked them off without breaking stride, the concrete steps cold and rough against my bare feet. My dress, a designer piece I'd worn to what was supposed to be a charity gala, tore at the hem as I climbed.

Higher. I had to go higher.

My lungs burned. My legs trembled. Behind me, the heavy thump of boots grew closer. How many were there? Five? Ten? It didn't matter. Even one would be too many.

The staircase ended at a metal door marked with faded red letters: ROOFTOP ACCESS. I slammed into it with my shoulder, praying it wasn't locked.

It gave way with a screech of protesting hinges, and I stumbled out onto the roof.

The night air hit me like a slap, cold against my sweat-soaked skin. My dress rippled in the wind as I spun around, searching desperately for another exit, a fire escape, anything.

There was nothing. Just a flat expanse of crumbling concrete surrounded by a low wall barely three feet high.

And beyond that wall? A four-story drop onto unforgiving pavement.

"Nowhere to run now, princess."

I turned. They emerged from the stairwell like demons crawling from hell, fifteen men this time, their faces twisted with rage. Their leader clutched his groin with one hand, the other pointing at me with a shaking finger.

"You're going to regret that, bitch. I'm going to make you beg."

I took two steps backward, my heels hitting the low wall. I looked down at the street below. Streetlights cast orange pools on empty sidewalks. No cars. No people. No one to hear me scream.

The men moved closer, spreading out to cut off any escape route. Not that there was one.

My heart hammered against my ribs. This was it. This was how Maddison Whiter's story ended, not in the society pages announcing my wedding to Jude Morrow, but as a body discovered behind some forgotten warehouse in the industrial district.

I thought of my mother, who'd died when I was twelve. I thought of my father, who'd remarried within a year and slowly let his new wife and stepdaughter poison him against me. I thought of Jude's face as he chose Cassidy, as he walked away and left me to this fate.

Five years. Five years of my life, wasted on a man who couldn't even pretend to love me when it mattered most.

One of my feet found only air as I teetered on the rooftop's edge. The wind tugged at me, almost playful, as though asking me to dance.

Is this how I die?

I closed my eyes, feeling the void beneath my heel, preparing for the fall.

Then gunshots rang out, shattering the night.

The sound was deafening, sharp cracks that echoed off the surrounding buildings. I opened my eyes in time to see the men scatter, shouting in confusion. More shots—these ones hitting the rooftop itself, sparking off the concrete near the stairwell entrance.

"What the fuck…"

"It's them! It's the Black Herd!"

"We need to get out of here now!!!"

Chaos erupted. The men who had been so confident moments ago now scrambled like rats fleeing a sinking ship, shoving each other to get back through the stairwell door. Their leader's eyes met mine for one brief second, filled with frustrated rage, before he too disappeared into the darkness.

I stood frozen on the edge, my heart still racing, unable to process what had just happened.

Then I heard footsteps, different from before. Measured. Calm. Controlled.

A figure emerged from the shadows near the rooftop access, tall and broad-shouldered, dressed entirely in black. In his hand, a gun still smoking from recently fired rounds.

He moved toward me slowly, as though approaching a cornered animal. In the darkness, I couldn't make out his features clearly—just the sharp line of his jaw and eyes that seemed to catch what little light the moon provided.

"Step away from the edge," he said. His voice was deep, commanding, but not unkind. "You're safe now."

Safe. The word felt foreign. I hadn't been safe in hours. Maybe years.

My legs finally gave out, and I collapsed onto the rooftop, my entire body shaking with adrenaline and shock and the crushing weight of what had almost happened.

The man holstered his gun and spoke into what looked like a communication device on his collar. "Target secured. Rooftop clear. Bring the car around."

He approached me carefully, then crouched down to my level. "Can you walk?"

I tried to speak, but nothing came out. I managed a small nod which seemed to be ignored as he scooped me up into his arms.

“Be good, little angel, let's get you out of here."