Reborn Heiress: Escaping My Contract Marriage with the Cold CEO-Chapter 65: Where in the Warehouse

GRACE WITHERSTONE

I had officially decided that if I survived this, I would make sure Robby and Bethany had lives worse than death. Also, I would wear fuzzy socks whenever I went to bed.

Whoever had tied the ropes had clearly never watched a single YouTube tutorial on proper kidnapping restraints.

Idiots.

I worked my wrists in slow, methodical circles, the fibers biting into my skin. The chair wobbled—one leg uneven, the metal rusted through. If I could just—

BOOM!

A distant explosion rocked the warehouse, the sound rolling through the cavernous space like thunder. I froze. The lights flickered, then died.

Darkness swallowed me whole.

For a heartbeat, silence. Then—

Screams.

Not mine. Not yet.

Somewhere deeper in the warehouse, chaos erupted. Shouting. Running. The unmistakable whoosh of fire catching, spreading.

My pulse hammered against my ribs. Move. Now.

I threw my weight to the side, tipping the chair. My shoulder hit the concrete first, pain radiating down my arm, but the impact loosened the ropes. I wrenched my hands free, spat out the gag, and gasped in a lungful of smoky air.

Okay. Up. Go.

I scrambled to my feet, bare soles slapping against the cold floor. The darkness was alive now, flickering orange at the edges as flames licked up the far wall. The exit—where was the exit?

The warehouse was a maze of shipping containers and stacked crates, shadows stretching long and jagged in the firelight. I ducked behind a pallet as footsteps pounded past—Robby’s men, fleeing.

I didn’t wait. I bolted in the opposite direction, heart in my throat, the heat at my back growing fiercer with every second. Then—

Oh no.

The far side of the warehouse was an inferno. Flames climbed the walls, devouring everything in their path. And trapped behind a collapsing beam were two figures.

Devon Thorne—billionaire, playboy, and general pain in my ass—was dragging an unconscious Annabeth Saint toward a sliver of clear space, his usually pristine suit streaked with soot.

I didn’t think. I ran toward them.

"Help me," said Devon as I skidded to my knees beside him. "She’s unconscious."

Annabeth wasn’t moving. I pressed two fingers to the woman’s throat—pulse. Good. But the smoke was thick, the flames closing in. We had seconds.

I grabbed Annabeth’s arm. "Let’s go!"

Devon didn’t argue. Together, we hauled Annabeth toward a gap between the flames—just as the ceiling above us groaned.

Oh God.

I looked up in time to see the beam give way.

Then—strong arms. A yank so hard my feet left the ground.

I crashed into a solid chest, the scent of bergamot and steel wrapping around me.

Marcus Lu.

His dark eyes burned hotter than the fire behind us. "Grace."

My name on his lips was a command. A prayer. A promise.

Behind him, his bodyguards were already moving, pulling Devon and Annabeth to safety. Marcus didn’t let go of me. Not even when the warehouse erupted in a deafening boom.

Not even when I realized—

Oh my God.

His jacket was singed. His knuckles were bleeding.

And he was here.

For me.

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

ANNABETH SAINT

The first thing I notice is the quiet.

No screams. No crackling fire. No Sean’s laughter or Giselle’s taunts. Just the steady beep of machines.

I blink. The ceiling is too white, too clean. Not the charred remains of the warehouse. Not the hell I remember.

My body is one throbbing wound. Every breath feels like swallowing glass. I try to lift my head, but a sharp pain lances through my skull, forcing me back down. frёeωebɳovel.com

A rustle of fabric. A sigh.

I turn my head—slowly, so slowly—and see him.

Devon Thorne.

Slumped in a chair beside my bed, still in the same smoke-stained clothes from the fire. His sleeves are rolled up, forearms streaked with soot and dried blood. A dark bruise blooms across his cheekbone, and his knuckles are split. His head is tipped back against the wall, eyes closed, exhaustion carved into every line of his face.

I try to speak, but my throat is sandpaper. A weak, broken sound escapes instead.

Devon’s eyes snap open.

For a second, he just stares at me, like he can’t believe I’m real. Then he’s on his feet, his chair screeching back. His hands hover over me, unsure where to touch.

"Annabeth." His voice is rough, no doubt raw from breathing smoke. "You’re awake."

I manage a tiny nod. It hurts. Everything hurts.

He reaches for a cup of water on the bedside table, holds the straw to my lips. I sip greedily, the cool liquid soothing the burn in my throat.

"How long?" I croak.

"It’s been twenty-four hours." His jaw tightens. "They weren’t sure you’d wake up."

Twenty-four hours. A day and night of the actual King of Hell sitting here, waiting.

"Why..." I trail off. I know why, don’t I? He’s my firefly. "Sean? Giselle?"

His fingers brush my wrist, careful of the IV. "They took you? Set the blaze?"

"Didn’t you see them?"

"No."

My chest aches. Not from the burns. From the betrayal. From the memory of Sean’s smile as he tossed the lighter. From Giselle’s laughter as she watched me burn.

Devon’s thumb strokes my pulse point, steady and warm. "I’ll investigate. I’ll give you an explanation."

I want to believe him.

But I’ve spent my whole life being touched—by cruelty, by lies, by hands that pretended to love me.

"Why did you come for me?"

Devon goes still. Then he exhales, long and slow, like he’s been holding his breath for years. "You’re my firefly."

The memory hits me like a fist.

Eight years old. A candy pressed to bloody lips. A firefly’s glow.

Twelve. A handkerchief in my palm. A promise stitched in silk.

Eighteen. Smoke and stars. A lie I believed too long.

My vision blurs. "You saved me before. In the basement."

He nods.

"And you let Sean take the credit."

His jaw clenches. "I didn’t know he would."

"But you never corrected him."

"No." His voice is raw. "I didn’t."

I close my eyes. The truth is a knife, twisting. All those years wasted on the wrong man. All that gratitude given to a liar.

Devon’s hand cups my cheek. "Look at me."

I do.

His eyes are dark, endless. "I won’t make that mistake again."

Before I can speak, the door swings open. A nurse bustles in, clipboard in hand. She startles when she sees me awake. "Ms. Saint! You’re—" Her gaze darts to Devon, then back to me. "I’ll notify the doctor."

She hurries out.

Devon doesn’t move. He traces the curve of my cheekbone. "Annabeth."

"Hmm?"

He takes a deep breath. Then he says the last thing I expect.

"Marry me."

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