Trapped by the Badboy Billionaire

A ray of sunlight sliced across the pillow, stabbing her eyelids like a blade. Bina Sullivan trembled slightly, a groan stuck in her throat. Her head ached faintly, the low, rough rhythm striking like a hammer. The air was cool and unfamiliar.

She forced herself to open her eyes. This is not her bedroom.

The ceiling was too high, and the walls were deathly pale. She lay right in the middle of a California king-size bed, with thick, cool silk sheets clinging to her skin. A sudden cold panic gripped her stomach. She sat up, her movements stirring up a wave of nausea.

She wore a men's silk shirt. Dark gray, incredibly soft, with buttons fastened all the way to the collarbone. Sleeves rolled up neatly to the elbows. She didn't remember how she put it on. I don't remember anything.

Whiskey. Memories float up like bubbles in tar. The hotel bar's dim amber lights and the satisfaction of holding a heavy wine glass in your hand. One cup. Another cup.

A man's profile, blurred edges. A resolute jawline. His deep and gentle voice seemed to pierce through her body. It was a voice that made her feel safe, even as she was losing herself.

What is his name? Creed? Yes, it's called Creed.

Bina held her breath. How did they get from the bar to this room? She closed her eyes, desperately trying to recall, but there was only a frustrating blankness. A deep and shameful sense of shame surged over him.

She lifted the heavy down comforter. When you stand up, your legs feel weak, and the plush carpet beneath your feet is soft and comfortable. The room was empty. The air carried the scent of sandalwood, along with a clean, masculine scent—the scent of the shirt she wore.

Her gaze swept across the room and landed on the nightstand. Her phone, her wallet, and her keys. A strong and dizzying sense of relief surged through his entire body. Nothing was missing.

Next to the wallet was a neatly placed black card.

She picked it up. The card is thick and heavy. The handwriting is simple and elegant, with silver embossing.

**Creed Scott. CEO of Scott Group. **

At first, the name didn't attract attention, but then it struck like a heavy punch. The Scott Group—a vast empire occupying half the skyline of Manhattan—is a financial and real estate giant renowned for its extreme secrecy and unstoppable power.

And just now......

The room began to spin. His stomach twisted into a tight and painful knot. This was not just a drunken mistake; it was a disaster. A sudden and desperate impulse grabbed her—to escape, erasing the twelve hours of the past from her life.

She tucked the card deep into her wallet, as if hiding evidence could cover up the act itself. The clothes were neatly folded on the chair in the corner. She hurriedly put it on, her fingers clumsily buttoning the buttons. When she took off that silk shirt, the fabric scorched her skin like a brand.

She didn't look back. She escaped the room, her heart pounding in her chest. Without waiting for the elevator, she ran down the stairs one step at a time, the urgency to escape pushing her forward.

On the taxi ride back to that small apartment in Queens, I was filled with hazy thoughts of self-reproach. She gazed out the window, city lights flickering faintly, her mind repeatedly replaying equally depressing fragments—his low whisper, the warmth of his palm on her back. That's all there is to it. This is a story, but the most crucial chapter has been torn apart.

She rushed into the apartment, headed straight for the bathroom, leaned over the sink, and splashed cold water on her face. When she looked up, she saw—a faint red mark on the side of her neck, below her earlobe. Not a kiss mark, not a crude bruise, but a delicate and undeniable lip print.

The feeling of humiliation burned on her cheeks. She grabbed a towel and scrubbed the area hard; her skin was rough and red, but the marks remained—the pale pink was ironclad proof of her misjudgment.

"Forget it." She whispered into the mirror, her voice hoarse. "That never happened."

She took a shower, the scalding water washing away the smell of cologne on him and the feel of that silk shirt. She donned her "armor": a tailored black bodycon dress, low heels, and a string of pearl necklaces. Styled dark hair into a meticulously professional bun.

Bina Sullivan, a promising assistant at Gabul & Fincher and one of New York's most prestigious law firms—that's her. Not the woman who woke up in a stranger's bed.