Taming the Psycho Heiress

Seven days. That is all that stands between me and absolute freedom.

A meticulously orchestrated "accident" chained me to Valerie, a ruthless billionaire heiress, as her contract husband. Five years trapped in her gilded cage.

Five years of swallowing endless humiliation and torment. The countdown has started. In exactly seven days, I will take her secrets and vanish without a trace.

Chapter 1 "Vance, the contract expires in exactly seven days. Nathaniel will be back in a month. Pack your things." "When the time is up, get out.

I don't want him getting the wrong idea." Valerie lounged on the custom Italian leather sofa, wrapped in haute couture silk sleepwear.

She gently swirled the Burgundy in her crystal glass. Those iceblue eyes swept over me like I was a cheap, disposable commodity.

A cruel, mocking smirk curled the corners of her lips. She looked at me like a dirty rag she was about to toss in the trash. Not a single muscle in my face twitched.

If anything, a wild, electric thrill of impending freedom coursed through my veins, but I kept my expression dead and hollow. This bitch was ruthless.

For five years, she had treated me worse than a stray dog. If she caught even a whiff of my relief, she would invent some sick new way to make my life hell.

I forced my shoulders to slump.

I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing the muscles in my face to mold into a mask of pathetic devotion. "Valerie," I choked out, making my voice tremble. "I don't want to leave you.

You've given me everything these past five years." "The food, this penthouse.

If it wasn't for you, I'd still be hustling in the gutters, delivering takeout on a busted scooter." I bit my lower lip and forced a couple of pathetic tears to spill over my cheeks. "But don't worry.

I won't get in the way of you and Nathaniel. I'll honor the contract." Valerie's hand jerked, the dark liquid threatening to spill over the crystal rim.

An unnamable flash of panic fractured the usual absolute zero of her gaze, but she instantly masked it with her trademark aristocratic coldness.

For five years, I had been her flawless, subservient shadow, managing every detail of her highmaintenance life. Maybe some flicker of that absolute obedience finally registered.

Her perfectly manicured fingers tightened around the stem of her glass. Her tone lost a fraction of its usual bite. "Vance, don't worry.

You'll get the ten million I promised, right on schedule." "Just go live your life.

Find a girl who actually loves you and settle down." "Thank you, Valerie," I said, laying the gratitude on thick. "I'll go start packing.

Get some rest." I turned around, swiping the fake tears from my face, and dragged my feet as if carrying the weight of the world, shuffling toward my room.

The second the heavy oak door clicked shut behind me, the pathetic facade vanished. I pumped my fists in the air.

If she wasn't sitting right outside, I would have screamed until my lungs gave out. "Crazy bitch," I hissed through gritted teeth. "Fucking psycho." I paced the floor for hours, venom spilling from my lips, cursing every breath she took without repeating a single insult.

The hatred burned so hot it finally exhausted me, dragging me into a dark sleep. Even in my dreams, the fury didn't stop.

I was standing over her, a heavy leather whip in my hand, bringing it down on her back while I laughed like a madman. The next morning, I went through the motions.

I woke up at dawn and started prepping breakfast. By the time I set the plates on the marble dining table, Valerie was already up. We ate in absolute silence.

It was the toxic, suffocating routine we had perfected over five years.

After eating, Valerie casually scribbled a fivemilliondollar check and tossed it onto the table like she was throwing spare change at a beggar. "Half now.

The rest when the contract is officially done," she commanded. "Take it.

Buy a decent condo so you aren't living on the streets when you get out of here." She grabbed her bag and walked out without looking back.

Only when the heavy click of the front door echoed through the penthouse did I snatch the check off the table. I snapped the crisp paper between my fingers, pressing it to my lips.

This was my blood money. Five years of bleeding for it. Chapter 2 I didn't step foot outside all day.

I dragged out every single "gift" and designer suit Valerie had bought me over the years. One look at this mountain of garbage made my stomach churn.

She called them gifts for me, but the personalized cards tucked inside every box bore the initials of her precious first love, Nathaniel.

It took half the day to clear out the closets and pile everything in the center of the living room.

I pulled out my phone and dialed Arlo. "Arlo, I've got a massive haul of highend luxury goods. You got the appetite for it?" "Vance, my man. You know I do.

You always bring the toptier inventory." "Good. Get to the penthouse. Now." Arlo and I went way back.

When we first met, he was running a cramped little consignment shop flipping secondhand designer gear.

Over the past few years, my constant supply chain turned his operation into the most exclusive luxury resale vault in the city.

Even Alist celebrities sourced their rare pieces from him now. When I first moved into this gilded cage, I didn't have a dime to my name.

For an orphan who grew up starving, cash was the only god that mattered. Once, I watched Valerie hand a slightly scratched Birkin bag to a maid, telling her to toss it in the trash.

I swallowed my pride and asked if there was anything else she wanted "thrown away." I volunteered for the job.

She gave me this calculating look, like she was wondering why I was so eager to handle the garbage.

But she didn't care enough to pry. "Handle it," she muttered, grabbing her keys. "I'm going to the office." The maid glared at me like she wanted to slit my throat.

I didn't give a damn about the staff's dirty looks.

To an elitist like Valerie, throwing away a fiftythousanddollar bag was nothing; the concept of resale didn't even exist in her stratosphere. But I wasn't stupid.

Fencing that discarded leather at a luxury consignment shop brought in serious cash.

Valerie gave me a fiftythousanddollar monthly allowance, sure, but there's no such thing as too much capital.

Over the years, by flipping discarded jewelry and bags, I had quietly amassed an offshore nest egg worth over ten million dollars.

And it wasn't just Valerie's castoffs—I fenced the garbage left behind by her toxic squad of socialite friends, too.

The only things I never touched were the official "gifts" she gave me. I couldn't risk the crazy bitch snapping one day and demanding to see them. But now? I had seven days left.

To hell with her. Besides, she hadn't stepped foot in my designated gift room in five years. What were the odds she'd suddenly demand a tour now? I played the odds.

Even if she caught me, the worst she could do was draw blood. She couldn't legally kill me. I had the entire penthouse to myself. We used to have a full staff.

But I relentlessly whispered in Valerie's ear, warning her that maids talked. We were a fake marriage, sleeping in separate wings.

One leaked rumor to the tabloids, and her reputation would tank. She bought it. She fired the livein staff. Now, she just brought in a vetted cleaning crew once a week.

I handled all the cooking. Arlo's armored transport van pulled up that afternoon.

When he walked in and saw the living room floor buried under the luxury boxes, his eyes practically rolled back in his head. "Vance, man, this is a massive score!

A lot of this stuff looks brand new." "It's not just brand new.

There are a few Richard Milles and limitededition Patek Philippes in there," I said, pointing at the velvet cases. "Arlo, I want you to take all this trash bearing her precious ex's initials, and turn it into digits in my offshore bearer account." "Done.

I'll get you a price that'll make your head spin." Chapter 3 Arlo and I went back and forth for nearly two hours before locking in the final number.

I knew the secondary luxury market inside out by now, and Arlo knew better than to lowball me. We landed on a number that made my pulse jump: nearly eight million dollars.

I swallowed the rush of adrenaline and helped load the heavy crates into the back of his van. Just as he was about to slide behind the wheel, I grabbed his arm. "Arlo.

The bespoke suits. You got a guy for those?" He tapped the steering wheel, thinking. "I know a guy who runs an elite tuxedo and formalwear rental service.

Want me to send him over tomorrow?" Relief washed over me. I could finally purge those sickening clothes.

Valerie had customordered every single piece to match Nathaniel's exact aesthetic—a pretentious style that made my skin crawl. I never dared touch them before. But now?

Aside from the physical real estate of this penthouse, I'd sell the floorboards if I could. The transaction the next day went off without a hitch.

Arlo's contact cleared out the closets, bagging everything. I only left three specific suits hanging there—the ones Valerie liked to see me in the most.

Just to keep the illusion alive. That evening, I prepped dinner and waited. She didn't stumble through the door until past midnight.

The heavy stench of tequila and expensive perfume hit me from across the foyer. She swayed on her stiletto heels, her ankles giving out.

I lunged forward and grabbed her waist before she could crack her skull against the marble floor.

She grabbed the heavy crystal ashtray off the console table and smashed it directly into my forehead. Warm blood immediately trickled down my brow bone, stinging my eye.

I didn't even dare lift a hand to wipe it. I just locked my jaw, forcing the most pathetic, subservient smile I could muster. "Valerie, I'm sorry.

I didn't mean to touch you," I said softly. "I just didn't want you to fall. Sit on the couch.

I'll go make your hangover tea." The second I turned my back, my subservient mask shattered. I wanted to drag a kitchen knife across her throat. But I couldn't.

Despite her slender frame, Valerie had years of elite Krav Maga training. She could snap my arm in two seconds flat. You might wonder why I even bothered catching her.

Let me break down the psychotic logic of Valerie. The first time she came home blackout drunk years ago, I caught her and laid her on the sofa.

She slapped me so hard my ear rang. "You piece of trash," she slurred. "Don't you ever put your filthy hands on me." The second time it happened, I learned my lesson.

I stood perfectly still. I watched her trip and eat the floor, merely asking if she was okay. Her response?

She forced me to my knees in the living room and took a riding crop to my back. "You useless dog," she screamed with every strike. "You're not worth a single strand of Nathaniel's hair!

You watch me fall and don't even reach out?!" Damned if I touch her, severely punished if I don't.

I seriously suspected Nathaniel bailing on their wedding had permanently fractured her psyche.

I finished brewing the hangover tea and set the porcelain cup on the coffee table. "Valerie. Your tea." She dragged her eyes open.

Her gaze locked onto the blood still drying on the side of my face. "Does it hurt?" she asked. "What?" My brain misfired.

Since when did this psychopath care about my pain? "Your forehead," she muttered. "Oh. It's nothing.

I'm used to it," I replied smoothly, not missing a beat. "I'll grab an ice pack later. Drink your tea.

I need to clean the kitchen." I felt the heavy weight of her stare burning into my back as I walked away. She eventually downed the tea and retreated to her master suite.

I let out a long, shaky breath, wiping the blood from my brow. I had no idea what kind of sick game she was playing tonight.

Chapter 4 That night, I pinged a guy I used to run deliveries with.

I gave him a list of highly specific items to procure—things I had seen him moving on his private feed, gears in a machine I had been designing for months. Five days left.

I fell asleep with the cold, electric anticipation of a ghost waiting to be born. The next morning started like clockwork. Breakfast served, Valerie dressed for the boardroom.

But right before she walked out, the psycho broke script. She paused at the door, her tone unnervingly soft. "I'm staying at Daphne's tonight.

Don't bother waiting up for dinner." She closed the door before I could even process the words. Hell had officially frozen over.

I sat at the marble island, a piece of toast hovering halfway to my mouth. Historically, if she didn't come home, she never bothered to tell me.

I would just sit up all night waiting like a loyal, pathetic dog, too terrified to go to sleep. Better off without you here, crazy bitch.

I cleared the dishes and headed down to the subterranean garage. I slid into the silver Mercedes—the glorified grocerygetter she let me use—and pulled out into the city traffic.

Once I hit the point of no return, I was never setting foot in this city again. I parked across the street from the block where my old group home used to stand.

It had been bulldozed years ago, replaced by a soulless glass office building. But the ghosts were still there.

My eyes locked onto the two massive oak trees that had miraculously survived the construction. Standing there, the memories dragged me right back to the dirt.

Back then, whenever prospective parents showed up, they would line us up right under those oaks. We would stand there in absolute silence, waiting to be chosen.

I watched kid after kid get packed into minivans and driven off toward a better life, while I remained rooted to the spot.

I remember furiously asking the head matron why nobody wanted me, insisting I was just as wellbehaved as the rest of them.

She would just smooth my hair and tell me that a good boy like Vance would definitely find a home soon.

After asking the same question and getting the same hollow silence enough times, I stopped looking at the front gate. I stopped expecting to be saved.

I knew the real reason, of course. I was already seven by the time I hit the system.

You don't adopt a sevenyearold; they already remember their real parents, and people are terrified they won't bond.

My life wasn't some cliché soap opera where I was the secretly swapped heir to a tech empire. My parents were bluecollar ghosts.

They used to run a humble street food cart just two blocks from those very oaks. My mother died of cancer when I was five.

For a family living paycheck to paycheck, a diagnosis like that was a death sentence for all of us. My dad wanted to mortgage our tiny house to pay for the chemo.

She flatout refused. She knew the medical bills were a black hole that would swallow us whole, leaving my dad and me out on the street with nothing but ashes.

That is the brutal, grinding reality of being poor in this world. After she was gone, my dad hollowed out.

He worked himself to the bone, picking up brutal graveyard shifts just so I wouldn't have to inherit his struggle. It lasted until I was seven.

He fell asleep at the wheel of his beatup cargo van. He swerved to avoid a pedestrian, wrapping the van around a streetlamp. He didn't make it.

The pedestrian survived but was paralyzed from the waist down. The ensuing civil lawsuit swallowed what little we had left, including the house.

Just like that, I was a sevenyearold kid standing on the sidewalk with nothing but the clothes on my back.

I walked myself to the group home, knelt in the dirt in front of the matron, and begged her not to let me starve. Chapter 5 I survived in the system until I was sixteen.

That was the year the head matron died. Without her protection, the property was liquidated and sold off to a corporate developer. I was kicked to the curb.

I didn't even get to finish high school. I just hustled, taking whatever brutal, underthetable jobs I could find to keep myself fed.

I did whatever it took to stay breathing, carrying the weight of my parents' memory. I didn't linger in the past.

I gave those two massive oaks one last look, turned up my collar, and walked away. There was nothing left in this city for me to hope for.

I drove past the block where my childhood home used to be. I didn't get out of the car. I just wanted one final look at the driveway where my parents used to stand.

The family that sued us had liquidated the house immediately to cover the paralyzed man's medical bills. I didn't hold any resentment toward them.

I just hoped the guy made peace with his life. From there, I headed to the cemetery on the outskirts of the city.

I had only been able to afford to claim my dad's ashes and bury him next to my mom after I started making my own cash.

Staring at the weathered names carved into the granite stone, a hot, suffocating tightness gripped my throat.

A tear spilled over my lashes, cutting a cold path down my jaw. "Mom, Dad. This is the last time I'll be here," I whispered, my voice rough. "Forgive me.

Just keep watching my back." "I don't want to leave the country, but if I stay, I'm dead. Valerie's family practically owns the state.

Their reach is too long." "I have to disappear to a place where their money means absolutely nothing." I stood there talking to the granite headstone for an hour—probably saying more words than I had spoken to Valerie in five years combined. "Goodbye." I turned my back and walked away without looking over my shoulder.

A sudden gust of wind rattled the bare branches above, like a final sendoff. I couldn't visit the head matron's grave. Her family had flown her body back to D.C. for the burial.

It was too far. Maybe someday, if I survived this, I'd make the trip to the East Coast to pay my respects to the only woman who didn't let me starve.

When I got back to the penthouse, I automatically walked toward the kitchen before my brain caught up. The crazy bitch wasn't coming home.

I ordered a greasy burger, ate in the dark, and threw myself onto my bed. I tossed and turned for hours, staring at the ceiling until my vision blurred.

In my restless sleep, I saw my parents and the matron smiling at me, but every time I reached out to grab their hands, my fingers just grasped empty air.

The sharp, aggressive pounding on my bedroom door jolted me awake. My heart slammed against my ribs.

Today was supposed to be my one day of absolute peace—a luxury I hadn't tasted in five years. I yanked the door open.

Seeing Valerie's flawless, glacial face standing there made the blood drain from my extremities.

A cold sweat spiked down my spine. "Valerie," I stammered, instantly dropping my gaze. "I'm sorry. I'll start breakfast right now.

I thought you headed straight to the office." "Skip it," she snapped. "I just came back for a file.

When I didn't see you in the living room, I assumed you hadn't come back last night." She spun on her Louboutins and marched down the hall, the heavy click of her heels fading out the front door.

I stood frozen in the doorway, my chest heaving as I struggled to catch my breath. Sleep was dead to me now.

I threw on a hoodie, headed out to a dead drop in an alley, and retrieved the package my contact had left.

I brought the supplies back and shoved them into a hollow space behind my closet baseboards. Then, I drove out to the docks to meet the most ruthless fixer in the city.

We locked down the extraction time and the exact GPS coordinates for the smuggling vessel.

I slid a duffel bag stuffed with fifty grand in untraceable cash across the table as a down payment.

By the time I returned to the suffocating silence of the penthouse, the final pieces of the board were set.

Chapter 6 Over dinner, Valerie issued her order. "Family dinner tomorrow night. Wear the navy bespoke suit.

I'll have Howard pick you up after work." A cold sweat broke across the back of my neck. Shit. I already sold that suit to Arlo.

I braced myself. "Valerie, I can't fit into that suit anymore." It wasn't a lie. When I first moved in, I was starving and skinandbones.

After five years of regular meals, I had filled out. The suit she customordered back then was too tight across the shoulders now. Valerie set down her fork.

Her iceblue eyes scanned me, verifying the truth. "I hadn't noticed," she stated, her voice flat. "You have bulked up." You didn't notice because you treat me like a stray dog, I thought, keeping my jaw locked. "Forget it," she commanded. "Wear the suit hanging in my master suite.

It should fit." The porcelain bowl slipped from my fingers, clattering loudly against the marble table