The Billionaire CEO Betrays his Wife: He wants her back-Chapter 105: The Merchandise

They dragged her out of the crate like she was luggage, not a person. Her limbs screamed in protest. The cold bit into her skin. Somewhere along the way, the tape was ripped from her mouth and replaced with silence because even if she screamed, no one would hear her.

She wasn’t in a basement. She wasn’t in a cell.

She was in a room designed to make her feel safe. Lavish. Velvet curtains. A vintage chandelier casts a golden light over polished floors. But the beauty was a lie.

This was a prison dressed in pearls.

She was shoved into a chair. Her wrists were zip-tied behind her back. Her ankles too. But her eyes stayed sharp. Watching. Calculating.

And then—

He entered.

Philip Shepherd. Her uncle.

Smiling like the devil on vacation. Hair silver at the temples, suit sharp, presence sharper. He looked at her like a proud collector admiring a long-lost artifact.

"Niece," he said softly, almost affectionately. "You’ve grown into such a captivating woman, like your mother, it was sad to have to kill her but she knew something she shouldn’t have."

Mara didn’t flinch. "Still the same monster and a murderer you will pay for what you did to my parent and grandpa," she replied, voice hoarse but steady.

He chuckled. "I missed that Shepherd fire." He poured himself a drink. "But let’s be honest, baby Stef. I didn’t bring you here to reminisce and neither of you could make me pay."

He turned, and just like that, his charm snapped off like a mask falling.

"I brought you here to clear my name and the mess you and your brothers created. See I’m giving you guys the chance to clean your mess."

He paced slowly. Every step was deliberate like he was dancing to music only he could hear. "Your brothers Steve, and Stefan they’ve been a thorn in my side for years. I like Stanley and Stanford, they were rebels like me. But their perfect lives, their spotless records, their... idealism. It’s exhausting."

He knelt beside her, brushing a strand of hair from her face like a father might do—if that father was made of snakes and secrets.

"But you... you’re the key," he whispered. "They’ll do anything for you, the little princess. Even if it means betraying their own beliefs. Even if it means handing me back my kingdom."

Mara spat at his feet.

Philip’s smile twitched. Not gone just tighter. Colder.

"You’ll behave," he said, rising. "Because you’ll want them safe. And because, dear girl, I’ll make you wish for the kind of mercy I never give."

He turned to his men. "Make sure she’s alive. That’s the only thing that matters. Comfort? Optional."

Two guards stepped forward.

One leaned in too close. His breath was sour. His touch grazed her arm like he wanted her to flinch.

Mara didn’t.

Not once.

She locked eyes with him cold, fearless.

"I dare you," she whispered, voice like broken glass.

The guard laughed.

But Philip raised a hand.

"Don’t ruin the merchandise," he said, without looking back. "Not yet."

The men backed off, disappointed.

Philip walked to a glass wall overlooking the warehouse below, sipping his drink like he’d already won.

But Mara?

She sat there, still tied, still captive but her heartbeat was steady.

Because she was counting the seconds.

Memorizing the layout.

And waiting.

She knew her brothers.

She knew Ethan.

She knew someone would come.

And when they did, she wasn’t just getting out She was burning it all down behind her.

Hours passed. Or maybe minutes. In a place like this, time stretched like a scream in the dark.

The guards had settled into boredom. One leaned against the door, scrolling through his phone. Another sat on a crate near the wall, chewing gum with all the charm of a kicked-in vending machine. The third tall, mean-eyed watched her like a wolf behind glass.

But none of them were Philip.

And that meant... they were flawed.

She studied them the way a predator studies prey: not with teeth, but with patience.

Then the opportunity came.

One of the guards the youngest, maybe early twenties, with buzzed hair, too eager to impress walked over with a bottle of water. He crouched, and sliced the zip tie on her ankles, just enough to let her shift. "Don’t try anything," he muttered, unscrewing the cap and tipping the bottle to her lips.

She drank, slowly, watching him.

When he stood, she whispered just loud enough for only him to hear:

"Philip doesn’t trust you."

He froze.

"What did you say?"

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing. "You’re not his inner circle. You’re just a kid who he pays to do grunt work. He didn’t even look at you when he gave the orders."

The kid scoffed, but it was shaky. "Shut up."

"He’s going to pin this all on you if it goes sideways," she said, voice like silk over barbed wire. "You know that, right? When the police come, when the Shepherds come—you’re the fall guy."

He looked over his shoulder.

The other guards weren’t paying attention.

"You don’t know him like I do," she continued, lower now. "I’ve seen what he does to people who outlive their usefulness. When he’s done with me... he’ll be done with you, too."

A pause.

A beat.

Then she leaned in—just a little.

"But you could help me. Quietly. Smartly. And walk away with your life and a future."

Buzzcut stared at her, chewing on the words like they burned his tongue.

"You’re bluffing," he said, but there was no conviction in it.

She smiled.

"You’ll find out."

That seed? Planted.

The guard didn’t untie her. Not yet. But now he looked at her differently. Less like cargo. More like a person holding dynamite behind her teeth.

That was all she needed.

Doubt had entered the room. And once it’s in, it spreads like fire.

Her voice was like honey laced with venom.

"Two million."

The guard blinked, his lip curling in a nervous smirk. "You trying to bribe me now?"

Mara leaned forward just slightly, keeping her tone casual, controlled—like she wasn’t tied to a chair with half her face swollen from a slap hours ago. "You’re worth more than whatever Philip’s paying you. I can get you that money. Quietly. Offshore. No strings."

He hesitated. The idea slithered into his mind like smoke curling through a crack. Money talks especially to the ones who’ve never held power before.

He looked around. The other guards were gone. Probably outside, smoking or gambling. It was just him, the hostage, and the scent of opportunity.

"...What do you want?" he finally asked, cautious but curious.

"My phone," Mara said smoothly. "It’s in my back pocket. Just needs a charge. I’ll send a message—encrypted. Untraceable. You won’t even be in trouble."

His hand hovered near her hip for a moment before he reached down, fishing out the device.

Dead.

Battery flatlined. He grunted. "No power."

"I’m sure you can find a charger or give me your phone," she said quickly. "Please. Just give me this."

He looked at her. Really looked.

This wasn’t some spoiled heiress begging for Daddy’s money. This was a wolf in a dress. A woman with nothing left to lose.

And he was just about to cave.

Just about to move—

When the door flew open.

Bang.

A single shot split the air.

Blood sprayed across the wall like a warning.

The guard collapsed mid-step, a gaping hole in the side of his head.

Mara screamed, involuntarily, jerking back in her chair as the lifeless body hit the floor with a freakish thud.

And standing in the doorway—

Victor.

Philip’s right hand. Dressed in black. Eyes like polished obsidian. The gun still smoked in his gloved hand.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t have to.

His gaze slid over to Mara, calm and cold and utterly devoid of emotion.

"You were trying to be clever," he said at last, voice soft as velvet—and twice as deadly. "Philip asked for you alive. That doesn’t mean unbruised."

Mara said nothing. Couldn’t. The copper taste of fear had crawled up her throat.

Victor walked forward and picked up the blood-stained phone from the floor. He held it out, studying it like a child might inspect a broken toy. Then he dropped it... and crushed it under his boot with a deliberate crack.

Mara didn’t cry.

Didn’t beg.

But something inside her cracked too.

Not her strength.

Her hope.

For a second.

Just for a second.

Back in the city, the team hit a break.

Stanley burst into the safe house, holding a traffic cam still image. "There—look!"

A timestamp. A grainy shot of a janitor cart being wheeled too quickly through a back alley. The woman pushing it was too small to be real staff. Too stiff. Too familiar.

"She was in the crate," Stefan said, voice like ice.

Velaria was already on her laptop, fingers flying. "Give me ten seconds. I’ll trace the route they took. Cross-referencing facial recognition with staff data."

Steve checked his weapons. "We’re not waiting. We move on that location as soon as we have it."

Stefan’s jaw clenched. His mind was miles away—in a golden prison, with a sister who’d risk everything for him, and who was now paying the price.

Hang on, Stef. Just a little longer. We’re coming.