Betrayed Bride: Claimed By The Best Man

The light through the curtains was wrong-too direct, too insistent. Kloe's eyes opened on gray morning, her body registering pain in places she'd never considered before. She lay still, cataloging: the ache in her hips, the tenderness between her thighs, the stiffness in her shoulders from positions she'd never imagined. Memory returned in fragments. The corridor. The wine. Julian's hands, his mouth, the things he'd made her feel and say and become. She turned her head. The bed's other side was occupied by Julian's back-broad, muscled, marked with red lines she dimly remembered carving there with her fingernails. His breathing was deep and even, the rhythm of genuine sleep. Or the performance of it. Kloe moved with the caution of a thief. The sheets whispered as she slid from beneath them, her feet finding the floor, her legs trembling but holding. She needed clothes. Her dress was destroyed, scattered across the room like evidence at a crime scene. Her underwear-she couldn't remember, couldn't face searching for it. Julian's shirt lay on the sofa where he'd discarded it. White, oversized, smelling of him. Kloe pulled it over her head, the fabric falling to mid-thigh, covering everything and nothing. She found her clutch, her keycard, her phone with its missed calls and unread messages. Her shoes were lost somewhere in the darkness, but she couldn't wait. The door opened without sound. The corridor was empty, morning light replacing last night's amber gloom. Kloe walked to the elevator, barefoot, her reflection in the polished metal showing a stranger-hair tangled, lips swollen, wearing a man's shirt like a flag of surrender. The elevator descended. The lobby was quiet, the night staff changing shifts. She walked past the front desk without meeting anyone's eyes, out into the humid morning, and flagged a yellow cab idling at the curb. "Long Island," she said, giving the address of the house she shared with Justen. The house where she'd planned to raise children, host dinner parties, grow old in comfortable companionship. The house that now felt like a trap she'd already sprung. The cab merged into traffic. Kloe pressed her forehead against the cool glass and let the tears come, silent and endless. Before the city skyline completely faded, she pulled her phone from her clutch. Her fingers trembled as she bypassed Justen's missed calls and dialed a private number. It rang twice. "Martha," Kloe whispered, her voice cracking as the faithful assistant answered. "I need my grandmother. Please... I'm going to the Long Island house. He's there." She hung up before Martha could ask questions, letting the phone drop to her lap while Manhattan's towers gave way to bridges, to highways, to the green expanse of the island where her mistakes were waiting. --- The house was dark when she arrived, the windows shuttered against the morning. Kloe paid the driver with shaking hands, her clutch's contents scattered-cash, cards, a lipstick she'd applied twelve hours ago in a different lifetime. The key turned. The door opened on silence and cigarette smoke, thick enough to taste. Justen sat on the living room sofa, still in yesterday's tuxedo pants and wrinkled shirt, surrounded by a constellation of butts in crystal ashtrays she didn't recognize owning. His eyes-red-rimmed, hollow-found her immediately. "Where." The word emerged as gravel. "The fuck. Have you been." Kloe's hand found the light switch, flooding the room with truth. Justen looked worse than she'd imagined-unshaven, disheveled, the polished charm stripped away to reveal something desperate underneath. "Answer me." He was on his feet, crossing the space between them with uneven strides. His fingers closed around her wrist, grinding bone against bone. "What the hell is this? Whose shirt are you wearing, Kloe?!" His free hand shot out, grabbing the oversized collar of the white button-down and twisting the fabric. The violent jerk pulled her forward, his eyes wild as they scanned the unfamiliar seams, the expensive weave that clearly didn't belong to him. Kloe looked at him. At the man who'd promised forever while calculating her net worth. Who'd called her a corpse while fucking her cousin on their wedding night. The fear she'd carried from Julian's suite evaporated, replaced by something cold and crystalline. "Let go," she said. "Not until you tell me-" He shook her, hard enough to snap her head back. "Who is he? Who did you-" His voice broke, rage and injury tangled beyond separation. "You were with someone. I heard you. That sound-" "That sound?" Kloe laughed, the sound shocking them both. "You want to discuss sounds, Justen? Noises people make in hotel rooms?" She pulled her wrist free, not gently. "How about Candyce's voice? Should we compare recordings?" Justen's face went white. Then red. His hand rose, trembling, and Kloe saw the blow coming, saw his palm arching toward her cheek with the inevitability of gravity. She didn't flinch. Didn't close her eyes. She simply watched him, letting her contempt show, letting him see exactly what she thought of him. The door slammed open behind them.