Betrayed Bride: Claimed By The Brother

The plastic bag handle dug into Francesca's palm, cutting off the circulation to her fingers.

She shifted the weight of the takeout container.

Spicy tuna rolls. Julian's favorite.

She adjusted her grip on the keycard, the plastic cool and slick against her sweating thumb.

She shouldn't be nervous.

This was her fiancé.

She swiped the card.

The lock clicked. The sound was too loud in the hushed, carpeted hallway of the Faulkner Hotel.

She pushed the door open.

A single red-soled stiletto lay on its side in the marble entryway.

Francesca stopped.

She stared at the shoe.

She knew that shoe.

She had watched Lila try it on at Saks last week. She had told Lila it made her legs look miles long.

A laugh drifted from the bedroom.

It was a high, tinkling sound. A sound Francesca had heard over brunch mimosas for ten years.

Then came a lower sound. A heavy, rhythmic grunt.

Julian.

Francesca didn't move. Her feet felt like they were nailed to the floorboards.

The sushi bag crinkled.

The sound was tiny, but in the silence of her own shattering life, it sounded like a gunshot.

She took a step forward. She had to see.

The bedroom door was cracked open three inches.

Through the gap, she saw skin. Tan skin against white sheets.

Julian's back was arched.

Lila was underneath him. Her head was thrown back.

Lila's eyes opened.

She smiled.

It was a small, cruel curving of her lips.

Then she wrapped her legs tighter around Julian's waist and let out a loud, theatrical moan.

Francesca felt the bile rise in her throat. It tasted like acid and betrayal.

She didn't scream. She couldn't.

Her hand shook as she reached into her purse.

She pulled out her phone.

She lifted it.

The camera focused.

Ten seconds.

She recorded the arch of Julian's back. The triumph in Lila's eyes. The way the headboard banged against the wall.

Julian started to turn his head.

Francesca spun around.

She ran.

She didn't feel her feet hitting the carpet. She only heard the blood rushing in her ears, drowning out the elevator chime.

She jammed the button for the lobby.

Then she changed her mind.

She hit the button for the roof.

She needed air. She needed vodka.

Thirty minutes later, the vodka burned a hole in her empty stomach.

Her phone buzzed on the bar top.

Julian: Where are you, babe? Missed you at dinner.

Francesca stared at the screen until the letters blurred.

She grabbed her purse. She couldn't go home. Her stepmother would be there, asking about the wedding arrangements.

She dug into her bag and her fingers brushed against a hard plastic card.

The Faulkner Platinum access card. A relic from her father's last joint venture with their hotel group. It gave her access to any non-occupied suite.

She had kept it for emergencies.

It opened the medical suite on the penthouse floor.

The suite reserved for Grafton Faulkner.

Julian's crippled, outcast brother.

He wasn't supposed to arrive until tomorrow.

The room would be empty. Dark. Quiet.

Francesca stumbled into the elevator.

She swiped the card.

The penthouse door opened into darkness.

The air inside smelled of cedar and antiseptic.

She kicked off her heels.

She walked into the living room, the plush rug swallowing her footsteps.

"Faulkner men," she whispered into the dark. "You all deserve to rot."

Click.

A flame flared.

It was small, orange, and terrifying.

It illuminated a face.

Sharp cheekbones. Heavy brows. Eyes that looked like black glass.

Francesca gasped. She took a step back and tripped over her own feet.

She hit the floor hard.

The man was sitting in a wheelchair by the window.

Grafton Faulkner.

He watched her fall. He didn't move to help.

"I... I thought it was empty," she stammered. She tried to push herself up. Her arms felt like rubber.

"Get out," he said. His voice was gravel and smoke.

"I'm going," she said. She tried to stand. She failed.

She closed her eyes, waiting for the insult. Waiting for him to call security.

She heard footsteps.

Heavy. Rhythmic. Confident.

Not the whir of wheels.

Footsteps.

Francesca opened her eyes.

The wheelchair was empty.

Grafton Faulkner was standing over her.

He was tall. Over six feet.

He wasn't leaning on anything. His legs were strong, his stance solid.

He looked like a predator inspecting a trap.

Francesca's brain short-circuited. "You... you can walk."

Grafton crouched down.

He didn't look like a cripple. He looked like a weapon.

He reached out. His fingers were long and cold.

He gripped her chin. He forced her to look at him.

"You saw something you shouldn't have, Francesca."

His thumb pressed against her jawbone. It hurt.

"Give me one reason," he whispered, "why I shouldn't throw you off this balcony right now."

Francesca looked at him.

She saw the danger in his eyes.

But she also saw power.

She thought of Julian. She thought of Lila's smile.

A crazy, desperate idea clawed its way up her throat.

She reached up. She grabbed his wrist.

"Help me destroy Julian," she rasped.

Grafton blinked.

The violence in his eyes receded, replaced by something colder. Something like amusement.

"Interesting," he said.

He stood up, pulling her with him effortlessly.

He didn't let go of her arm.

"Show me what you're worth," he said.

He scooped her up.

He carried her toward the bedroom. He didn't limp. Not even a little.