Betrayed By Him, Saved By His Uncle

Clara pushed open the heavy double doors of the Plaza's presidential suite. The room was dark, silent. The anticipation of Julian's arms around her vanished, leaving a cold, hollow weight in her chest. She kicked off her heels. Her bare feet hit the freezing marble floor. "Julian?" Her voice bounced off the empty walls. She walked toward the minibar. Her fingers brushed the cold counter and hit two wine glasses. She paused. The rim of one glass bore a stark crimson lipstick stain. Not her shade. Her eyes widened. Her heart slammed against her ribs. She followed a chaotic trail of footprints on the plush carpet to the walk-in closet. She pushed the half-open door. A thick, cheap vanilla perfume hit her nose. She hated that scent. Her eyes locked onto the velvet armchair. A torn piece of black lace lingerie lay there. Extremely revealing. Nothing like the bridal set she had prepared. Her hands shook as she picked it up. The fabric seemed to burn her fingers. Bile rushed up her throat. She clamped a hand over her mouth. She pulled out her phone and dialed Julian. Voicemail. The automated voice made her throat tighten. She opened the Family Link app. Julian's signal sat stationary in the VIP garage, third basement level. Over twenty minutes. Clara didn't change. She grabbed a trench coat, wrapped it tight around her shivering body, and bolted for the elevators. The elevator dropped. Her stomach lurched. She stared at the red numbers, twisting her fingers, nails digging into her palms. The doors opened. Damp, freezing air slapped her face. She walked silently through the rows of luxury cars. Her eyes caught a black Range Rover shaking violently in the dim light. Julian's. She held her breath and crept closer. Through the tinted windshield, under the weak overhead light, she saw two overlapping silhouettes. A roaring sound filled her ears. Julian, the man she loved, pressed a woman down. She threw her head back. Sierra Shaw. Julian's childhood friend. The woman who had been a bridesmaid at their wedding hours ago. Sierra let out a soft moan, wrapped her arms around Julian's neck, and deliberately turned her face toward the window, her gaze sweeping the dark garage. Clara ducked behind a concrete pillar. She pressed both hands to her mouth. Tears burned her eyes. A sharp, hot pain cracked through her chest. She couldn't breathe. She fought the urge to scream. Her hands trembled as she lifted her phone, aimed at the scene, and hit record. Ten seconds. Her hands shook so hard the footage blurred. She shoved the phone into her pocket, spun around, and leaned against the freezing pillar. She gasped for air. She forced herself to think. Before the wedding, Julian had convinced her to sign papers transferring her twenty percent of their company shares to him. "Tax evasion," he'd said. If she confronted him now, she would be thrown out with nothing. Her grandmother's nursing home bills would stop immediately. Clara bit down on her lip until she tasted copper. She swallowed the blood, the humiliation, the rage. She turned and walked to the emergency stairwell. The iron door screeched as she pushed it open. The sound rang harsh and ugly in the concrete shaft. She climbed blindly, her legs heavy. She nearly tripped over her wedding dress. By the fifteenth floor, her lungs burned. She couldn't take another step. She pushed open the fire door into an unfamiliar corridor. Thick carpet. Dead silence. She leaned against the wall, wiping her face, trying to smooth her messy dark hair. Then a loud pop. Every light in the hallway died. Absolute, pitch-black darkness. The emergency lights stayed off. Heavy, rapid footsteps pounded toward her. Panic locked her legs. She tried to retreat to the stairwell, but a massive, burning-hot hand clamped around her wrist. The scent of cold cedarwood mixed with the metallic tang of fresh blood choked her. Before she could scream, she was yanked forward, dragged into a dark hotel room. The door slammed shut.