Married To His Cruelty, Not His Love

Alana POV:

Berneice' s gaze was a laser, pinning Clayton in place. "You want to continue this charade with Kiarra? Fine. But you will not drag the Chase name through the mud with her pathetic schemes. And you will not destroy Alana Beck."

Clayton' s jaw tightened. He opened his mouth, then closed it. He knew better than to argue with his mother when she was like this.

He shot me a look. A flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. Annoyance? Defeat? I didn' t care.

Then, he turned and stalked out of the room, the door closing with a soft click behind him.

Berneice watched him go, then turned her full attention to me. Her eyes, shrewd and assessing, scanned my bruised face.

"You're a clever girl, Alana," she said, her voice softer now, but still sharp. "More clever than Clayton gives you credit for. More resilient than anyone in this family expects."

I managed a weak smile. The compliment felt hollow, but the support was real.

"Our agreement still stands," she continued. "The divorce. The funds. The connections. My word is my bond. And I have resources even Clayton doesn't know about."

She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "I never approved of your background. But I respect strength. And you, Alana, have it in spades. Much more than that Nolan girl. Or even my own son, it seems."

After that, Clayton didn't visit again. The nurse, Sarah, told me he'd been seen looking distant, absorbed in his phone. Probably Kiarra.

The hospital released me a few days later, my arm in a cast, my body still aching. I was driven back to the penthouse. The silence was deafening.

To my surprise, the news cycle about my "incident" at the party had died down. Kiarra's name was being plastered everywhere, but not for her alleged cruelty. Instead, glowing articles about her "philanthropic ventures" and "fashion genius" filled the feeds. Berneice. I knew it. She was twisting the narrative. Protecting her family's name, even if it meant burying Kiarra's scandal.

A week later, Clayton summoned me. Not to his study. To a public event. A gala. For one of Kiarra's "charities."

It was a setup. I knew it the moment the invitation arrived. He was parading me, a broken trophy, to show the world Kiarra' s supposed benevolence. My arm still hurt. My ribs screamed with every breath. But I would not give them the satisfaction of seeing me completely broken.

I put on the most elegant dress I owned, chosen by Berneice's assistant. It was a deep emerald green, designed to distract from the cast on my arm, which was covered in a delicate silk sleeve.

The gala was a glittering spectacle of wealth and superficiality. Kiarra, radiant in white, was the belle of the ball. Clayton, at her side, looked almost proud.

He escorted me in, his grip on my uninjured arm possessive. A perfect picture of marital harmony. A lie.

We moved through the crowd, a forced smile plastered on my face. Kiarra swept past us, her eyes flashing with triumph. She whispered, "Enjoy the show, Alana. This is what winning looks like."

Suddenly, a waiter, overloaded with a tray of drinks, stumbled directly into me. A cascade of red wine splashed down my dress.

"Oh, my goodness!" the waiter cried, genuinely distraught. "I am so terribly sorry, Mrs. Chase!"

My face burned. A forced accident. Of course. Kiarra's doing, no doubt. The echoes of that old university memory, the spilled wine, the sneers. It was a deliberate reenactment. A public humiliation. Again.

Clayton, ever the gentleman in public, dabbed at my dress with a napkin. "It's alright, Alana. Go clean up. Sarah will show you where."

Sarah, Berneice's assistant, appeared as if on cue. She led me away, down a hushed corridor, to a private washroom.

I closed the door behind me, stripped off the ruined dress, and began to clean the wine from my skin. My arm throbbed. My head pounded.

Suddenly, the door burst open. A man I didn't recognize, his face flushed, his eyes wild, stumbled in. He was clearly drunk.

"Well, well, what have we here?" he slurred, blocking the door. "A little bird, alone and wet."

Fear, cold and sharp, pierced through me. I was half-dressed. Vulnerable.

"Get out!" I snapped, pulling the clean dress closer to my body.

He laughed, a lecherous sound. He lunged at me. His hands, reeking of alcohol, grabbed my arm.

"Don't play coy, darling," he breathed, his face too close. "Everyone knows you're just Clayton's little plaything. What's one more?"

Rage, primal and protective, flared within me. I was not a plaything. I was not weak.

I kicked. Hard. My foot connected with his shin. He cried out, stumbling back.

"Bitch!" he snarled, his eyes now filled with malice. He lunged again, faster this time.

He tackled me to the ground. My head hit the tiled floor with a sickening thud. The world spun. His weight pressed down on me. His hands tore at my dress.

Shame. Disgust. Fury. It all swirled into a terrifying cocktail.

I fought with everything I had. My nails raked his face. My casted arm, useless, still tried to push him away.

He roared in pain and frustration. He slapped me. Hard. My head snapped to the side. Stars exploded behind my eyes.

He pinned my good arm, tearing at my clothing. I was helpless. Despair threatened to drown me. Is this it? Is this how it ends?

Just then, the door crashed open.

A dark figure stood silhouetted against the light. Then, a blur of motion. The man on top of me was yanked off, sent sprawling across the floor. A sickening crunch echoed in the small room.

I lay gasping, my body bruised and trembling, my dress in tatters.

Then, flashes. A flurry of camera lights. Voices shouting.

"It's Alana Chase!"

"What happened here?"

"Is that Clayton Chase? Who did he just hit?"

I looked up. Clayton. His face was a thundercloud of fury. He stood over the man, who was whimpering on the floor.

Kiarra appeared at the doorway, her eyes wide, a gasp escaping her lips. But her gaze wasn' t on me. It was on the cameras. Her face instantly shifted to one of feigned shock and concern.

"Oh, my God, Alana!" she cried, her voice a theatrical whisper. She covered her mouth with her hand, then leaned into a nearby reporter. "This is terrible! She's always been so… fragile. I hope she's alright."

Her words twisted in my gut. Fragile. She was painting me as a victim again. But a weak one. A pathetic one. And she was making sure everyone knew it.

She caught my eye. Her smile was like a razor. He saved you, Alana. But he's still mine. You're still just a casualty in my game.

A fresh wave of despair washed over me. This had been planned. All of it. Another public spectacle. Another way to humiliate me. To show Clayton's "heroism." To cement Kiarra's control.

Clayton turned, his eyes finding me on the floor. His face softened, a flicker of genuine concern. But it was too late. I saw the strings. I saw the puppeteer.

He shed his tuxedo jacket, wrapping it around my trembling shoulders, covering my torn dress. He scooped me up into his arms, ignoring the flashing cameras, ignoring the whispers. He held me tight, carrying me out of the room, through the shocked crowd, and out of the gala.

My face was buried against his chest. I felt the rumble of his heartbeat. And then, the tears came. Hot, silent tears that streamed down my face, soaking his shirt.

My father. My home. My dignity. All gone. For what? To be paraded, humiliated, beaten, and then "rescued" by the very man who allowed it all to happen?

Is this what my life is worth? Is this the price of being poor?