Scars Of Betrayal: The Billionaire's Sweet Revenge

Carli sat in the back of the moving Uber. The Manhattan rain hit the windows hard. Her phone screen lit up in the dark. It was an anonymous text message. It contained a single location pin. An upscale apartment garage on the Upper East Side. Her stomach dropped. A cold sweat broke out on the back of her neck. Her fingers gripped the edges of her phone so tightly her knuckles turned white. "Driver," Carli said. Her voice shook. "Change of destination. Take me to this address." The Uber pulled up to the dark, damp entrance of the underground garage. Carli handed the driver a twenty-dollar bill. She pushed the door open and stepped out. The cold wind blew the rain against her trench coat. The fabric clung to her legs. She walked down the concrete ramp. The sound of her high heels echoed off the thick gray walls. The air smelled like motor oil and wet asphalt. She followed the blue dot on her phone screen. She walked deeper into the silent garage. Then, she saw it. Vaughn's black Porsche. It was parked in the far corner. The car was rocking back and forth. Carli stopped walking. Her breathing turned shallow. She moved closer, her footsteps silent on the wet concrete. The car windows were fogged up. Through the glass, she heard the high-pitched, breathy moans of a woman. Bile rose in the back of Carli's throat. She swallowed hard, fighting the urge to throw up. Seven years. Seven years of her life, gone. She pulled out her phone. Her hands were trembling. She forced them to stop. She opened the camera app and hit record. She filmed the license plate. Then, she stepped right up to the passenger window and filmed the two naked bodies tangled in the front seat. Carli grabbed the heavy brass buckle of her platinum handbag. She swung it back and smashed it into the glass. A loud thud echoed through the garage. The moaning stopped instantly. A woman screamed. The two bodies scrambled apart in terror. Vaughn rolled down the window. He was frantically pulling up his pants. His face went completely pale when he saw Carli standing in the rain. Isla, the woman in the passenger seat, grabbed a shirt to cover her chest. She let out a fake, weak sob. Carli pressed stop on her video. She stared at the man she was supposed to marry. Her eyes were completely dry. Her chest felt hollow. "Carli," Vaughn stammered. He reached out to grab her coat. "Carli, wait. This is a misunderstanding." Carli stepped back. The thought of his skin touching hers made her skin crawl. She looked down at her left hand. She grabbed the two-carat diamond engagement ring and pulled it off her finger. She threw it straight at his face. The heavy metal hit his cheekbone. "Don't get my things dirty," Carli said. She turned around and walked away. "Carli! Come back here!" Vaughn yelled, his voice echoing off the walls. She didn't look back. She walked out of the garage and flagged down a yellow cab. "Where to?" the driver asked. Carli opened her bag. She dug past her wallet and pulled out a black-and-gold card. It was an invitation to Elysium. Her late aunt had left it for her. "Meatpacking District," Carli said. The cab sped through the neon-lit streets. Carli stared out the window. Her chest was tight. She needed to forget. She needed to feel something other than this crushing humiliation. She arrived at a heavy wooden door in a dark alley. The security guard looked at her. Carli flipped the card over, showing the special serial number. The guard's posture straightened. He opened the door for her. The heavy bass of the music hit her chest instantly. The air was thick with the smell of expensive perfume and sweat. Carli walked straight to the marble bar. "Dry martini," she told the bartender. He handed her the glass. She drank it in one gulp. The sharp, cold burn of the premium gin slid down her throat. It was a welcome fire in the cold hollowness of her chest, a potent spirit that began to blur the edges of her vision. A tall man appeared beside her. He wore a black Venetian mask that covered the top half of his face. He was massive. His shoulders blocked out the red neon lights from the dance floor. He smelled like cold cedar and tobacco. "Slow down," a low, gravelly voice said. The sound of his voice vibrated right through her ribs. He slid a glass of whiskey toward her. His dark eyes locked onto hers through the holes in his mask. The alcohol rushed to Carli's brain. She turned to face him. She looked at his sharp jawline and his expensive silk tie. She reached out and grabbed the tie. She pulled him down until his face was inches from hers. "Take me out of here," she whispered against his ear.