Stealing The Groom For Sweet Revenge

The heavy front doors of the Goodwin estate slammed shut behind her. Elizabeth stood on the stone driveway. The cold night air hit her face, cooling the heat radiating from her skin. She looked down at her dress. The red wine clung to the fabric. She lifted her right hand. When Meredith threw the wine, the base of the crystal glass had clipped her knuckle. A deep cut sliced across her skin. Thick drops of blood welled up and dripped onto the pavement. She dug into her purse, pulled out a tissue, and pressed it hard against the wound. The sharp sting grounded her. She stared at the crimson stain spreading across the white paper. Good, she thought, her erratic heartbeat finally steadying into a slow, rhythmic thud. This was the absolute last time she would ever bleed for the Goodwin family. The suffocating rage that had nearly choked her at the dinner table evaporated, replaced by a glacier of cold, calculated intent. From now on, they would be the ones bleeding. She walked down the long driveway and flagged down a passing yellow cab on the main road. "Downtown," she told the driver. "The Abyss." The city lights blurred past the window. Her heart rate slowed. The anger morphed into a cold, calculated focus. Thirty minutes later, the cab pulled up to a narrow, unlit alleyway in the Lower East Side. The neon sign for The Abyss flickered halfway down the brick wall. Elizabeth stepped out of the cab. Her heels clicked against the damp asphalt. "Well, well. Look what the trash dragged in." Elizabeth stopped. Acey Cantu leaned against the hood of a bright red Ferrari parked at the mouth of the alley. He held a lit cigarette between his fingers. The smell of cheap alcohol rolled off him in waves. He pushed off the car and stumbled toward her, blocking her path. Acey's bloodshot eyes dragged up and down her body. He looked at the wine stain, then at the bloody tissue wrapped around her hand. He let out a harsh, ugly laugh. "Look at you," Acey sneered. "Thrown out like the stray dog you are. Even Dorian doesn't want to touch you." Elizabeth stared at him. Her jaw locked. "Move, Acey." The dismissal in her voice snapped his fragile ego. Acey flicked his cigarette at her feet. He lunged forward, reaching out to grab her shoulder. "You think you're better than me, you little whore?" Elizabeth didn't step back. The deadpan mask vanished. Growing up as a stray in the foster system had taught her one very specific lesson: you either learned how to use a larger opponent's momentum against them, or you ended up in the hospital. She had spent years perfecting the art of dropping drunken, heavy-handed men. Pure, violent instinct took over. As his hand closed in, she shifted her weight. She grabbed his wrist with her good hand, twisted her body, and locked his arm over her shoulder. She dropped her hips and pulled. Acey's one hundred and eighty pounds went airborne. With a sickening thud, his back slammed into the unforgiving asphalt. All the air left his lungs in a violent rush. He curled into a fetal position, clutching his ribs, a pathetic wheeze escaping his throat. Elizabeth stood over him. She brushed a speck of dust off her shoulder. A cruel, mocking smile touched her lips. She leaned down, her voice a soft, deadly whisper. "You couldn't even last three seconds in bed, Acey. What made you think you could last three seconds in a fight?" Acey's face turned purple. He opened his mouth, but only a strangled gasp came out. His eyes bulged with absolute humiliation. From the deep shadows of the alley, the slow, rhythmic sound of clapping echoed off the brick walls. Elizabeth whipped her head around, her muscles tensing for another fight. Dorian Underwood stepped out of the darkness. "My security detail mentioned you left the dinner early, and that a rather pathetic red Ferrari was tailing your cab," Dorian said, his footsteps slow and deliberate. "I was curious to see what he thought he was going to accomplish."