The Fake Foolish Bride's Secret Comeback

The green code vanished. Clara yanked the micro-USB from the port.

She shoved the flexible keyboard back into the hidden compartment behind the nightstand. She grabbed the broken pink hairpin and shoved it into her messy curls.

Three sharp knocks hit the heavy oak door.

"Miss Clara?" Sarah's voice called out from the hallway.

Clara's facial muscles instantly went slack. She dropped her jaw slightly and widened her eyes, letting the sharp intelligence drain out of them.

"Come in!" she chirped, her voice high and grating.

Sarah pushed the door open. She held a simple, white sundress over her arm.

"Mr. Carson is waiting downstairs. You need to go try on your wedding dress."

Clara tilted her head. She shoved her thumb into her mouth and stared at the white fabric with blank confusion.

Sarah sighed softly. She helped Clara out of the oversized hospital gown and pulled the white dress over her head.

Sarah led her down the grand staircase.

Bryant stood in the center of the foyer. He wore a perfectly tailored charcoal suit. A silver Bluetooth earpiece rested in his ear.

He was speaking rapidly in French, his tone brutal and commanding.

He heard their footsteps. He looked up.

His dark eyes swept over Clara's timid, shrinking posture. His upper lip curled in a microscopic sneer. He looked away instantly, as if the sight of her physically repulsed him.

He tapped his earpiece, cutting the call dead.

"Follow," he ordered.

He didn't wait to see if she did. He turned and walked out the front door.

Clara shuffled after him, her head bowed. Beneath her thick lashes, a cold, mocking light danced in her eyes.

The Maybach navigated the chaotic Manhattan traffic. It pulled up to the curb in front of a massive glass storefront. There were no mannequins in the window, only a discreet gold plaque.

The boutique manager and four assistants stood in a perfect line by the glass doors.

Bryant stepped out of the car. The manager's face lit up with a practiced, desperate enthusiasm.

"Mr. Carson! Welcome-"

Bryant cut her off with a sharp wave of his hand. He pointed a thumb over his shoulder at Clara, who was currently struggling to climb out of the backseat.

"Pick one for her. Make it fast," Bryant said. His voice was devoid of any warmth.

The manager's smile faltered for a fraction of a second as she took in Clara's messy hair and vacant stare. But her training kicked in.

"Right this way, Miss," the manager cooed, stepping forward.

The assistants swarmed Clara. They ushered her toward the back of the boutique, behind a wall of frosted glass and heavy velvet curtains.

Bryant walked over to a plush velvet sofa in the front room. He sat down, crossed his long legs, and picked up a financial magazine from the glass table.

Behind the curtains, Clara stood like a wooden doll.

The assistants pulled a massive, heavy gown made of intricate French lace over her head. The fabric scratched her skin.

Suddenly, the heavy glass front doors of the boutique were shoved open. The metal handles slammed against the glass.

Sharp, aggressive clicks of stiletto heels hammered against the marble floor.

Keshia Palmer stormed in. She wore a skin-tight, plunging red dress that left nothing to the imagination. A limited-edition Birkin bag swung violently from her forearm.

She spotted Bryant on the sofa. The anger on her face vanished, replaced by a hungry, predatory smile.

She strutted over to him, her hips swaying.

"Bryant," Keshia purred, leaning over the glass table to expose her cleavage.

Bryant didn't blink. He didn't look up. He slowly turned a page of his magazine. He treated her like a piece of furniture.

Keshia's smile cracked. She bit her red lips, the humiliation burning in her chest.

She spun around, looking for an employee to yell at.

Her eyes landed on the gap in the velvet curtains.

Clara was standing on a circular pedestal, half-zipped into a million-dollar lace gown.

The blood drained from Keshia's face. Pure, acidic jealousy twisted her features into something ugly.

She marched straight through the curtains, shoving an assistant out of the way.

She stopped inches from Clara's face.

Keshia leaned in. Her expensive perfume was suffocating.

"You little retard," Keshia hissed, her voice dripping with venom. "You think you deserve to wear that?"

Clara's shoulders began to shake violently. She grabbed handfuls of the expensive lace, her knuckles turning white. She looked absolutely terrified.

But looking down at her own white knuckles, Clara's lips twitched. A microscopic, freezing smile touched the corners of her mouth.

Keshia saw Clara shaking. It fueled her cruelty.

Keshia reached out. She pinched the soft flesh of Clara's upper arm. She dug her sharp, acrylic nails deep into Clara's skin and twisted hard.

A sharp spike of pain shot up Clara's arm. Her muscles instantly locked down, preparing for combat.

Her brain calculated the angle of Keshia's neck. One strike to the throat would crush her windpipe.

She forced her muscles to relax. She let the pain register.

Clara threw her head back. She opened her mouth wide.

A raw, blood-curdling scream ripped out of her throat. It was deafening. It shattered the quiet elegance of the boutique.

Out in the front room, Bryant's hands stopped. He slammed the magazine shut and looked up.