The Stand-In Wife's Spectacular Comeback

The Presidential Suite was pitch black. Heavy blackout curtains sealed off the neon glow of Manhattan. Clarine leaned against the locked door, gasping for air. The strange heat in her blood ignited. It spread like wildfire from her stomach to her fingertips. Her skin felt too tight, burning from the inside out. She pushed off the door, blindly reaching for a light switch on the wall. Her hand struck something hard. A heavy ceramic vase tipped over and shattered against the marble entryway. From the deep shadows of the bedroom, a low, ragged breath cut through the silence. A massive silhouette moved toward her. The air shifted, thick with a predatory, aggressive heat. Evert was burning alive. He had been drugged during a vicious corporate negotiation an hour ago and barely made it back to his long-term private suite. His mind was fractured, his vision completely gone. Through the haze of the drug, a faint, unfamiliar sweetness-something soft and intoxicatingly clean-hit his senses. He lunged forward. His large hands grabbed Clarine's shoulders, slamming her back against the wall. The scorching heat of his body burned through her thin white dress. Clarine let out a sharp, trembling gasp. She tried to scream, to fight him off, but the drug turned her panic into a soft, helpless whimper. Her brain short-circuited. The sound of her voice snapped the last thread of Evert's control. He swept her off her feet, carrying her into the dark bedroom and dropping her onto the massive king bed. In the absolute darkness, fueled by the hallucinogenic drugs, neither recognized the other. They were just two bodies burning in the dark. Outside, a violent thunderstorm rolled over the city, drowning out the muffled sounds inside the suite. At four in the morning, the biological shock of exhaustion jolted Clarine awake. Her body ached. Every muscle felt bruised and torn. She blinked into the darkness. A faint flash of lightning slipped through a crack in the curtains. It illuminated the broad, muscular back of a man sleeping next to her. The memories of the night crashed into her skull. The pink champagne. Gemma dragging her. Marta toasting with Jax Kade. A wave of pure, suffocating terror crushed her chest. She thought she had escaped Jax. She thought she was safe. Who is this? Bile rose in her throat. She clamped a hand over her mouth to stop a sob. Ignoring the tearing pain between her thighs, she slid off the edge of the bed. She found her torn white dress on the floor and pulled it over her head. She didn't bother looking for her shoes. She unlocked the door and fled the suite, running down the hallway like a hunted animal. Ten minutes after Clarine disappeared into the elevator, another set of doors opened. Cherie stepped onto the top floor, her heels clicking softly. She had come to find Evert, hoping to play the devoted caretaker. She noticed the door to the Presidential Suite was slightly open. Cherie pushed it wide. The heavy scent of sex and sweat hit her instantly. She tiptoed into the bedroom and saw Evert's sleeping form tangled in the sheets. A wicked, triumphant smile stretched across Cherie's face. She quickly unzipped her red dress, letting it fall to the floor, and slipped under the covers next to him. Clarine moved like a ghost through the halls of the Long Island estate. She bypassed the staff and locked herself inside the master bathroom. She turned the shower dial all the way to hot. She stood under the scalding water, scrubbing her skin with a loofah until it turned raw and red. She scrubbed until her arms shook, trying to wash away the phantom touches of the stranger. She stepped out and wiped the steam from the mirror. Her reflection made her sick. Her pale neck and collarbones were covered in dark, angry purple bruises. Clarine slid down the bathroom wall, pulling her knees to her chest. The tears finally broke. She cried until her throat was raw, the sound drowned out by the running water. When the tears stopped, her eyes changed. The vulnerability vanished, replaced by a cold, dead emptiness. She dried off and pulled on a thick, black turtleneck sweater, hiding every inch of her skin. She needed to know exactly who ruined her. Clarine walked out of the bedroom and headed toward the stairs to get a glass of water. As she reached the landing, a voice drifted up from the living room. She stopped and pressed herself against the wall, hiding in the shadows. Marta was sitting on the sofa, a phone pressed to her ear. "Yes, it went perfectly," Marta laughed, her voice dripping with venom. "Gemma lost her in the hallway, but Jax caught up to her in the penthouse. That little stand-in is completely ruined now."