Chapter 2 2

The Porsche screeched to a halt in the circular driveway of The Pierre, the tires leaving black streaks on the pristine pavement. The valet attendant, a young man in a burgundy uniform, stepped forward with a polite smile that vanished the moment he saw Elena's face.

She didn't wait for him to open the door. She shoved it open, tossing the keys at his chest.

"Keep it running," she commanded, her voice razor-sharp.

She swept through the revolving doors, the lobby's opulent gold and beige decor blurring in her peripheral vision. She marched straight to the front desk.

"Julian Sterling," she said to the concierge, slamming her hand onto the marble counter. "What room?"

The concierge, a woman with hair pulled back so tight it looked painful, blinked slowly. "I'm afraid I cannot give out guest information, Ma'am. Privacy policy."

"I am his wife," Elena hissed. She dug into her clutch and slapped the black Centurion card onto the counter. "I see the charge. I know he's here. He is not answering his phone. If you do not give me that room number, I will scream. I will scream so loud that every guest in this lobby will know that The Pierre harbors adulterers and hides medical emergencies. I will make a scene that will end up on Page Six by morning. Do you want sirens and stretchers in your lobby on a Friday night?"

The concierge paled. She typed furiously on her keyboard. "Mrs. Sterling... I... He is in the Getty Suite. 42nd floor. Room 4208."

"Thank you."

Elena turned and strode toward the elevators. The ride up was agonizing. The digital numbers ticked upward-10, 20, 30-each one a heartbeat skipping in her chest. She stared at the brushed metal doors, seeing her distorted reflection. She looked like a vengeful spirit.

Ding.

The doors slid open. The 42nd floor was silent, the hallway lined with thick, sound-dampening carpet that swallowed her footsteps. She followed the brass numbers. 4204. 4206.

4208.

She stood before the heavy wooden door. She raised her hand to knock, and for the first time, her body betrayed her. Her hand shook violently. Inside, she could hear the faint murmur of voices. The clink of glass. A laugh-Julian's laugh.

She didn't have to knock.

The door clicked and swung inward.

A woman stood there. She was younger than Elena, perhaps twenty-two. She wore a white hotel bathrobe that hung loosely off one shoulder. In her hand, she held a silver ice bucket.

She looked at Elena. There was no shock in her eyes. No shame. Her lips curled into a slow, victorious smirk.

"Room service is fast," the woman drawled, turning her head back toward the room. "But they forgot the champagne, baby."

"Who is it?" Julian's voice floated from the depths of the suite.

He walked into the entryway, a towel wrapped around his waist, water droplets glistening on his chest. He looked relaxed. Sated.

Then he saw Elena.

The color drained from his face so fast he looked like a corpse. His eyes went wide, darting from Elena to the woman-Quinn-and back.

"Elena?" His voice cracked.

The sound of her name in his mouth made Elena's vision blur red. The world tilted. A high-pitched ringing filled her ears. Without thinking, without planning, she lunged forward, her hand raised to strike him.

Julian caught her wrist in mid-air. His grip was hard, painful.

"Stop it!" he hissed, his shock instantly morphing into anger. "What the hell are you doing here? You're making a scene."

"I'm making a scene?" Elena screamed, the sound tearing at her throat. She tried to wrench her arm free. "You are sleeping with her in the hotel where we spent our honeymoon!"

"Lower your voice," Julian growled, glancing nervously down the hallway. "This is... this is a business associate. We were discussing-"

"Don't you dare," Elena spat. "Do not lie to me. Not now. I saw the photo she sent me."

She pointed a shaking finger at Quinn. Quinn leaned against the doorframe, watching the destruction of a marriage with the boredom of someone watching a rerun. She deliberately shifted the robe, revealing the angry red mark of a fresh hickey on her collarbone.

Julian followed Elena's gaze. He didn't let go of her wrist. "You're hysterical. You're imagining things. Go home, Elena. We'll talk about your paranoia in the morning."

He shoved her back. Not hard enough to knock her down, but hard enough to push her out of the doorway.

"Go home," he repeated.

And then he slammed the door in her face.

The sound echoed like a gunshot. Elena stood there, staring at the wood grain, gasping for air. He hadn't apologized. He hadn't chased her. He had closed the door to stay with her.

She turned and ran. She ran back to the elevator, hitting the button repeatedly until her knuckle bruised. She collapsed against the back wall of the elevator as it descended, sliding down until she was sitting on the floor, her knees pulled to her chest. The tears finally came, hot and blinding.

She stumbled out of the hotel, ignoring the valet who held her keys. She couldn't drive. She couldn't see. She walked blindly down Fifth Avenue, the wind cutting through her thin dress.

Her phone rang. Sierra.

Elena answered, a choked sob escaping her lips. "It's true. Sierra, it's all true."

"Oh my god," Sierra's voice was frantic. "Where are you? Are you safe?"

"I don't know," Elena whispered. "I'm on the street."

"Go to the St. Regis," Sierra commanded. "The King Cole Bar. It's six blocks away. Sit there. Do not move. I'm coming to get you."

Elena obeyed. She walked, her bare feet hitting the unforgiving concrete. The sidewalk was cold and gritty. Every step sent a jolt of pain up her legs as small pebbles and city debris dug into her soles, but the physical stinging was a welcome distraction from the agony in her chest.

She walked into the St. Regis, the revolving doors depositing her into another world of luxury she no longer felt part of. She found a dark corner in the bar, away from the mural and the laughing patrons.

"Martini," she told the waiter. "Dirty. Extra olives."

She drank half of it in one gulp. The gin burned her throat, a welcome distraction from the pain in her chest. She looked around the room at the suits and the cocktail dresses. They all looked like masks. Everyone was lying. Everyone was cheating.

Sierra burst into the bar ten minutes later, her hair windblown. She spotted Elena and rushed over, wrapping her arms around her.

"I've got you," Sierra whispered into her hair. "I've got you."

Elena leaned into the embrace, her eyes dry now. The sadness had burned off, leaving only a hollow, echoing cavern inside her ribs.

"I want a divorce," Elena said, her voice flat, dead. "I want to destroy him. I want to take everything."

From a booth in the deepest shadows of the bar, a pair of dark, predatory eyes watched them. The man didn't move, didn't blink. He just swirled the amber liquid in his glass, his gaze fixed on Elena's profile, calculating.