Chapter 2

Charlotte Glover POV:

The emergency room doctor didn't ask questions.

He glanced at the name Glover on my file, then at the name Barnes on my emergency contact list, and suddenly became very interested in the pattern of the floor tiles.

"It's a complex fracture," he said, his voice tight. "Several metacarpals are crushed. You'll need surgery, but for now, we have to immobilize it."

He encased my right hand-my drawing hand, my life-in a heavy plaster cast.

I stared at the white surface. It looked like a sarcophagus for my career.

When I got back to the penthouse, it was dawn.

The pain meds made the world feel fuzzy, detached, wrapping my brain in cotton.

I walked into the living room. The shattered crystal was still on the floor, glittering like cruel diamonds.

I didn't clean it up.

Instead, I went to the shelves.

The photo of Bryant and me in the Hamptons. Into the bin.

The diamond earrings he gave me after he slept with his secretary. Into the bin.

The silk scarf from his mother. Into the bin.

I moved like a ghost, stripping the apartment of his presence. I wanted a blank slate. I wanted a void.

When the door opened at noon, the living room was barren.

Bryant walked in, stopped, and looked around.

"Did we get robbed?" he asked, sounding more inconvenienced than concerned.

I was sitting on the sofa, nursing a cup of tea with my left hand. The cast was resting on a velvet pillow like a grotesque centerpiece.

"I redecorated," I said.

His eyes landed on my cast. He didn't flinch. He didn't ask if it hurt.

"You got a cast. I told you not to make a scene."

"It's hard to be subtle when your bones are pulverized," I said, my voice devoid of emotion.

He sighed, loosening his tie as if I were a tedious business meeting that had run overtime. "You're so dramatic. Kalia feels terrible, you know. She said she barely touched you."

"Is that why you're here? To deliver her apology?"

"I'm here because I left the pearl necklace in the safe. Kalia wants to wear it tonight."

The air punched out of my lungs.

The pearls were my grandmother's. They were part of my dowry. They were the only thing I had left of a woman who actually loved me.

"Those are mine," I said.

"They are family assets," he corrected, walking past me to the wall safe. "And since you are joining the family, they belong to the Syndicate. Which means they belong to me."

He punched in the code.

He took the velvet box.

He didn't even look at me as he walked back to the door.

"Wear something long sleeves tonight," he said over his shoulder. "Hide that ugly thing."

The door closed.

He came back for jewelry. Not for me.

I sat there for a long time, the silence of the apartment ringing in my ears.

Then, I stood up.

I went to my closet.

I bypassed the long-sleeved, modest gowns Bryant approved of.

I pulled out a dress I had designed myself but never worn.

It was black.

Silk.

Backless.

It clung to every curve like a second skin and slit up the thigh high enough to be considered a weapon.

It wasn't a dress for a fiancée. It was a dress for a widow.

I was mourning the death of my engagement, even if the body wasn't cold yet.

I arrived at the Sterling Gala alone.

The moment I stepped onto the red carpet, the whispers started.

The black dress was a statement. The cast on my arm was a scream.

I held my head high, channeling every ounce of Syndicate etiquette I had endured.

Inside the ballroom, the air was thick with expensive perfume and corruption.

I saw them immediately.

Bryant was holding court near the champagne fountain.

Kalia was draped over him, wearing my grandmother's pearls.

They glowed against her skin, a perverse mockery of my heritage.

I walked straight toward them.

The crowd parted. They sensed the violence in the air.

Bryant saw me. His eyes widened, scanning the dress, the exposed skin, the defiance.

Lust flickered in his gaze, followed quickly by anger.

"Charlotte," he warned as I approached.

Kalia smirked, swirling her drink. "Oh look, the cripple made it. Love the cast, very... avant-garde."

"And I see you're wearing stolen property," I said, my voice carrying over the music. "It suits you. Thieves usually do have sticky fingers."

The circle around us went silent.

Bryant stepped forward, his body blocking me from the crowd.

"You're drunk," he hissed. "Go home."

"I haven't had a drop," I said, meeting his eyes. "I'm just finally seeing clearly."

"You're embarrassing me," he growled.

"You embarrass yourself," I retorted. "Walking around with a mistress who looks like she costs by the hour while your fiancée stands here with the bones she broke."

Kalia gasped, playing the victim perfectly. "Bryant, she's scaring me!"

"Go to the balcony," Bryant ordered me, his fingers digging into my uninjured arm. "Now."

I yanked my arm away.

"Fine. The air in here stinks of cheap perfume anyway."

I turned and walked toward the terrace doors.

I needed air. I needed to breathe.

But as I stepped out into the cool night air, I heard the click of heels behind me.

I turned.

Kalia was there.

And she wasn't smiling anymore.

"You think you're smart?" she sneered, closing the distance. "You're just an expired contract. He doesn't want you. He wants the merger."

"At least I bring an empire to the table," I said coldly. "You bring nothing but your knees."

Her face twisted in ugly rage.

"I'm going to be Mrs. Barnes," she screamed. "And you're going to be nothing."

She lunged.