Chapter 3

Charlotte Glover POV:

Kalia moved fast, fueled by a volatile mix of envy and entitlement, but her anger made her clumsy.

She lunged at my face, her manicured nails aiming straight for my eyes.

I stepped back, my heel catching on the uneven flagstones of the terrace.

Kalia stumbled forward, her own momentum betraying her. She tripped over the hem of her gown and crashed to her knees, scraping them hard against the rough concrete.

"My dress!" she shrieked, the sound piercing the night air.

The terrace doors flew open.

Bryant rushed out, his security detail flanking him like a dark wall.

He saw Kalia on the ground. He saw me standing over her.

He didn't ask what happened. He didn't look for context.

He simply made his choice.

"You crazy bitch!" Kalia screamed, pointing a trembling finger at me. "She pushed me! She tried to throw me over!"

It was a lie so blatant, so absurd, that it was almost laughable.

But Bryant wasn't laughing.

He helped Kalia up, inspecting her knees with a tenderness usually reserved for fine porcelain.

Then, he turned to me.

The look in his eyes was terrifying. It was the gaze of the Don he would one day become-merciless, cold, and utterly devoid of humanity.

"You assaulted my guest," he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Again."

"She attacked me," I countered, my voice steady despite the trembling in my legs. "Check the cameras."

"There are no cameras on this balcony," Bryant said, his tone flat. "I had them disabled for privacy."

Of course he did.

"Apologize to her," he commanded.

I looked at Kalia, who was smirking behind her theatrical tears.

"No."

Bryant moved so fast I didn't have time to draw a breath.

He seized the bodice of my dress, bunching the expensive silk in his fist, and dragged me violently toward the stone railing.

"Bryant!" I gasped, clawing at his hand with my cast.

He slammed my back against the stone balustrade. Below us, the garden was a twenty-foot drop onto a tiled patio.

"You want to see what happens when you push people?" he snarled, his face inches from mine, his breath hot against my skin. "You want to test gravity?"

"Bryant, stop," I pleaded, real fear finally piercing through my anger. "You're hurting me."

"Kalia is upset," he said, as if that justified murder. "She feels unsafe."

"She's lying!"

"She's mine!" he roared, the sound vibrating through my chest. "And you... you are just a liability."

He leaned me back. My feet left the secure ground.

The wind whipped my hair across my face. I stared up at the vast, indifferent night sky, realizing with a jolt of horror that he might actually do it.

"Throw her over," Kalia whispered, her voice like poison. "Teach her a lesson."

Bryant hesitated.

For a split second, I saw a flicker of something in his eyes-sanity? A memory?

Then Kalia let out a soft, pathetic sob. "My knees are bleeding, baby."

The flicker vanished.

He didn't throw me.

He simply... let go.

He released his grip on my dress.

Gravity took over.

I tipped backward over the railing.

The fall was silent. The impact was not.

I hit the terrace tiles with a sickening crunch.

Pain exploded in my leg, a white-hot fire so intense it blinded me. My head slammed against the stone, and the world spun.

I lay there, gasping for air that wouldn't come, my body broken and twisted.

Through the haze, I looked up at the balcony.

Bryant was standing there, looking down like a dark god.

He wasn't rushing to call for help. He wasn't screaming in horror.

He turned his back.

He scooped Kalia into his arms and carried her back inside the warmth of the party.

He left me there.

Darkness swarmed the edges of my vision.

I was going to die here, in a black dress, under the stars, while my fiancé comforted his mistress.

I woke to the rhythmic beep of machines.

The sharp sting of antiseptic burned my nose.

I peeled my eyes open. White ceiling. White walls.

My leg was elevated, encased in a heavy cast. My hand was still trapped in its plaster prison.

I felt like a collection of broken bones barely held together by skin.

A nurse walked in, checking my chart.

"You're awake," she said, her voice dripping with that professional pity I loathed.

"How long?" I croaked, my throat like sandpaper.

"Two days. You had a severe concussion and a compound fracture of the tibia."

"Did anyone come?" I asked, hating myself for the question.

She hesitated, her gaze shifting.

"Mr. Barnes was here."

A spark of hope, pathetic and small, ignited in my chest.

"He was?"

"Yes," she said, adjusting my IV drip. "He was in the VIP suite down the hall. His... companion... needed treatment for scraped knees. He stayed with her all night."

The spark didn't just die; it froze into ice.

"I see," I whispered.

"He left instructions that you aren't to be disturbed," the nurse added, checking the monitor. "He said you needed time to reflect on your behavior."

Reflect.

I closed my eyes.

I saw him turning his back on the balcony.

I saw him carrying her away.

I realized then that it wasn't just that he didn't love me.

He hated me.

He hated me because I was the obligation. I was the shackle.

And for Kalia, he would burn the world.

But he had made a mistake.

He didn't kill me.

And the woman who woke up in that hospital bed wasn't the Caged Canary anymore.

She was the Thorny Rose.

And she was going to draw blood.