Chapter 4 4

The pounding on the door grew more violent. Arron's fists hammered against the wood, mixed with Elma's hypocritical pleas. The noise drove like rusty nails into Corrine's temples.

Suddenly, a blinding, tearing pain ripped through her skull.

Corrine curled into a tight ball on the King-size bed. She grabbed her head with both hands, a silent scream trapped in her throat.

Images violently shoved their way into her brain. It was like watching a movie on fast-forward. She saw herself crying. She saw the Mayer family crushing her. She saw herself standing on a bridge in the dead of winter, the freezing Hudson River below. She saw herself drowning.

She gasped, her eyes snapping open. Her pupils dilated in pure shock.

An absurd, terrifying truth locked into her mind: She was living inside a scripted corporate thriller, and she was the tragic, disposable side character destined to die.

For a full minute, she couldn't breathe. Her chest heaved as she stared at the ceiling, her mind violently rejecting the information. The images weren't just bad dreams; they were a verdict. A death sentence. The sheer terror of the freezing water closing over her head in those visions felt so real that she shivered uncontrollably. Panic clawed at her throat. But as the fear peaked, it acted like a crucible, burning away every last scrap of the desperate, pathetic love she had harbored for Arron. The urge to ruin herself just to spite him turned to ash.

The headache finally vanished. In its place, a brutal, crystal-clear rationality took over. Only the cold, hard primal instinct to survive remained.

Corrine sat up. She looked down at the messy hotel towel and the red marks Cassius's fingers had left on her shoulder. There was no humiliation left in her eyes. Only calculation.

She walked to the full-length mirror. She stared at her swollen eyes and messy hair. She let out a dark, mocking laugh.

She dropped the towel. She walked to the closet and pulled out a black silk hotel robe. She slipped it on, tying the belt loosely around her waist. The dark fabric contrasted sharply with her pale skin, leaving a deep V-neck that exposed her collarbone.

Corrine slipped the broken gold chain into the pocket of the robe. This was her only ticket to changing her fate. Arron could never see it.

She ran her fingers through her hair, intentionally making it look wilder. She let a few strands stick to her cheek. She engineered the perfect image of a woman who had just rolled out of a very occupied bed.

Outside, Arron had lost his mind. He started kicking the heavy walnut door. Bang. Bang. Bang.

Corrine walked barefoot across the living room. Her steps made no sound. She stopped at the entryway and listened to the pathetic rage outside.

She took a deep breath. She smoothed her expression into a mask of bored annoyance. She placed her hand on the brass knob and unlocked the deadbolt with a loud click.

She yanked the door open.

Arron, mid-kick, lost his balance and stumbled forward, nearly falling onto the entryway rug.

He caught himself and snapped his head up, his face red with fury. But the curses died in his throat the second he saw her.

His eyes locked onto the deep red bruise on her collarbone-the mark Cassius had accidentally left. Arron's pupils shrank. His male territorial instinct exploded.

Elma stood behind him. A flash of ugly jealousy crossed her face before she quickly morphed it into fake shock.

Arron lunged forward, reaching for Corrine's shoulders. "Who the hell is in there?!"

Corrine stepped aside, dodging his hands with visible disgust.

She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the doorframe. She looked him up and down like he was a piece of garbage leaking on the floor.

"You chose Elma downstairs," Corrine said, her voice dripping with arrogance. "Why are you up here barking like a stray dog?"

Arron flinched. He pointed a shaking finger at her silk robe. "Did you actually sleep with some random guy just to get back at me?!"

Corrine laughed. It was a slow, lazy sound. "He wasn't random. And he's definitely still in there." She let her eyes drift back toward the dark living room for a split second.

Arron's sanity snapped. His eyes went bloodshot. He tried to push past her to storm the suite.

Corrine didn't physically block him. She just stood there and delivered one quiet, lethal sentence.

"Look at the room number, Arron. This is The Penthouse. Are you absolutely sure you can afford the consequences of kicking that door open?"

Arron's boots froze to the floor.

His blood ran cold. He already knew exactly what The Penthouse signified-he had known the moment he stepped off the private elevator. The true terror wasn't about who resided in these top-tier suites; it was the mind-bending realization that Corrine, his discarded Corrine, had somehow gained entry to one. The thought of her sharing a bed with one of those untouchable titans made his own trust-fund power feel like a child's toy.

Fear and humiliation warred in his chest. He stared at Corrine, searching her face for a lie.

Corrine stared back. Her eyes were dead, bottomless pools.

Elma quickly grabbed Arron's arm. "Arron, don't do something you'll regret," she whispered, playing the fragile victim.

Corrine watched them. Her stomach didn't drop. Her heart didn't ache. The first step of her survival plan was complete.