Chapter 2 2

The deadbolt engaged with a sound like a gunshot.

Kloe's spine pressed against the oak door, the carved panels digging into her shoulder blades through the wedding gown's silk. The darkness was absolute, thick as velvet, pressing against her eyeballs. She couldn't see Julian, couldn't track him, could only hear the rustle of fabric as he moved somewhere in the void.

A match struck. Sulfur and flame. Julian's face appeared in the sudden light, sharp angles and shadowed hollows, as he touched the flame to a candle on the entryway table. He didn't light the overhead fixtures. The single flame was enough to navigate by, enough to make the darkness feel intentional.

Enough to make her feel trapped.

Kloe's eyes adjusted slowly, picking out shapes. The suite sprawled before her-living area, bar, floor-to-ceiling windows where Manhattan's skyline glittered like a circuit board. Julian walked to the windows, his silhouette blocking the view as he shrugged out of his suit jacket. The garment landed on leather with a whisper.

"There's been a mistake," Kloe heard herself say. Her voice cracked. "I need to leave."

She turned, fumbling for the door handle. Her fingers found cold metal, turned. Nothing. The electronic lock showed red, disabled from some central control panel she couldn't access.

Julian's footsteps approached, unhurried. The clink of crystal. He emerged from the shadows holding two wine glasses, the liquid inside catching the city light through the windows-dark, viscous, the color of dried blood.

"Château Margaux," he said, extending one glass. "1995. A good year. It seems appropriate for... a memorable night. The kind of night that redefines everything that comes after."

Kloe didn't take it. Her hands gripped her ruined skirt, the crystal beads cutting into her palms. "Unlock the door."

Julian studied the wine, swirling it. "Your fiancé and your cousin are probably still on round one. Justen's stamina has always been disappointing." He took a sip, his eyes never leaving her face. "By the time they finish, the hotel staff will be making their morning rounds. Imagine the headlines. 'Bride Discovered Sleeping in Corridor After Wedding Night Abandonment.'"

The glass trembled in his hand. Not from weakness-from restraint. Kloe could see it now, the controlled force in every movement, the way he held himself like a man containing an explosion.

"Or," he continued, "you could stop pretending you want to be the good girl. The loyal wife. The understanding partner." He set his glass down, the crystal ringing against marble. "Thirty seconds, Kloe. Then I open the door and you can go back to being pathetic."

He turned away. Walked to the window. His back was beautiful, the tailoring of his shirt revealing the architecture of muscle beneath, the V-shape that tapered to his waist. He began to count.

"Twenty-nine."

Kloe's mind screamed. The corridor. The elevator. Her grandmother's face when the news broke. The trust fund-God, the trust fund, and how Justen had laughed about it, how he'd used her for four years while-

"Twenty-five."

The antique clock on the mantel ticked, each second a hammer blow. Kloe's breath came short, her vision tunneling. She saw tomorrow's breakfast, the knowing looks from the bridesmaids, Candyce's triumphant smile as she "comforted" the jilted bride.

"Twenty."

Julian's reflection in the glass showed nothing. No tension, no doubt. A man certain of his outcome.

"Fifteen."

Kloe's hand moved without her permission. She crossed the space between them, her fingers closing around the wine glass he'd abandoned on the side table. The liquid sloshed, cool against her skin.

"Ten."

She drank. The Bordeaux hit her throat like velvet fire, and she swallowed convulsively, too fast, the alcohol burning pathways to her stomach. It spilled down her chin, droplets landing on the white silk of her bodice, spreading in patterns that looked like violence.

Julian turned at the sound of her coughing. His eyes dropped to the stain, darkened to something unreadable. He closed the distance between them in two strides, and then his thumb was on her face, rough and hot, smearing the wine across her jaw.

"Still running?" he asked, his voice a vibration she felt in her teeth.

Kloe jerked away. His hand followed, fingers circling her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. His pupils were blown wide, black swallowing the gray-green.

"Tell me," he murmured, his thumb pressing into the hollow beneath her lower lip. "Are you waiting for him to apologize? To explain that Candyce meant nothing? To promise he'll be faithful once he has your money?"

"Stop." The word tore from her throat.

"Stop what? Telling the truth?" Julian's laugh was soft, breathless. "You have no power, Kloe. No leverage. Walk out that door and you're the discarded bride, the laughingstock, the cautionary tale about trusting handsome men with good families."

He released her chin. Stepped back. The loss of his heat felt like falling.

"Five," he said, and turned away again.

Kloe watched his shoulders rise and fall with controlled breaths. The wine hummed in her blood, mixing with the adrenaline, the rage, the desperate humiliation of being seen so completely. Her fingers found his shirt collar, the silk warm from his skin, and she pulled.

Hard.

Julian stumbled backward, caught off guard for the first time. His eyes flashed-surprise, then something predatory and pleased. He recovered instantly, his hand closing around her wrist, his body pressing her against the window's cold glass.

"Say it," he commanded, his mouth an inch from hers. "What do you want?"

Kloe's voice emerged as a whisper, raw and broken and true. "I want him to pay."

Julian smiled. It transformed his face from beautiful to terrifying. His hand slid to the back of her neck, fingers threading through her updo, pins scattering to the floor like shrapnel. He pulled her into the kiss with the certainty of gravity, and Kloe opened her mouth and let him in.