Chapter 7

The harsh morning sunlight sliced through the gaps in the blinds, stabbing into the dark bedroom. Aubrey woke to the faint sound of fabric moving.

She kept her eyes shut. She controlled her breathing, making it slow and even, pretending she was still asleep.

Dominick was already out of the shower. He stood in front of the floor-length mirror, buttoning a crisp, custom white shirt.

He walked into the closet and pulled out a dark gray Brunello Cucinelli suit jacket. His movements were sharp, efficient, and completely devoid of emotion.

Aubrey watched him through the slits of her eyelashes. His back was perfectly straight. The feral man from last night was completely gone.

Dominick walked over to the nightstand. He picked up the Patek Philippe watch and strapped it to his wrist. The metal clasp clicked loudly in the quiet room.

His eyes flicked down to Aubrey. He stared at her bare shoulder exposed above the duvet. The faint red marks he had left were still visible.

He stared for two seconds. Then he turned around and walked out of the bedroom without a single word.

The heavy door clicked shut. Aubrey opened her eyes. She stared at the empty room, a bitter, hollow laugh escaping her throat.

She threw the covers off and sat up. Her muscles ached, a physical reminder of how stupid she had been. She ran her hands aggressively through her tangled hair.

Her iPhone buzzed violently on the nightstand.

Aubrey grabbed it. The screen lit up with dozens of unread messages from an iMessage group chat named "Manhattan Bitch Club."

She opened the chat. The very first image was a paparazzi photo from last night. It showed Dominick gripping her waist by the Lincoln, her face looking stiff and miserable.

Right below it was a voice note from Portia Vaughn.

Aubrey tapped play. Portia's shrill voice filled the quiet bedroom. "Look at Mrs. Carrillo's face. She looks like she's going to a funeral. I heard Dominick dropped a million on Veronica last night. True love, right?"

Another socialite texted back: "Yeah, they rushed back to Fifth Avenue. Probably going home to sign the divorce papers."

Aubrey's fingers gripped the phone so hard her knuckles turned white. The humiliation chewed on her insides like battery acid.

She didn't type a reply. She flipped the phone over and threw it onto the mattress. She took a deep, shaking breath.

She refused to let those women win. She was a Middleton. She had pride.

Aubrey walked into the bathroom and turned the shower on full blast. She stood under the freezing water, scrubbing her skin until it was red, trying to wash his touch away.

She wrapped a thick robe around herself and walked out into the hallway to get coffee.

As she passed Dominick's private study, she heard his low, clipped voice drifting into the hallway. He was on an urgent call with the London branch, his tone authoritative and rushed. A minute later, he strode out rapidly, his mind clearly a million miles away as he headed straight for the private elevator. Aubrey hesitated, noticing that in his uncharacteristic haste, he hadn't pulled the heavy oak door completely shut. It was cracked open just an inch.

Dominick never left his door open. He must have been rushing to leave.

She meant to keep walking, but through that narrow gap, she saw a black Hermes briefcase sitting open on the mahogany desk.

Next to it was a stack of glossy, bound documents. The top folder had bold, black letters printed across it.

Her feet moved on their own. She pushed the door open and walked up to the desk.

The cover read: "The Obsidian - Downtown Manhattan Boutique Designer Hotel Proposal."

Aubrey's eyes locked onto the words "Designer Hotel."

She reached out. Her fingertips traced the edge of the thick paper. A sudden, violent rush of adrenaline hit her bloodstream. Her old instincts from the Rhode Island School of Design flared to life.

A crazy idea exploded in her head. If Dominick thought she was just a useless canary, she was going to rip a hole right through his corporate empire.