Chapter 8

Kingston's fingers dug into Audrey's arm with enough force to leave bruises.

Hearing that name, Celestine stopped crying instantly. The blood drained from her face, leaving her looking like a corpse. She stared at the back of the woman's head in pure horror.

Audrey's heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. Panic screamed in her brain.

He knows. He recognized me just by touching me.

She had a fraction of a second to react. If she pulled away, if she ran, it would confirm everything. She needed a shield.

Her mind flashed to the one thing she knew about Kingston Savage better than anyone else.

He was a severe germaphobe. He had crippling OCD when it came to cleanliness, and he harbored a deep, visceral disgust for anything cheap, loud, or promiscuous. His "Audrey" had been quiet, modest, and terrified of her own shadow.

Audrey didn't pull away.

Instead, she relaxed all the muscles in her body. She melted backward, pressing her spine suggestively against his chest, acting as boneless and pliable as a cheap escort.

She slowly turned her head and looked up at him over her shoulder.

Kingston looked down into her face.

He saw the heavy, winged black eyeliner. He saw the deep, blood-red gloss smeared on her lips. He saw the wild, untamed curls.

Audrey parted her red lips and let out a breathy, exaggerated whine.

"Oh, daddy~" she purred, her voice dripping with a trashy, thick Brooklyn accent she hadn't used in years. "You're gripping me a little too tight there. You gonna pay for the bruises?"

As she spoke, she reached up with her free hand. Her fingernails, painted a sharp crimson, trailed lightly down the lapel of his bespoke Tom Ford suit.

Before leaving the hotel, she had sprayed herself with a cheap, musky, club-girl perfume to mask the scent of her airplane travel. Now, she deliberately leaned her neck closer to his face, forcing the overwhelming stench of synthetic musk and alcohol directly into his nose.

Kingston's physical reaction was instantaneous.

His OCD alarms screamed. The smell of the cheap perfume hit the back of his throat, making his stomach violently churn. The feeling of her sticky, red fingernails on his expensive suit made his skin crawl.

"Like what you see, handsome?" Audrey winked, pressing her chest against his forearm. "I charge a thousand an hour, but for you, I might do a discount."

The desperate, mad hope in his eyes extinguished like a candle thrown into a freezing river.

His Audrey would rather die than speak like this. His Audrey didn't wear whore-red lipstick or smell like a dive bar.

A wave of profound humiliation and physical revulsion washed over him. He had lost his mind. He was projecting his dead wife onto a cheap streetwalker.

Kingston yanked his hand back as if he had touched a hot stove.

He shoved her away with a look of absolute disgust.

Audrey stumbled forward, her heels wobbling perfectly as she played the part of the clumsy bimbo. She caught her balance and dramatically rolled her eyes.

Kingston reached into his pocket. He pulled out a pure white silk handkerchief. He aggressively wiped the palm and fingers of the hand that had touched her, his face twisted in nausea.

"Don't touch me," Kingston snarled, his voice dripping with ice.

Celestine let out a massive sigh of relief. The color rushed back to her face. She stepped forward, clinging to Kingston's arm, and glared at Audrey.

"Watch where you're walking, you cheap trash," Celestine spat. "Don't you know who this is?"

Audrey chewed on an imaginary piece of gum. She looked Celestine up and down with blatant disrespect.

"Yeah, yeah, keep your sugar daddy, lady. He's too uptight for my taste anyway," Audrey mocked.

She turned on her heel, swaying her hips in an exaggerated, vulgar walk, and disappeared into the crowd on the other side of the lobby.

Kingston threw the contaminated handkerchief into a nearby trash can. He adjusted his cuffs, his jaw tight, furious at himself for the momentary lapse in sanity. He guided Celestine out the front doors, leaving the precinct behind.

Around the corner, out of sight, Audrey collapsed against the tiled wall of the hallway.

Her chest he heave. Cold sweat dripped down her spine. Her legs shook so violently she almost fell.

She reached into her bag, pulled out a makeup wipe, and aggressively scrubbed the red gloss off her lips until they were raw. The "bimbo" facade melted away, leaving only the cold, lethal eyes of Echo.

Footsteps approached. Julian Finch, her high-powered European fixer and lawyer, walked up holding a leather briefcase.

"Ms. Echo," Julian said, his voice low. He handed her a file. "It's bad. Tristan Perry tripped and hit his head on a glass table. But he paid off the bartender to testify that Cody assaulted him with a bottle."

Audrey opened the file. She stared at the medical reports.

"Look at the stamps," Julian pointed. "Savage Private Hospital. They forged the severity of the concussion. Kingston Savage's lawyers just threatened the DA. They want Cody locked up for ten years to set an example."

Audrey stared at the Savage logo on the medical file.

Kingston had driven her to suicide. Now, he was using his limitless power to frame and destroy her innocent brother just to please his mistress.

The paper in Audrey's hands crumpled as she squeezed her fists. The rage inside her didn't burn hot; it burned absolute zero.

She dropped the crushed file onto the floor. As she reached the door, she saw Kingston through the glass, casually adjusting his cuffs as if he hadn't just destroyed a life. The image of that casual arrogance, the exact same arrogance he wore when he ordered her death five years ago, shattered the ice in her veins. All that was left was fire. She turned and walked toward the exit, her eyes fixed on the glass doors.