Betrayed Bride: Claimed By The Brother

The plastic bag handle dug into Francesca's palm, cutting off the circulation to her fingers.

She shifted the weight of the takeout container.

Spicy tuna rolls. Julian's favorite.

She adjusted her grip on the keycard, the plastic cool and slick against her sweating thumb.

She shouldn't be nervous.

This was her fiancé.

She swiped the card.

The lock clicked. The sound was too loud in the hushed, carpeted hallway of the Faulkner Hotel.

She pushed the door open.

A single red-soled stiletto lay on its side in the marble entryway.

Francesca stopped.

She stared at the shoe.

She knew that shoe.

She had watched Lila try it on at Saks last week. She had told Lila it made her legs look miles long.

A laugh drifted from the bedroom.

It was a high, tinkling sound. A sound Francesca had heard over brunch mimosas for ten years.

Then came a lower sound. A heavy, rhythmic grunt.

Julian.

Francesca didn't move. Her feet felt like they were nailed to the floorboards.

The sushi bag crinkled.

The sound was tiny, but in the silence of her own shattering life, it sounded like a gunshot.

She took a step forward. She had to see.

The bedroom door was cracked open three inches.

Through the gap, she saw skin. Tan skin against white sheets.

Julian's back was arched.

Lila was underneath him. Her head was thrown back.

Lila's eyes opened.

She smiled.

It was a small, cruel curving of her lips.

Then she wrapped her legs tighter around Julian's waist and let out a loud, theatrical moan.

Francesca felt the bile rise in her throat. It tasted like acid and betrayal.

She didn't scream. She couldn't.

Her hand shook as she reached into her purse.

She pulled out her phone.

She lifted it.

The camera focused.

Ten seconds.

She recorded the arch of Julian's back. The triumph in Lila's eyes. The way the headboard banged against the wall.

Julian started to turn his head.

Francesca spun around.

She ran.

She didn't feel her feet hitting the carpet. She only heard the blood rushing in her ears, drowning out the elevator chime.

She jammed the button for the lobby.

Then she changed her mind.

She hit the button for the roof.

She needed air. She needed vodka.

Thirty minutes later, the vodka burned a hole in her empty stomach.

Her phone buzzed on the bar top.

Julian: Where are you, babe? Missed you at dinner.

Francesca stared at the screen until the letters blurred.

She grabbed her purse. She couldn't go home. Her stepmother would be there, asking about the wedding arrangements.

She dug into her bag and her fingers brushed against a hard plastic card.

The Faulkner Platinum access card. A relic from her father's last joint venture with their hotel group. It gave her access to any non-occupied suite.

She had kept it for emergencies.

It opened the medical suite on the penthouse floor.

The suite reserved for Grafton Faulkner.

Julian's crippled, outcast brother.

He wasn't supposed to arrive until tomorrow.

The room would be empty. Dark. Quiet.

Francesca stumbled into the elevator.

She swiped the card.

The penthouse door opened into darkness.

The air inside smelled of cedar and antiseptic.

She kicked off her heels.

She walked into the living room, the plush rug swallowing her footsteps.

"Faulkner men," she whispered into the dark. "You all deserve to rot."

Click.

A flame flared.

It was small, orange, and terrifying.

It illuminated a face.

Sharp cheekbones. Heavy brows. Eyes that looked like black glass.

Francesca gasped. She took a step back and tripped over her own feet.

She hit the floor hard.

The man was sitting in a wheelchair by the window.

Grafton Faulkner.

He watched her fall. He didn't move to help.

"I... I thought it was empty," she stammered. She tried to push herself up. Her arms felt like rubber.

"Get out," he said. His voice was gravel and smoke.

"I'm going," she said. She tried to stand. She failed.

She closed her eyes, waiting for the insult. Waiting for him to call security.

She heard footsteps.

Heavy. Rhythmic. Confident.

Not the whir of wheels.

Footsteps.

Francesca opened her eyes.

The wheelchair was empty.

Grafton Faulkner was standing over her.

He was tall. Over six feet.

He wasn't leaning on anything. His legs were strong, his stance solid.

He looked like a predator inspecting a trap.

Francesca's brain short-circuited. "You... you can walk."

Grafton crouched down.

He didn't look like a cripple. He looked like a weapon.

He reached out. His fingers were long and cold.

He gripped her chin. He forced her to look at him.

"You saw something you shouldn't have, Francesca."

His thumb pressed against her jawbone. It hurt.

"Give me one reason," he whispered, "why I shouldn't throw you off this balcony right now."

Francesca looked at him.

She saw the danger in his eyes.

But she also saw power.

She thought of Julian. She thought of Lila's smile.

A crazy, desperate idea clawed its way up her throat.

She reached up. She grabbed his wrist.

"Help me destroy Julian," she rasped.

Grafton blinked.

The violence in his eyes receded, replaced by something colder. Something like amusement.

"Interesting," he said.

He stood up, pulling her with him effortlessly.

He didn't let go of her arm.

"Show me what you're worth," he said.

He scooped her up.

He carried her toward the bedroom. He didn't limp. Not even a little.

Sunlight hit Francesca's eyelids like a physical blow.

She groaned. Her head throbbed in time with her heartbeat.

She rolled over. The sheets were silk, cool and expensive.

Memory crashed into her.

The sushi. The shoes. The video.

The penthouse.

Grafton.

She sat up, clutching the sheet to her chest. A wave of cold dread washed over her as she realized she was naked. Her mind raced, a chaotic slideshow of the night before. He had carried her in here, thrown her on the bed... and then? She frantically scanned her own body, her hands trembling. There was no soreness, no bruises, no trace of violation. Her clothes were folded neatly on the armchair in the corner. He had undressed her, but he hadn't touched her. It wasn't an assault. It was a statement. A demonstration of power.

The bathroom door opened.

Steam billowed out.

Grafton walked out.

He had a towel wrapped low around his hips. Water droplets ran down a chest that was defined by hard, functional muscle.

He walked to the wheelchair parked by the dresser.

He sat down.

His posture changed instantly. His shoulders slumped slightly. His legs went slack.

It was a terrifying transformation.

He looked at her. "Coffee is on the bar."

Francesca flushed. "Last night... what you did... was a mistake."

Grafton wheeled himself toward the bed. The motor hummed softly.

"Which part?" he asked. "Being discovered by your fiancé's brother? Or finding out I'm not a cripple?"

"Both," she said. Her voice shook. "I'm leaving. I won't say anything. Just let me go."

Grafton reached for a folder on the nightstand.

He tossed it onto the bed. It landed near her hip.

"Sign it."

Francesca opened the folder.

It was a Non-Disclosure Agreement. And a rider to a prenuptial agreement.

She scanned the legal jargon. Her eyes widened.

"You had this ready," she whispered. "You want the voting rights. You want to control the Pearson shares through me."

"Julian is an idiot," Grafton said. He picked up a tablet. "He'll bankrupt your father's company in six months."

"I won't help you steal my family's legacy," she said. She tossed the folder back.

Grafton didn't blink. He tapped the screen of his tablet.

He turned it toward her.

It was a video from the hotel security feed.

It showed the hallway outside this room. It showed Francesca stumbling in.

Then it cut to the interior.

It showed her grabbing his wrist. It showed her pulling him down for a kiss.

"You initiated," Grafton said calmly. "If Julian sees this, the wedding is off."

He paused.

"And if the wedding is off, who pays for your mother's care facility?"

Francesca felt the blood drain from her face.

He knew.

He knew about the secret account. He knew about her mother's early-onset dementia. He knew the Pearson family had cut her mother off.

"You're a monster," she whispered.

"I'm a pragmatist," he corrected. "Sign the paper, Francesca."

She looked at the pen.

"If I sign," she said, her voice trembling, "will you help me ruin Lila?"

Grafton's lips quirked. "Consider it a signing bonus."

She grabbed the pen. She signed her name. The ink looked like blood on the white paper.

Grafton took the folder. "Get dressed. Julian will be here in five minutes to take me to physical therapy."

Francesca froze. "He's coming here?"

"Unless you want a threesome," Grafton said, "I suggest you hide."

He pointed to the balcony.

The doorbell rang.

"Grafton?" Julian's voice came through the heavy wood. "You in there, bro?"

Francesca scrambled out of bed. She grabbed the clothes Grafton had thrown at her.

She ran for the balcony doors.

She slipped behind the heavy velvet curtains just as the main door opened.

She pressed herself against the glass.

"Hey," Julian said.

Francesca peeked through the crack in the drapes.

Julian was standing in the middle of the room. He sniffed the air.

"What is that smell?" Julian asked. He frowned. "Is that... Chanel No. 5?"

Grafton sat in his chair. He looked weak. He looked harmless.

"My night nurse," Grafton said. "She wears too much of it."

Julian looked around the room. His eyes lingered on the unmade bed.

He took a step toward the balcony.

Julian's hand hovered over the handle of the balcony door.

Francesca held her breath. Her lungs burned.

She was trapped.

If he opened the door, it was over. The merger. Her mother's care. Her revenge.

"Julian," Grafton said.

His voice was weak, raspy. Nothing like the commanding tone he had used on her.

"Father called last night," Grafton continued. "He mentioned some... irregularities on your corporate card."

Julian froze.

His hand dropped from the door handle. He spun around.

"What?" Julian's voice pitched up. "That's... that was for client entertainment."

"He thinks it was for jewelry," Grafton said.

While Julian sputtered, Grafton lifted his hand.

He knocked a heavy crystal vase off the side table.

Crash.

The sound was explosive.

Julian jumped.

"My hand," Grafton said. He gripped his wrist, feigning a spasm. "It seized up. Call the nurse."

Julian looked at the shattered glass with disgust. He looked at his brother with pity and annoyance.

"Fine," Julian snapped. He turned his back to the balcony to pull out his phone.

Francesca didn't hesitate.

She slid away from the balcony door, her back against the wall, moving toward the master closet. She remembered the blueprints she'd reviewed for her father when he was considering a similar property. There was a service access panel, hidden behind the linen shelves, leading to a staff corridor.

She found the panel, her fingers fumbling with the invisible latch. It clicked open. She squeezed through the narrow opening into a dark, dusty passage.

She found the service stairwell and ran.

She didn't stop until she was in her own apartment, three miles away.

She showered for an hour. She scrubbed her skin until it was raw, trying to wash off the scent of Grafton's sheets and the memory of Julian's betrayal.

Her phone pinged.

Sender: Unknown.

Subject: Contract Copy.

It was the PDF.

She opened it. She read every clause.

It was ironclad. If she breached confidentiality, she would owe him five million dollars.

She called her friend Sarah, a contract lawyer. She didn't use names.

"It's a trap," Sarah told her. "Whoever wrote this... they own the client. Body and soul."

Francesca hung up.

She had to go to Faulkner Tower at 2:00 PM. She had documents to drop off for her father.

She walked into the lobby. She kept her head high.

She pressed the elevator button.

The doors opened.

Grafton was inside. In his chair.

Julian was standing next to him.

Francesca's stomach dropped.

"Babe!" Julian smiled. It was the smile of a man who hadn't just cheated on his fiancée.

He pulled her into the elevator. He kissed her cheek.

Francesca stiffened. She forced herself not to wipe the spot.

She looked in the mirrored wall of the elevator.

Grafton was watching her.

His eyes met hers in the reflection. They were dark, amused, and possessive.

"We were just going to look at rings," Julian said. "Grafton wanted to come along. Get some fresh air."

"How nice," Francesca said. Her voice was brittle.

"I want to see what the future Mrs. Faulkner likes," Grafton said.

His voice was polite, but Francesca heard the threat.

Julian's hand slid down to her waist. He squeezed.

Francesca flinched.

Grafton saw it. His eyes narrowed slightly.

He tapped on his phone.

Francesca's phone buzzed in her purse.

She glanced down.

Grafton: My apartment. Tonight. 9 PM. Or I tell Julian where you were last night.

She looked up at the mirror.

Grafton smiled at her. It was a shark's smile.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to hit him.

But she thought of the nursing home bill on her counter.

She typed back.

Francesca: I'll be there. But first, I want Lila to bleed.

She hit send.

Grafton looked at his phone.

He looked back at her in the mirror. He nodded once.

Grafton: Deal.