Betrayed By Fiancé, Claimed By His Uncle

"Drink up, Clare. To your new life."

Brianna's voice cut through the heavy bass of the Elysium club. It was too sweet. It dripped with a kind of sugar that coated the air.

Clare Lynch took the crystal glass from her best friend's hand. The liquid inside was a pale, innocent pink. They called it the Angel's Tear.

"To my new life," Clare echoed. She smiled. Her chest felt light, completely empty of suspicion.

Brianna leaned in close. The smell of her cheap vanilla perfume mixed with the expensive alcohol. "You are going to be the most envied woman in New York. Marrying Jaren Bolton. It's a fairy tale."

"We will always be best friends, Brianna," Clare said. She reached out and squeezed Brianna's hand. "No matter what my last name is."

Clare lifted the glass to her lips. She tipped her head back and swallowed the cocktail in one long gulp. The liquid burned a pleasant trail down her throat.

She lowered the glass. She missed the dark, cold flash that passed through Brianna's eyes.

A minute later, the music seemed to get louder.

Clare blinked. The neon lights above the bar blurred into long, messy streaks of color. A strange, unnatural heat bloomed in the pit of her stomach. Was this an anxiety attack? She hadn't missed a dose of her prescribed pills in months, but the terrifying tightness in her chest felt like a violent, twisted version of her worst panic episodes. It wasn't the warm buzz of alcohol. It was a sharp, chemical fire.

Her skin grew instantly damp with sweat.

"I think the drink went straight to my head," Clare muttered. Her tongue felt thick. She gripped the edge of the marble table to steady herself.

"Oh, honey," Brianna said. Her hands were suddenly on Clare's arms, gripping them a little too tight. "Let's get you to the restroom. You can wait in the VIP lounge while I get you some water."

Clare nodded dumbly. Her legs felt like lead.

Brianna guided her down a dark, quiet hallway. The heavy velvet door of the VIP lounge swung shut behind them, but the latch didn't fully catch, leaving a sliver of a crack that connected her to the club's noise.

Clare collapsed onto a plush velvet sofa. The fabric scratched against her bare shoulders. The heat in her stomach was spreading to her chest, making it hard to breathe. Her vision swam. A heavy, dark desire started to pulse in her veins.

This is wrong, her brain screamed.

Her hands shook violently as she dug into her designer purse. She pulled out her phone. The screen was a blinding rectangle of light.

She needed Jaren.

She tapped his name. The phone rang. Once. Twice. Five times.

Every ring felt like a physical blow to her chest.

Finally, the line clicked open. The sound of a loud party blasted through the speaker.

"Clare?" Jaren's voice was sharp. Impatient. "What do you want now?"

"Jaren," Clare gasped. She clutched the fabric of her dress over her chest. "I feel sick. Something is wrong. I'm at Elysium. Please come get me."

A soft, pathetic sob echoed through the phone.

"Jaren, please don't leave me," a woman's voice cried in the background. Bailey.

"I'm right here, Bailey. Don't cry," Jaren said softly to the other woman.

Then, his voice turned to ice as he spoke into the phone. "Enough, Clare. Stop doing this. Stop throwing tantrums for attention. Bailey needs me right now. She's having a panic attack."

"Jaren, I can't breathe-"

"Grow up," Jaren snapped.

The call disconnected. The dead dial tone buzzed against Clare's ear.

Her stomach dropped. The cold reality of his rejection hit her harder than the drug. Her lungs seized. She was completely alone.

Then, she heard the voices.

They came from the hallway, slipping through the crack under the heavy door.

"Is the dose strong enough?" It was Brianna's voice. The sweetness was entirely gone. It sounded like grinding metal. "The guys I hired are waiting in the back alley. I want her completely ruined on camera."

"Don't worry, miss," a man replied. The bartender. "That drug makes saints act like whores. The video will be worth every penny."

Clare stopped breathing.

The words were poisoned needles piercing directly into her brain. Double betrayal. Her best friend. Her fiancé.

Ice flooded her veins, fighting a losing battle against the chemical fire.

She had to get out. She had to survive.

Her trembling thumb scrolled through her contacts. The names blurred together. Matilda? No, her grandmother was too old. Bobbie? Her brother was dating Brianna.

She hit the bottom of the list.

A name sat there, gathering dust for eight years.

Aurthur Bolton.

Eight years ago, he was her legal guardian. He swore to protect her with his life. Then, he vanished without a single word, leaving her to the wolves of high society.

Hate and fear twisted in her gut. But the survival instinct was louder.

He had left this private number. He said it would always be open for her. She had sworn to her own pride that she would never use it.

Pride meant nothing when you were about to be thrown to monsters.

Her thumb hovered over the screen. Her hand shook so hard she almost dropped the phone.

She pressed the green button.

The phone didn't even finish its first ring.

"Clare?"

The voice was low. Cold. Heavy with a metallic authority that crossed eight years of silence in a single second.

The sound of his voice snapped the last string of Clare's composure.

Tears spilled over her eyelashes, burning her flushed cheeks. She gripped the phone with both hands.

"Elysium," she choked out. Her throat felt like it was lined with sandpaper. "VIP lounge. Help me."

There was a fraction of a second of silence on the line.

"Stay."

Just one word. Then the line went dead.

Clare let the phone fall to the carpet. She didn't know if he was actually coming. She didn't know if he even cared.

She forced her heavy body off the sofa. She needed to lock the door. She dragged her feet across the thick rug, her vision tilting dangerously to the left.

Before her fingers could touch the brass lock, the handle turned.

The door pushed open.

Brianna stood there. Behind her were two men. They smelled of stale beer, cheap cologne, and violence.

"Clare, honey, what's wrong?" Brianna asked. Her voice was back to that sickening, sugary pitch. "These gentlemen are friends of mine. They said they can give you a ride home."

The two men stepped into the room. Their eyes raked over Clare's flushed skin and trembling legs. One of them licked his lips.

Clare backed away. Her spine hit the edge of a mahogany table.

She stared at Brianna. The drug made her dizzy, but her hatred was crystal clear. "You did this."

Brianna's fake smile vanished. Her face twisted into a sneer. "So what if I did? You perfect little princesses need to know what hell feels like."

The larger of the two men stepped forward. He reached out a thick, dirty hand toward Clare's bare arm. "Don't be scared, sweetheart. We're going to take real good care of you."

Clare opened her mouth to scream.

A deafening crash shattered the air.

The heavy velvet door didn't just open. It was kicked off its hinges. It slammed into the wall with the force of a bomb.

Aurthur Bolton stepped into the room.

He wore a perfectly tailored black Savile Row coat. Behind him stood four men in dark suits, their faces devoid of any human emotion.

Aurthur's presence sucked all the oxygen out of the room. His jaw was locked. His dark eyes swept over the two thugs like they were already dead.

The thugs froze. The larger one puffed out his chest, trying to hide his sudden terror. "Who the fuck are you? Mind your own business."

Aurthur didn't speak. He didn't even blink.

He simply raised one finger.

Two of his bodyguards moved. They were a blur of calculated violence. In less than three seconds, both thugs were face-down on the carpet. The sickening crunch of a dislocated shoulder echoed in the room. One of the men screamed in agony.

Brianna shrieked. Her knees gave out, and she collapsed against the wall, her face drained of all blood.

Aurthur ignored the bodies on the floor. He ignored Brianna.

He walked straight toward the corner where Clare was trembling.

Eight years had carved his face into something harder, colder, and infinitely more dangerous. The sheer physical pressure of his gaze made Clare's lungs stutter.

He stopped right in front of her. He crouched down.

Without a word, he stripped off his expensive coat.

He wrapped it around Clare's shoulders. The heavy wool was still warm from his body. It smelled sharply of cedar and clean winter air.

His hands gripped the lapels, pulling the coat tight across her chest, hiding her exposed skin from the world. The movement was aggressive. It left no room for argument.

Clare's mind was a chaotic mess of chemicals and terror. But the moment his scent hit her, a violent shiver ripped through her spine.

Aurthur slid one arm behind her back and the other under her knees. He stood up, lifting her effortlessly against his chest.

Her head fell against his shoulder. She could hear the slow, steady, terrifying thud of his heartbeat.

He carried her toward the door. He didn't look down at the men groaning on the floor.

As he passed Brianna, he didn't stop walking. He simply turned his head slightly toward the lead bodyguard.

"Call the police," Aurthur's voice was like crushed ice. "Defamation. Aggravated assault. Attempted rape. Have the Bolton family legal team take over immediately."

Brianna let out a strangled gasp. "The Bolton family..." She slumped completely to the floor, her eyes wide with absolute despair.

Aurthur carried Clare out of the club. The cold night air hit her face, but she was burning up inside his coat.

A black Maybach was idling at the curb.

The driver threw the rear door open. Aurthur placed her gently onto the leather seat, then slid in right beside her.

He looked at the driver in the rearview mirror.

"Dr. Evans' private clinic," Aurthur ordered. "Now."

The heavy door slammed shut. The chaos of the street was instantly silenced. The Maybach glided smoothly into the dark Manhattan night.

The back of the Maybach was massive, but Clare felt like she was suffocating in a sealed box.

The drug was no longer a slow burn. It was a raging forest fire in her blood.

Her skin felt like it was melting. Her rational mind was crumbling piece by piece. She writhed on the leather seat, her legs kicking out weakly.

She clawed at her own throat. The collar of her dress felt like a noose. She grabbed the lapels of Aurthur's coat and ripped them open, exposing her flushed chest to the cool air of the car.

Aurthur's throat bobbed. He jerked his eyes away from her skin and stared straight ahead.

"Stop moving," he commanded. His voice was harsh.

The cold authority in his tone didn't sober her. It acted like gasoline on the fire.

Driven entirely by the chemical demanding relief, Clare's body sought the only source of cold in the car. Him.

She dragged herself across the seat. She slumped against his side, pressing her burning cheek directly against the crisp, cool cotton of his dress shirt.

Aurthur's entire body turned to stone.

His muscles locked so tight they trembled. Eight years of burying his obsession, eight years of forced distance, were being tested by the heat of her skin through his shirt.

He grabbed her shoulders. His fingers dug into her flesh as he tried to push her away.

"Clare," he ground out, his voice turning ragged. "Wake up."

Clare blinked. Through the haze of the drug, the sharp scent of cedar filled her lungs. It dragged a memory up from the dark. A quiet afternoon in his study. Safety.

She looked up. Her eyes were glassy with unshed tears. She stared at the sharp line of his jaw.

"Why did you leave?" she whispered.

The question was a physical knife twisting in Aurthur's chest. He stared down at her. He couldn't tell her the truth. He couldn't tell her about the threats, the NDA, the Swiss facility.

His silence stretched out, heavy and suffocating.

To Clare, the silence was an answer. It was rejection. It was cruelty.

A sudden, violent wave of grief mixed with the drug's pure lust.

She surged upward. She grabbed the front of his shirt and crashed her lips against his.

It wasn't a romantic kiss. It was a collision. It was desperate, angry, and entirely uncoordinated.

Aurthur's brain short-circuited.

Every wall he had built shattered into dust.

He didn't push her away. He let go of her shoulders and buried his hands in her hair. He took control of the kiss, turning it from a clumsy assault into a brutal, devouring possession. He kissed her with eight years of starved desperation.

Clare gasped against his mouth. The sheer force of his response terrified her. A tiny sliver of reality pierced through the drug.

She shoved her hands against his chest and tore her mouth away.

She fell back against the opposite door, panting heavily. Her chest heaved.

"You bastard," she sobbed, confusion and shame burning her eyes.

She grabbed the door handle, yanking on it wildly. "Stop the car! Let me out! I would rather find a random man on the street than be here with you!"

The air in the car instantly froze.

The invisible string holding Aurthur's sanity together snapped with a loud, violent crack.

A random man.

He had lived in a cage for eight years to keep her pure and safe, and she wanted to give herself to a random man on the street.

He lunged across the seat. He grabbed her wrists, pinning them together with one massive hand. His grip was painful. His eyes were entirely black, devoid of any light.

"You will not," he hissed through his teeth. The words were a lethal threat.

He reached forward and slammed his hand against the intercom button.

"Change the route," Aurthur barked at the driver. The command was absolute.

"Yes, Mr. Bolton," the driver said smoothly.

"Where are we going?" Clare cried out, struggling against his iron grip.

"My penthouse," Aurthur said.

The Maybach took a sharp right turn, abandoning the route to the clinic.

Clare stared at him in pure horror. The drug was pulling her under again, making her limbs heavy and useless. She couldn't fight him. She was trapped in the dark with a predator who had just decided to stop playing by the rules.