Claimed By My Ex-Fiancé's Ruthless Brother

"Keep Walking, Miss Gilmore."

The security guard's voice sounded flat, mechanical, and entirely devoid of pity.

Darlene pressed her palm against her scorching forehead. Her knuckles were bloodless, her vision blurring into nauseating streaks across the polished white marble floor.

The cold air pouring from the vent couldn't penetrate the fire tearing through her veins. She clawed at the collar of her champagne silk gown, her trembling fingers pulling at the taut fabric, desperate to get air into her lungs.

Ten minutes ago, her fiancé, Demario Montgomery, had stood beneath the ballroom's crystal chandeliers, smiling as he pressed a glass of chilled sparkling wine into her hands.

"Drink it, Darlene," he'd murmured, his fingers brushing her cheek with an oily tenderness. "Be a good girl tonight, and your brother's ICU bills are covered next month. Every penny, no exceptions."

That image kept replaying in her mind over and over. There must be something wrong with that drink... But she had no choice but to drink it. Dwight was only eighteen, and had been in a coma ever since the car crash; every breath he took at St. Luke's Private Hospital cost thousands of dollars. If Dwight's life support was withdrawn, she simply could not bear the consequences.

A sharp electronic beep pierced the haze as a keycard slid through the lock. The two dark walnut doors swung silently inward.

Darlene stumbled across the threshold. Her heel snagged the edge of the plush wool runner, her knees folding. The guard half-shoved, half-carried her through the doorway, and behind her, the heavy doors thudded shut with the dead finality of a lock.

Darkness swallowed her whole.

The smell hit her first. It wasn't the cheap citrus cologne Demario favored. It smelled of fresh cedar, cold rain, and the bitter, expensive tobacco of Cohiba cigars.

She gripped the cold marble console table in the foyer, her throat burning like raw sandpaper.

"Demario?" Her voice came out hoarse, broken. "Is that you... give me water... please..."

A spark flickered near the floor-to-ceiling glass wall at the far end of the suite.

The blue flame of a silver lighter guttered and steadied. In that brief flash, a sharply cut jawline emerged from the shadows.

Clayton Montgomery exhaled a thin plume of smoke. His slate-blue eyes caught the faint glow of the Manhattan skyline outside, fixing on her with the cold, precise focus of a predator locking onto prey.

The drug slammed into Darlene's blood again. Her knees gave out completely, her body pitching forward.

But the impact never came. She was caught.

The heavy silhouette crossed the distance in two strides. Strong, calloused fingers closed around her slender wrist like iron cuffs, halting her fall midair.

The shock of his chilled, tailored wool against her burning bare skin sent a violent shudder down her spine. She didn't pull away - her trembling hands blindly hooked onto his broad shoulders, clinging to him like an anchor in a raging sea.

Clayton looked down at the flushed face buried against his chest, and his lips pulled into a cold, mocking smile.

"So my useless little brother actually did it," his low baritone rumbled against her ear, carrying a biting scorn and something unnameable and restless. "He wrapped up his own fiancée and delivered her to my doorstep."

His hand didn't let go. Instead, his palm tightened, sliding with deliberate pressure down her spine, searing through the thin silk of her gown with a suffocating, oppressive heat.

Darlene's sanity had already turned to liquid fire. Her teeth sank into her lower lip, biting until the sharp, coppery taste of blood bloomed across her tongue.

"Help me..." she whimpered, arching her slender neck toward the cold air.

Her blue eyes misted over with tears and fever, and she instinctively pressed her burning cheek against the hard curve of his throat.

Her breathing came ragged and shallow, brushing across his carotid artery.

Clayton's hand clenched hard around her waist. His knuckles went rigid.

The unshakeable self-control that had ruled Wall Street cracked open at the seam. His Adam's apple bobbed - a slow, strained swallow.

"Look at me," Clayton commanded, his voice a low, hoarse growl. "See who's standing in front of you."

He didn't push her away. Not an inch.

Darlene heard nothing. The humiliation of the Gilmore family's sudden bankruptcy, the sneers of society, and the gaunt, machine-bound face of her comatose brother Dwight all swirled through her mind like a nightmare. She was drowning, and this man was the only solid thing left in the world.

She lifted her head and pressed her trembling, burning lips directly against his mouth.

It was desperate. It was clumsy. And it was utterly reckless.

Clayton froze for half a heartbeat. Reason still warned him this was a trap, but the dark hunger surging in his chest had already broken free of its leash.

With a low grunt, his arm hooked around her waist, lifted her off her feet, and slammed her back against the cold paneled wall of the foyer.

The delicate silk of her designer gown strained beneath his weight. The fragile seams split with a sharp, violent tear, tiny freshwater pearls scattering across the dark carpet.

He carried her in one fluid motion, kicking the bedroom door open.

The California king mattress swallowed them as he threw her onto the cold sheets.

Outside, the late-autumn rain began to beat against the glass, casting the dim, distant neon of Manhattan across the tangled figures on the bed.

The five-centimeter surgical scar along the inside of Clayton's left forearm went pale and stark in the dim moonlight as his muscles coiled, pinning her wrists above her head.

Darlene's short nails dug deep into the breadth of his back, raking faint crescents of blood across his tight, sweat-slicked skin.

At two in the morning, lightning split the sky, flooding the room with a searing white. In that instant, the raw, unbridled possessiveness in his eyes was laid completely bare.

As the drug's tide finally ebbed from her veins, pure physical exhaustion overwhelmed Darlene's consciousness. With a faint, broken whimper, her head rolled to the side and she slipped into absolute darkness.

Outside, the storm settled into a steady, rhythmic drumming.

Clayton pushed himself up, leaning against the tufted leather headboard. His long, calloused fingers slowly wound a strand of chestnut hair from the pillow, his gaze unreadable and deep.

On the nightstand, an encrypted satellite phone vibrated against the marble surface.

A text from his assistant lit up the screen:

Demario stationed eight tabloid photographers by the service elevator. Ready on your word.

At dawn, gray light slipped through the gap in the heavy velvet curtains and slid across the rumpled white sheets.

Darlene's eyelids fluttered open. Every bone in her body felt as if it had been smashed and ground to powder; the lingering dizziness from the drug had not completely faded.

She tried to turn over, but a huge weight pinned her down. A thick, muscular arm lay possessively across her bare waist, radiating an oppressive heat through the sheet.

Memories of the previous night flooded into her mind all at once.

Her throat tightened, and her breath stopped. She covered her mouth with both hands, suppressing the scream about to burst out.

Slowly, fearfully, she turned her head.

The man beside her slept on his stomach, his face turned toward the wall. His broad, bare back was covered with dark, angry red scratches.

He seemed deeply asleep. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, an impeccable physique, and a face so breathtakingly handsome that even in sleep he looked like someone who had stepped out of a painting.

Torn scraps of champagne-colored silk and damaged lace lay scattered across the floor like the wreckage after an explosion.

"Oh God... oh God... what happened? I actually spent the night with a strange man."

Darlene bit her lower lip unconsciously. "Did I go into the wrong room? Did the drug cloud my mind, and I forced myself on this man?"

The thought slammed into her mind, and shame and panic swept over her instantly, making her whole body burn hot.

She had to leave. Especially since she believed she had wronged him, she did not dare wait for the man to wake.

Darlene held her breath, slid her palms under the man's forearm, and lifted the heavy weight millimeter by millimeter until she could pull herself free.

The moment her bare feet touched the cold hardwood floor, her knees buckled. She gripped the carved bedpost tightly and waited for the dizziness to pass.

Her dress was ruined. It was nothing but rags.

She crept to the walk-in closet, slid the heavy sliding door open just enough, and snatched a loose black cashmere coat from a hanger. She draped it over her bruised, marked skin, wrapped it tightly around herself, and cinched the belt until she could barely breathe.

Beside the armchair, she saw her leather handbag. The strap was broken, but the contents were intact.

When she picked up the bag, her gaze involuntarily darted to the man on the bed and quickly away, completely unaware that the man had already woken and quietly closed his eyes again, pretending to sleep.

On the nightstand lay a leather-bound guest registry for a private party at the hotel lounge.

Her heart ached with bitter nausea.

"I thought Demario only drugged me to knock me out so he could slip away to meet another woman. He'd long grown tired of me and wanted to cast me aside - his goal was to destroy me completely," she realized coldly. "Forget it. No matter what, I should pay first. This man is probably a high-end model at the club or a gigolo. He must be short on money."

Darlene opened the coin purse of her wallet. There was no gold card inside. Her father's accounts had been frozen by the bankruptcy trustee months ago. All she had left was the change remaining from Dwight's clinic out-of-pocket expenses and her part-time tips.

Three crumpled, folded one-hundred-dollar bills.

As she smoothed them flat on her thigh, her fingers trembled with humiliation.

She crept to the nightstand, slapped the three bills onto the cold marble, and shoved them directly under the man's heavy gold lighter.

That was all the money she had.

Barefoot, she turned, clutched the bag tightly against her ribs, opened the suite door, and slipped into the empty carpeted hallway. Avoiding the elevator, she took the service stairs and disappeared into the cold morning mist of Lexington Avenue.

Inside the suite, the soft click of the heavy door echoed in the silence.

On the bed, Clayton Montgomery opened his slate-blue eyes and sat up, lazily running a hand through his dark hair. His cold gaze swept over the empty side of the mattress, then landed on the nightstand.

Three green bills were pressed beneath his Cartier lighter.

He reached out and picked up the old bills with two long fingers. A dark, dangerous smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.

"Three hundred dollars? You sleep with me and leave only this much?"

His low voice echoed against the high ceiling; his thin lips curved upward, and he actually laughed.

There were two knocks on the hidden door leading to the outer reception room, and then it opened. Gavin Hayes walked in, his tailored suit spotless and his expression resolute.

"Sir," Gavin reported respectfully, eyes lowered, "the eight paparazzi lying in wait downstairs have been detained by our private security team. All memory cards have been erased and destroyed."

Clayton tossed the three bills onto the rumpled sheets. His expression instantly returned to its usual cold, untouchable arrogance.

"Where is Demario?"

"He returned to the Long Island estate at dawn, sir. He is telling board members that he is hosting a family brunch for your grandfather. He seems to be waiting for the news to spread."

Clayton stood, stepping soundlessly on the floor. He bent down, picked up a small piece of champagne-colored silk from the carpet, and gripped it tightly until his knuckles cracked.

"Have the car brought around," Clayton said, walking toward the marble bathroom. "It's time to show my half-brother what happens when he tries to play games with my property."

The black Lincoln Continental came to a smooth halt beneath the grand porte-cochère of the Montgomery estate in the Hamptons.

A footman pulled open the rear passenger door immediately.

Darlene stepped out onto the gravel driveway. Clayton's men tracked her down mere hours after she fled the suite, silently forcing her into this vehicle and pressing this borrowed high-necked navy wool dress into her hands. Her hands clenched deep in the pockets. The collar was fastened tightly beneath her jaw, hiding the dark marks scattering her throat and collarbone.

Demario Montgomery stood on the top step, adjusting the knot of his silk tie.

When he saw her step out alone, a flicker of nervous calculation darted across his eyes before his face settled into an easy, rehearsed smile.

"Darling," Demario said, hurrying down the steps to catch her hand. "You vanished after feeling unwell last night. Why do you still look so pale?"

Darlene pulled her hand back as if she had touched a hot stove.

Her stomach churned with violent disgust. The memory of the sweet, chemically laced champagne he had handed her made her bile rise.

Demario's smile vanished. He stepped close, his fingers digging like iron claws into the small of her waist, his voice dropping to a vicious hiss against her ear.

"Drop the attitude, Darlene. The entire family is inside. Play the dutiful fiancée, or I swear to God, the administrator at St. Luke's will shut off your brother's ventilator before dessert."

Darlene dug her fingernails into her palms, the sharp pain keeping her from screaming. She swallowed the metallic taste of blood in her mouth and let him steer her through the towering oak double doors.

The grand reception hall was packed with the East Coast elite. Old money heirs, hedge fund titans, and Montgomery family board members stood in tight clusters under massive crystal chandeliers, murmuring in hushed, reverent tones.

"I heard the real head of the family showed up today," a socialite nearby whispered behind her flute of mimosa. "He hasn't attended a family brunch since the European acquisition."

A sharp voice from the butler sliced through the quartet's gentle strings.

"Mr. Clayton Montgomery has arrived."

The entire room fell dead silent.

Arrogant men who controlled billions in capital instantly straightened their spines and stepped aside, clearing a wide path down the center of the hall.

The steady, measured click of bespoke leather shoes echoed against the polished marble floor.

Clayton Montgomery walked into the hall flanked by six private security guards.

Darlene lifted her chin, her gaze drifting toward the center of the room.

The air was ripped from her lungs in an abrupt, brutal rush.

The man walking down the carpet was dressed in a charcoal three-piece suit, his posture radiating absolute authority. The sharp jawline, the broad shoulders, the terrifying slate-blue eyes-

It was the man from the hotel bed.

Not some hired escort. Not a random freelance model she'd drunkenly accosted the night before.

It was Clayton Montgomery-the ruthless, untouchable tyrant who controlled Montgomery Enterprises and held Wall Street by the throat.

A cold sweat broke out across Darlene's back. Her knees shook so violently she had to lean against the mahogany credenza behind her to keep from collapsing.

Beside her, Demario straightened his jacket and stepped forward, bowing his head with sickening deference.

"Brother," Demario said, his voice dripping with sycophancy as he dragged a paralyzed Darlene forward. "We are honored by your presence today. It is rare to see you away from the trading floor."

Clayton stopped.

He did not look at Demario. His eyes slid past his half-brother as if he were looking through empty glass.

His gaze dropped, sharp and dissecting, landing directly on Darlene's high collar. A razor-thin smirk touched the corner of his lips.

"And who is this?" Clayton asked, his deep baritone cutting through the silence.

Demario puffed out his chest, resting a proprietary hand on Darlene's shoulder.

"You remember my fiancée, Darlene Gilmore. As the eldest of the Gilmores, she'll be a perfect addition to the family when we formalize the date next month."

"Fiancée?" Clayton repeated the word, rolling it over his tongue with mocking amusement.

He took one step forward.

His immense physical presence swallowed her in shadow. The faint, unmistakable scent of cold cedar and expensive tobacco washed over her senses, suffocating her completely.

Darlene could not breathe. She stared at the polished tip of his wingtips, terrified that he would pull those three crumpled hundred-dollar bills from his pocket and expose her in front of the entire room.

"Since she is to be my future sister-in-law," Clayton said coldly, "has no one taught her the family customs? Bring the tea."

A servant appeared instantly, holding out a silver tray bearing a fine porcelain cup of steaming Earl Grey.

"Serve it," Clayton directed, his eyes locked on her face.

Darlene's hands shook violently as she lifted the scalding porcelain cup. She kept her head bowed, her vision blurring with unshed tears, and held the cup up toward his chest.

"Mr. Montgomery... please."

Clayton reached out to take the cup.

His long, calloused fingers deliberately brushed across the back of her trembling hand, lingering for two full, agonizing seconds.

The rough contact sent a violent jolt through her spine. The hot tea sloshed against the rim, nearly spilling over.

Around them, several society matrons exchanged cold, disapproving glances.

Clayton brought the cup to his lips, took a slow sip, and set it back on the silver tray with a sharp, ringing clatter.

"The tea is lukewarm," he said, his voice flat. "And your hands are trembling, Miss Gilmore. Did you not sleep well last night?"

The public humiliation sliced deep. Darlene's teeth sank hard into the flesh of her inner palm, fighting to calm her ragged breaths. She forced the words through her clenched teeth.

"I am fine, Mr. Montgomery. Thank you for your concern."

Clayton reached into the breast pocket of his tailored jacket.

Slowly, deliberately, he pulled out a folded silk pocket square to wipe his fingertips.

Darlene's heart stopped.

The fabric in his hand was champagne-colored silk, edged with the exact unique hand-sewn pearl trim of the evening gown she had worn the night before.