Shattered Vows: Falling For His Worst Enemy

The thick Persian carpet in the second-floor hallway of the St. Regis Hotel swallowed the sound of Christen's stilettos. She kept her gaze on the brass signs, looking for the women's restroom, her breathing slow and even.

She passed a secluded VIP lounge. The heavy oak door was left slightly ajar.

A muffled, breathless moan slipped through the crack.

Christen's footsteps stopped instantly. Her stomach dropped, a cold weight settling in her pelvis. She held her breath, her body moving toward the narrow sliver of light before her brain could stop her.

The dim wall sconces from the hallway cast a thin beam into the room, illuminating a pile of fabric discarded on the floor. It was a custom burgundy silk gown.

Christen's pupils dilated. Her lungs forgot how to expand. It was the exact dress her best friend, Kaelynn Hudson, was wearing tonight.

Her eyes moved upward, following the trail of clothes to the leather sofa. Two silhouettes were tangled together. The man's arm was braced against the backrest. The dim light caught the cold, metallic gleam of a limited-edition Rolex on his wrist.

It was the watch she had given her husband, Brendon Jimenez, for their third wedding anniversary.

Her heart slammed against her ribs, a physical blow that left her dizzy.

Brendon's voice, low and thick with desire, drifted out. He was whispering things to Kaelynn. Things he used to whisper to her.

Bile rose in Christen's throat. The acid burned her esophagus. She slapped both hands over her mouth, pressing hard enough to bruise her lips, trapping the scream that clawed at her throat.

She stumbled backward. Her shoulder blades hit the cold, hard wall of the corridor. She gasped for air, her chest heaving, but she didn't push the door open. She didn't demand answers.

She turned and ran.

She fled down the grand staircase, bursting into the noisy VIP bar area on the first floor. The heavy bass of the music vibrated in her chest, but it wasn't loud enough to drown out the images burned into her retinas.

She collapsed onto an empty stool at the bar. Her hands shook so violently she had to grip the edge of the counter.

"Dry martini. The strongest you have," she told the bartender, her voice cracking.

When the glass arrived, she threw her head back and swallowed the clear liquid in one gulp. The alcohol burned a fiery path down her throat, settling hot and heavy in her stomach. It numbed the trembling in her fingers.

The crushing grief morphed into something else. Something hot and jagged. Anger.

A bitter smile twisted her lips. She turned on her stool, her vision slightly blurred from the sudden rush of alcohol, and scanned the room.

Her eyes locked onto a man sitting in a dark corner booth.

He was broad-shouldered, dressed in a sharply tailored charcoal suit that screamed old money. He radiated a cold, oppressive energy. Through her alcohol-laced haze, Christen registered him as just another arrogant Wall Street shark looking for a distraction.

A reckless, destructive idea formed in her mind. She wanted to tear Brendon's world apart the exact same way he had just torn hers.

She ordered a second drink, grabbed the glass, and pushed herself off the stool. She walked straight toward the dark booth.

Before she could reach the table, two massive bodyguards in black suits stepped out of the shadows, forming a solid wall in front of her.

The man in the booth slowly raised his eyes. His gaze cut through the cigar smoke, landing on her flushed cheeks. He didn't speak. He just raised a single finger.

The bodyguards stepped back, melting into the darkness.

Christen slid into the empty space next to him on the leather bench. She was close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. Close enough to smell the sharp, clean scent of cedar and expensive tobacco.

She leaned in, her movements slightly clumsy but fueled by pure defiance. She didn't offer a blatant invitation; instead, she tilted her chin up, her eyes locking onto his with a reckless glint. "Buy me a drink?" she asked, her voice trembling just enough to betray her bravado. "You look infinitely more interesting than my husband."

The man didn't pull away. Instead, a low, dark chuckle vibrated in his chest. It was a sound dripping with pure mockery.

Before she could react, his long fingers shot out and clamped around her jaw.

His grip was like a vice. He forced her head up, making her look directly into his eyes.

"Christen Craft," he said.

Her breath hitched.

His voice was ice. He didn't just say her name; he stripped away her pathetic attempt at seduction in two words.

The alcohol evaporated from her bloodstream. Her vision snapped into sharp focus. She stared at the sharp angles of his face, the ruthless line of his jaw, the dead-calm eyes.

Panic seized her throat. This wasn't a random stranger.

It was Kile Barrett. The tech and venture capital titan. The one man her husband feared more than anyone else in New York.

Christen's pulse hammered against Kile's thumb where it pressed into her jawline. Her body acted on pure survival instinct. She tried to pull back, to put distance between herself and the danger radiating from him.

Kile's fingers tightened just enough to stop her. He held her in place, forcing her to maintain the awkward, upward angle.

Her brain scrambled for an exit. She forced the corners of her mouth up, stretching her lips into the polite, empty smile she used at charity galas.

"Mr. Barrett," she managed to say, her voice tight.

Kile released her jaw. As he pulled his hand back, the rough pad of his thumb dragged slowly across her skin. The brief friction sent a violent shiver down her spine.

He leaned back against the leather upholstery, picking up his crystal glass of whiskey. He took a slow sip, his dark eyes tracking her every movement with predatory amusement.

Christen felt her skin crawl under his stare. She grabbed her clutch from the table, her knuckles white. She needed to leave. Now.

"Brendon seems to be quite busy tonight," Kile said. His voice was a lazy drawl, but the words hit like a physical blow.

Christen froze. Her muscles locked up.

The humiliation burned through the lingering fear. She slammed her clutch back onto the table and sat back down. She met his gaze, her eyes blazing with reckless defiance.

She leaned forward, letting the neckline of her dress dip slightly.

"Are you afraid of the Jimenez family, Mr. Barrett?" she asked, her tone dripping with fake sweetness and real provocation.

Kile let out a harsh, dismissive scoff. It was the sound of a man who found the very concept of fear insulting.

He suddenly leaned forward. The space between them vanished. His face was inches from hers, his broad chest trapping her against the back of the booth. The sheer physical presence of him sucked the oxygen out of her lungs.

He lowered his voice, the sound vibrating directly against her ear.

"We both know your marriage is nothing but a cheap stage play, Christen."

A cold sweat broke out across the back of her neck. Her stomach twisted into a tight knot. He knew. He knew exactly what was happening upstairs.

She gathered the last shreds of her dignity. She pushed her shoulders back and glared at him.

"You clearly don't know how to respect a woman," she said, her voice shaking with suppressed rage.

She stood up abruptly, the edge of the table digging into her thighs.

Kile didn't try to stop her this time. He just watched her with the calm, patient eyes of a hunter watching a trapped animal struggle.

Christen turned and walked away fast. Her heels clicked sharply against the floor. She didn't stop until she reached the hotel lobby, hiding behind a massive Roman pillar. She leaned her back against the cool marble, dragging air into her burning lungs.

She smoothed down her skirt. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She locked the perfect, unbothered wife mask back onto her face.

She walked toward the elevators, intending to go straight down to the underground garage and leave.

The silver doors slid open.

Brendon and Kaelynn were standing inside. They were laughing. They looked immaculate, as if they hadn't just destroyed her life ten minutes ago.

Christen's fingernails dug so hard into her palms that the skin nearly broke. The urge to swing her heavy clutch directly into Kaelynn's smiling face was a physical ache in her arm.

Kaelynn stepped forward and linked her arm through Christen's.

"Where have you been? We've been looking everywhere for you," Kaelynn whined, her voice laced with fake concern.

Christen's eyes dropped to the side of Kaelynn's neck. Right below her collarbone, a fresh, red mark stained her skin.

A wave of nausea hit Christen so hard she almost gagged.

She pulled her arm out of Kaelynn's grasp, her movements stiff.

"I had too much champagne. I was in the restroom," Christen said. Her voice sounded hollow, like it belonged to someone else.

Brendon stepped closer. He reached out, his hand aiming for the curve of her waist to play the role of the doting husband.

Christen flinched. She took a sharp half-step backward, completely avoiding his touch.

The air in the elevator instantly turned heavy.

Brendon's hand hung in the air. His eyes narrowed, a flash of irritation and suspicion crossing his face. Kaelynn shifted uncomfortably, offering a nervous laugh to fill the silence.

The elevator pinged, arriving at the garage level.

"I have a migraine. I'm taking a car home," Christen said. She didn't wait for an answer. She walked out of the elevator, leaving them staring at her back.

Christen pulled the door of the black Lincoln Uber open and threw herself into the backseat. She slammed the door shut, cutting off the damp garage air and the suffocating presence of her husband.

She sank into the leather seat and closed her eyes. Her entire body felt bruised, though no one had hit her.

She reached into her clutch to find her phone. Her fingertips brushed against something cold and stiff.

She frowned, pulling it out.

It was a matte black card with thick, dark gold edges. There was no company logo. No title. Just two words printed in sleek, embossed lettering: Kile Barrett. And a private phone number beneath it.

Her breath caught. She remembered the moment in the booth when Kile had leaned in close, his chest pressing against hers. He had slipped it into her open bag without her even noticing, his long fingers brushing the inner lining with a deliberate, lingering touch that she now realized was far too calculated.

The card felt heavy in her hand, radiating danger. Her heart rate spiked again. She shoved the card deep into the bottom zipper pocket of her clutch, wishing she could erase the memory of his mocking eyes.

Thirty minutes later, the car pulled up to the curb of a luxury high-rise on the Upper East Side.

Christen swiped her key fob in the private elevator. She watched the numbers climb, feeling a deep, physical revulsion toward the place she was supposed to call home.

The doors opened directly into the penthouse foyer. The apartment was pitch black. The only light came from the city neon bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

She didn't turn on the lights. She kicked off her heels, her bare feet hitting the freezing marble floor.

She walked past the massive, empty living room and went straight into the master bedroom's walk-in closet.

She pulled the string for the overhead light. Rows of seasonal haute couture gowns and velvet display cases filled with diamonds stared back at her. A bitter taste coated her tongue. These weren't hers. They were props. Costumes Brendon bought to maintain his image of the generous, perfect husband.

She walked past the silk and cashmere, heading to the very back corner. She dragged out a faded black canvas duffel bag. It was the bag she had brought from her adoptive parents' house three years ago.

She unzipped it and started throwing things inside. Plain cotton t-shirts. A pair of jeans. Her toothbrush. Her passport and birth certificate.

She had spent nearly an hour sitting on the closet floor, staring at the empty walls, letting the shock completely wear off before she finally started packing. Suddenly, the electronic lock on the front door beeped. Heavy, uneven footsteps echoed in the foyer. Christen's hands stopped moving. Brendon was home early. "I called you ten times!" his voice boomed from the hallway, laced with irritation.

The bedroom door swung open. Brendon stood in the frame, smelling of expensive scotch and stale perfume. His tie was loosened, his face tight with irritation.

He flipped the light switch. The sudden brightness made Christen squint. Brendon's eyes immediately locked onto the canvas bag on the floor.

His jaw clenched. He crossed the room in three long strides.

"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded.

Christen didn't look at him. She grabbed a gray sweater and shoved it into the bag. "I'm going to stay at my father's house for a few days."

Brendon's hand shot out. His fingers clamped around her wrist like an iron cuff. He squeezed hard enough to make her gasp in pain, jerking her hand away from the bag.

"Stop throwing a tantrum," he warned, his voice low and threatening. "We have the family charity brunch tomorrow. You are expected to be there."

The word family made the acid in her stomach churn again. She yanked her arm with all her strength, breaking his grip.

She lifted her chin and stared straight into his eyes.

"I am not your puppet, Brendon."

Brendon blinked, caught off guard by the raw disgust in her eyes. He defaulted to his usual tactic. His face softened into a mask of fake patience. He reached out, his fingers aiming to stroke her cheek.

Christen snapped her head to the side, dodging his hand as if it were covered in acid.

"Don't touch me," she said, her voice dropping to a dead, icy whisper.

Brendon's hand froze in mid-air. The fake softness vanished from his face, replaced by a dark, ugly flush. He realized, in that second, that she wasn't just pouting. She was slipping out of his control.

Christen zipped up the duffel bag. She grabbed the handles, hoisted it over her shoulder, and walked right past him toward the bedroom door.