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.