Betrayed Bride: Claimed By The Brother

A black Maybach was waiting at the curb.

The driver opened the rear door.

Lila came running out of the store. She was breathless.

"Grafton! Wait!"

She ran up to the car.

"My Uber app isn't working because my card is locked," she pleaded. "Can you drop me off? Please?"

Grafton was already transferring himself from the wheelchair to the car seat. He did it with practiced struggle, hiding his strength.

He settled into the leather seat.

He looked at Lila standing on the sidewalk.

"My car doesn't carry strays," he said.

"I'm Francesca's best friend!" Lila cried. She looked at Francesca. "Tell him, Fran!"

Francesca stood by the open door.

She looked at the woman who had slept with her fiancé. Who had used her for money for years.

"We were friends," Francesca said softly. "But I think we need some space."

She got into the car.

She pulled the door shut.

Thud.

The sound of the closing door cut off Lila's protests instantly.

The car pulled away.

Through the tinted glass, Francesca watched Lila stomp her foot and scream at the empty street.

She let out a breath she didn't know she was holding.

Inside the car, it was quiet. The air conditioning hummed.

Grafton stretched his legs out. He didn't need to pretend in here. The windows were blacked out.

His knee brushed against hers.

Francesca pulled her leg back. "Don't."

"Why?" Grafton asked. "No one can see."

He reached over. He took her hand.

His thumb rubbed the back of her knuckles. It was a slow, deliberate circle.

"You did well back there," he said. "You almost looked like a Faulkner."

"I just hate being played," she said.

"Then why marry Julian?" Grafton asked. "He's been playing you since the day you met."

"You know why," she said. "The merger. The money."

"If you stick with me," Grafton said, his voice dropping an octave, "you won't need to marry him to get the money."

Francesca looked at him. His eyes were intense.

"And be what?" she asked. "Your puppet with voting rights? A signature on a proxy form? That's not a secure position, it's a gilded cage."

Grafton didn't answer. He just squeezed her hand.

The car turned.

Francesca looked out the window. They weren't heading toward the Faulkner estate.

They were heading toward the Upper East Side.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"Your apartment," Grafton said.

Francesca panicked. "No. You can't. Julian might come by."

"Let him," Grafton said.

"He doesn't know!" she hissed. "He doesn't know you can walk. He doesn't know about... this."

"Maybe it's time he learned," Grafton said.

The car stopped in front of her building.

"Grafton, please," she begged.

He looked at her. He saw the genuine fear in her eyes.

He sighed.

"Fine," he said. "But I'm hungry. And I'm not eating hospital food."

The bodyguard pushed the wheelchair into her apartment and left, closing the door.

The lock clicked.

Grafton stood up immediately.

He stretched, his spine cracking. He looked too big for her small living room.

He walked around, touching her things. He picked up a framed photo of her mother.

"Stop touching my life," Francesca said. She rushed to close the blinds. "The paparazzi are always outside."

Grafton ignored her. He walked into the kitchen.

He opened the fridge.

"Empty," he said. "Do you photosynthesize?"

"I order in," she said.

He found a box of pasta and a jar of sauce in the pantry. Some garlic on the counter.

He took off his suit jacket. He draped it over a chair.

He rolled up his sleeves. His forearms were veined and strong.

He grabbed a knife.

He started chopping the garlic.

Chop. Chop. Chop.

The rhythm was perfect. Fast. Precise. Violent.

"You cook?" Francesca asked. She was leaning against the wall, watching him. It was surreal.

"I live alone," he said. "I don't like staff in my space."

He turned on the stove.

"Come here," he said.

"Why?"

"Tie this." He held up an apron he found on a hook.

Francesca walked over. She took the strings.

She had to reach around him. Her chest brushed his back. He smelled of heat and cedar.

She tied the knot.

He turned around in her arms.

He leaned down. He kissed the sensitive spot just below her ear.

"Good girl," he whispered.

Francesca shivered.

The pasta water boiled over. Hissing.

Suddenly, a fist pounded on the front door.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

"Francesca!" Julian's voice roared. "I know you're in there! Open the damn door!"

Francesca jumped. She nearly knocked the sauce off the stove.

She looked at Grafton with wide eyes.

Grafton didn't flinch. He sprinkled salt into the water.

"Hide," she whispered frantically.

"Why?" Grafton asked calmly. "I own the building."

"He'll see you standing!" she hissed. "He'll see the two plates!"

"So?"

"Please," she begged. She grabbed his arm. "Not now. I need time."

Grafton looked at her hand on his arm. Then he looked at the door.

"Get rid of him," Grafton said. "Fast."

He grabbed his plate of pasta.

He walked into her bedroom. He pushed his wheelchair in with one hand.

He closed the door.

Francesca smoothed her hair. She took a deep breath.

She opened the front door.

Julian stood there. His face was red.