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