Between Ruin And Revenge: Her Regret

Finn Briggs POV:

I pushed my shoulder against the heavy brass doors of the Manhattan private club. The cold winter wind died the second I stepped past the velvet curtain. I stood in the foyer, looking down at my damp coat, and used my free hand to brush the New York rain off my shoulders.

My other arm was wrapped tightly around a velvet-textured Lady M cake box. I held it against my chest like a fragile organ, making sure not a single drop of dirty rain had touched the pristine packaging.

A bouncer in a tailored suit stepped into my path. The man looked at my cheap wet boots and worn jacket, raising a hand to stop me.

"Members only tonight."

I did not argue. I reached into my pocket, my cold fingers fumbling for a second, and pulled out the sleek black credit card with Arleen's name stamped on the front. I held it up.

The bouncer looked at the card, then back at me. The disdain vanished, replaced by a practiced, hollow smile. He stepped aside and gestured down the hall.

I put the card away and walked past him. I stepped onto the thick Persian carpet that lined the corridor. The fabric absorbed the sound of my wet boots. A sharp burst of jazz music drifted from the main lounge, making the dull ache in my temples throb. I had worked three double shifts at the garage this week just to afford the cake, and my body was running on fumes.

A group of Wall Street men in expensive suits walked toward me, their faces flushed with expensive liquor. I pressed my back against the silk-lined wallpaper, pulling the cake box closer to my chest, and let them pass.

I continued down the hall until I reached the heavy mahogany door marked VIP-3. I stopped. I took a deep breath, letting the air fill my tired lungs, trying to force a warm smile onto my face. Arleen had been so distant lately, her memory still fractured from the accident. The doctors said patience was key. I just wanted to see her smile.

I raised my knuckles to knock.

My hand stopped in mid-air. The door was not shut. It was cracked open about two inches.

The sharp clink of crystal glasses touching came from inside. I lowered my hand.

"How much longer are you going to keep up this pathetic amnesia act?"

The voice belonged to Jaquez Ross. It was low, thick with amusement.

My lungs forgot how to pull in air. My heart missed a beat, leaving a hollow vacuum in my chest. I held my breath and shifted my weight, leaning closer to the crack in the door. I peered into the dim light of the private room.

Arleen was sitting on the center of the leather sofa. She wore a silk slip dress that clung to her body. She did not look confused. She did not look like a woman recovering from trauma.