Married To My Toxic Ex-Boyfriend's Brother

Eleanore's fingernails dug so hard into her palms that the skin broke, but the sharp sting barely registered over the roaring in her ears.

She shoved past a group of laughing socialites in the Plaza Hotel ballroom, her vision blurring at the edges. The heat started in her stomach, a thick, unnatural warmth that was rapidly spreading outward, turning her blood into liquid fire. She stumbled, her heel catching on the thick carpet.

A waiter holding a tray of champagne stepped into her path. She violently swerved to avoid him, her shoulder colliding hard with a marble pillar.

Ten minutes. It had only been ten minutes since Johan handed her that sparkling water with his signature, possessive smile. The realization hit her like a physical blow to the chest.

"Eleanore!"

Johan's voice cut through the jazz music from across the room. It wasn't a call; it was a command.

Panic seized her throat, choking off her oxygen. She pushed through the heavy side doors, escaping the suffocating noise of the banquet and stumbling into the dimly lit VIP hallway. The cold air-conditioning hit her flushed skin, but it did nothing to stop the relentless burning inside her veins.

She reached the end of the corridor. A yellow maintenance sign blocked the elevator.

She spun around, her breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. She grabbed the brass handle of the nearest guest room door. Locked. She yanked the next one. Locked.

The sound of the ballroom doors opening echoed down the hall. Johan was coming.

She desperately twisted the brass handle of the presidential suite at the very end of the hall. To her shock, it wasn't fully engaged-perhaps a maid had just stepped out. She threw her weight against the heavy double doors, and the unlatched wood gave way. She practically fell inside, her knees hitting the thick, hand-woven wool rug. The heavy door clicked shut behind her, the automatic lock engaging with a solid thud.

She was trapped.

Eleanore stayed on her hands and knees, her chest heaving as she tried to pull air into her burning lungs. The room was dark, illuminated only by a single floor lamp in the corner.

Then, she heard the clink of ice against glass.

She jerked her head up. A massive silhouette sat in the center of the leather sofa.

Alexander Briggs set his whiskey glass down on the mahogany table. The sharp sound echoed in the quiet room. He leaned forward, the dim light catching the sharp, ruthless angles of his jaw. He looked down at her, his expression entirely unreadable.

Eleanore's stomach plummeted. She knew that face. It was plastered across the front page of the Wall Street Journal almost weekly. He was a corporate butcher.

She instinctively scrambled backward, but her limbs felt like lead. The drug was pulling her under.

Alexander stood up. He moved with the slow, deliberate grace of a predator. He crossed the room, his expensive leather shoes stopping mere inches from her trembling fingers.