Shattered Vows: Falling For His Worst Enemy

The thick Persian carpet in the second-floor hallway of the St. Regis Hotel swallowed the sound of Christen's stilettos. She kept her gaze on the brass signs, looking for the women's restroom, her breathing slow and even.

She passed a secluded VIP lounge. The heavy oak door was left slightly ajar.

A muffled, breathless moan slipped through the crack.

Christen's footsteps stopped instantly. Her stomach dropped, a cold weight settling in her pelvis. She held her breath, her body moving toward the narrow sliver of light before her brain could stop her.

The dim wall sconces from the hallway cast a thin beam into the room, illuminating a pile of fabric discarded on the floor. It was a custom burgundy silk gown.

Christen's pupils dilated. Her lungs forgot how to expand. It was the exact dress her best friend, Kaelynn Hudson, was wearing tonight.

Her eyes moved upward, following the trail of clothes to the leather sofa. Two silhouettes were tangled together. The man's arm was braced against the backrest. The dim light caught the cold, metallic gleam of a limited-edition Rolex on his wrist.

It was the watch she had given her husband, Brendon Jimenez, for their third wedding anniversary.

Her heart slammed against her ribs, a physical blow that left her dizzy.

Brendon's voice, low and thick with desire, drifted out. He was whispering things to Kaelynn. Things he used to whisper to her.

Bile rose in Christen's throat. The acid burned her esophagus. She slapped both hands over her mouth, pressing hard enough to bruise her lips, trapping the scream that clawed at her throat.

She stumbled backward. Her shoulder blades hit the cold, hard wall of the corridor. She gasped for air, her chest heaving, but she didn't push the door open. She didn't demand answers.

She turned and ran.

She fled down the grand staircase, bursting into the noisy VIP bar area on the first floor. The heavy bass of the music vibrated in her chest, but it wasn't loud enough to drown out the images burned into her retinas.

She collapsed onto an empty stool at the bar. Her hands shook so violently she had to grip the edge of the counter.

"Dry martini. The strongest you have," she told the bartender, her voice cracking.

When the glass arrived, she threw her head back and swallowed the clear liquid in one gulp. The alcohol burned a fiery path down her throat, settling hot and heavy in her stomach. It numbed the trembling in her fingers.

The crushing grief morphed into something else. Something hot and jagged. Anger.

A bitter smile twisted her lips. She turned on her stool, her vision slightly blurred from the sudden rush of alcohol, and scanned the room.

Her eyes locked onto a man sitting in a dark corner booth.

He was broad-shouldered, dressed in a sharply tailored charcoal suit that screamed old money. He radiated a cold, oppressive energy. Through her alcohol-laced haze, Christen registered him as just another