Stealing The Groom For Sweet Revenge

The cold marble of the vanity bit into Elizabeth's gripping fingers. She leaned heavily against the sink in the top-floor restroom of the Plaza Hotel. Her lungs pulled in shallow, ragged breaths. A foreign, suffocating heat crawled up her spine, pooling in her stomach and setting her nerve endings on fire.

She forced her heavy eyelids up. The woman in the mirror had flushed cheeks and dilated pupils. The champagne Meredith handed her ten minutes ago. It was laced.

Outside the heavy oak door, a hushed giggle echoed. Jami's voice.

"Yes, room 402. Give it five minutes. She won't be able to fight back."

Elizabeth's jaw ticked. A cold, deadpan smile stretched across her lips. She reached out with trembling hands and twisted the brass faucet. Ice-cold water rushed out. She cupped her hands and splashed it directly into her face.

The freezing temperature shocked her system, buying her a fraction of clarity. Drops of water slid down her chin, soaking into the neckline of her silk evening gown. Her mind remained sharp, fueled by a spike of adrenaline that cut right through the physical fever. Calling 911 meant a scandal, a blood test, and the Cantu family burying the evidence before the police even arrived.

She needed a shield. A weapon.

Her mind flashed to the rehearsal dinner downstairs. The man sitting in the darkest corner of the room, swirling his whiskey, watching the Cantu family with a look of absolute, bored disdain. Dorian Underwood. Her fiancé's cousin. The only man the Cantu family actually feared.

Elizabeth ripped a thick paper towel from the dispenser. She scrubbed the water from her face, her eyes hardening into sharp glass.

She pushed the restroom door open. The hallway was empty. The thick wool carpet swallowed the sound of her heels. She kept her back straight, hugging the wall to avoid the blind spots of the security cameras.

With every step, the burning in her veins flared hotter. Her skin felt like it was melting off her bones, the physical symptoms escalating, but her focus narrowed with deadly precision. She dragged her hand along the silk wallpaper to keep herself upright.

She reached the carved double doors at the end of the corridor. The presidential suite. She pulled in a sharp breath, raised her fist, and knocked.

Silence.

Her chest he heave. She hit the wood twice more, her knuckles aching.

The lock clicked. The heavy door swung inward. A wave of cool air, carrying the sharp scent of mint and rich cigar smoke, washed over her.

Dorian stood in the doorway. He wore a loosely tied black robe. His dark hair was messy, and his deep-set eyes narrowed with clear annoyance at the interruption.

His gaze dropped to her. It stalled on her flushed chest, the erratic pulse at her throat, and the glassy sheen in her eyes.

Elizabeth didn't wait for an invitation. She stepped forward, letting her knees buckle just enough so her weight crashed into his solid chest.