The CEO'S Fragile Bride

Fiona Greystone had never believed silence could wound until that night. Her apartment smelled of cinnamon candles and betrayal. She stood frozen in the doorway, her gift bag falling from her hand as Damon’s laugh carried from the bedroom low, intimate, wrong.

“Damon?” Her voice cracked.

A muffled gasp followed, then movement. Fiona pushed open the door and time fractured. Sheets tangled. Skin. Harper Quinn’s perfume in the air, her best friend.

“Fiona, wait” Damon stumbled up, shame flooding his face.

“Don’t,” she cut in, trembling. “Just don’t.”

Harper pulled the sheet to her chest, eyes wide with guilt. Fiona’s pulse roared in her ears. She wanted to scream, to demand answers, but all that came was a brittle laugh. “You could’ve at least changed the sheets first.”

Damon reached for her. “It meant nothing”

The slap cracked through the air. “It meant everything,” she whispered.

She walked out barefoot, mascara streaking, rain slicing the night as if the sky wept for her. Her car engine coughed to life, headlights slicing through wet streets. Her hands shook on the wheel, but her eyes were dry.

“No more tears,” she muttered to herself. “Never again.”

But even as she said it, her voice broke, and something in her heart unraveled completely.

The Velvet Lounge pulsed with low jazz and dim amber light. Fiona pushed through the door, the storm still clinging to her like perfume. She looked out of place among the silk dresses and tailored suits with damp hair, lipstick smudged, and soul cracked open.

The bartender gave her a sympathetic look. “Rough night?”

“Just keep them coming.”

He slid her a bourbon, no questions asked. She swallowed it in one gulp, grimacing. “Another.”

By her third, the room swayed. Men glanced her way, some with hunger, others with pity. She ignored them all until he appeared.

A tall man in a charcoal suit, posture regal, eyes cold and unreadable. He sat beside her without asking. The scent of cedar and smoke brushed against her senses.

“You look like you’re trying to forget something worth remembering,” he said quietly.

She turned, startled. “And you look like a man who thinks too much of himself.”

He smiled faintly. “Maybe. But I’m not wrong.”

She studied him, the sharp jawline, the watch that gleamed under the light. There was power in the way he spoke, danger wrapped in calm.

“Then buy me a drink,” she challenged.

He lifted a finger. The bartender nodded instantly.

As the glass slid between them, his gaze never wavered. It was the kind of stare that could undo a person if they weren’t careful.

Fiona took the drink, smirked, and whispered, “Careful, stranger. I bite.”

“Good,” he murmured. “So do I.”

They moved to a corner booth, away from the noise. The jazz had turned softer, almost mournful.

“So,” he said, studying her. “Who broke you?”

“Who says I’m broken?” she fired back.

He arched a brow. “You drink like a woman who’s bleeding inside.”

She looked