Claimed By My Ex's Ruthless Brother

The moan came first.

A woman's breathless, rhythmic gasp, muffled by a door that was not quite closed. It was the unmistakable sound of a man and a woman fucking.

It stopped Giselle mid-step in the quiet, carpeted corridor of The Carlyle's top floor. Her keycard was still in her hand.

The Patek Philippe box-cool and heavy, a small, solid weight-turned to ice in her other palm.

That was her fiancé's room. Kenneth's room. And that was not her voice on the other side of the door.

Her smile, the one she'd worn all the way up the elevator, vanished. The air in her lungs crystallized into something sharp and jagged.

She had come to surprise him. A thank you, before the chaos of their engagement party tomorrow. The watch nestled inside its velvet cradle was meant to say everything she felt about the life they were about to build together. A life that felt, even minutes ago, as perfect as the timepiece itself.

She'd used her own keycard. She'd wanted to see his face.

Now her feet were silent on the thick carpet, pulling her toward the sound. Each step was a small, irreversible death.

The bedroom door was ajar. Just a few inches. An invitation to witness her own annihilation.

Through the crack, she saw them.

Kenneth. Her Kenneth. His body moved with a rhythm she recognized intimately-but over someone else. Someone writhing and gasping beneath him.

The woman had bleached blonde hair fanned across his pillows. Pillows Giselle had chosen. Sheets she had slept in.

Diandra Horne.

Her best friend.

Giselle set the gift box on the console table. Her movements were stiff. Robotic. A machine performing the last function of a life that was already over.

Diandra's moans grew louder. Each gasp was a physical blow, knocking the air from Giselle's lungs with methodical precision. She clamped a hand over her own mouth, her knuckles turning white against her skin.

Then she heard Kenneth's voice, rough and strained.

"Once I get the Aethelgard formula from her uncle, it's over. I'll break the engagement."

The nausea that had been rising vanished. Instantly. A cold so absolute it burned away the possibility of tears settled in its place. Her hand trembled as it dug into her purse for her phone. Her fingers were numb, fumbling with the screen.

Camera.

Video.

She raised the phone. The lens was a small, unblinking eye. The screen filled with their tangled bodies, the grotesque choreography of their betrayal.

"You promise?" Diandra's voice, dripping with a greed that was suddenly, grotesquely obvious. "And you have to get me that Birkin. The Himalayan one. As a reward."

Giselle's fingernails dug into her own palm. The sharp pain was an anchor. She held the phone steady, recording every word, every ugly expression on the face of the woman she once called sister.

The formula.

The words echoed in her head. Without her biological key, it was worthless. Her uncle had the data, but only she could unlock it. They were fighting over a ghost.

She pulled back.

Silently.

She backed out of the suite, pulling the door shut until it clicked. Sealing them inside.

Leaning against the cool wall of the hallway, her body slid down to the floor. The Patek Philippe box sat on the table inside, abandoned. She'd left it. She didn't care.

She didn't cry. Her eyes were wide, staring at the floral pattern of the carpet. An intricate design of roses and thorns. Her mind was a roaring blank.

After a moment, or maybe an hour, she pushed herself up. Her limbs felt heavy, disconnected. She walked toward the elevators.

Near the elevator bank, she saw a trash can. She took the gift box-the one for Kenneth, the one she'd carried up with such hope-and dropped it inside. The soft thud was the only sound that felt real.

She didn't go home.

She walked out into the New York night, hailed a cab, and gave the driver a name she'd only heard in whispers.

The Crimson Lounge.

In a dark corner booth, she ordered a Macallan 18, neat. The first sip was fire. She welcomed it. She ordered another. And another. The alcohol didn't numb the pain. It held it at a distance, sharp and clear.

A man in a shiny suit slid into her booth. He smelled of stale cigars.

"A pretty thing like you shouldn't be drinking alone," he slurred, his hand reaching for her knee.

Another hand, larger and faster, clamped around his wrist. The man froze, his eyes wide with pain.

A tall, broad-shouldered man stood beside their booth. His presence sucked the air from the space around him.

Giselle looked up. All she could see was a chiseled jaw and thin, unforgiving lips.

"Get lost," the newcomer said. The words were quiet. An executioner's sentence.

The man in the suit scrambled away.

A reckless impulse, born of whiskey and agony, seized Giselle. She reached out, her fingers tangling in the stranger's silk tie, and pulled him down.

"Doesn't matter who you are," she murmured, her voice husky. "You want to sleep with me?"

His dark eyes flickered. Surprise, then a deep, predatory amusement. He leaned in, his breath warm against her ear. He smelled of sandalwood.

His voice was a low rumble that vibrated through her.

"Do you have any idea who I am, future sister-in-law?"

The words didn't register. Only the pleasing timber of his voice. She surged upward and pressed her lips to his.

The kiss was clumsy, fierce. It tasted of whiskey and pain.

For a moment, he was still.

Then his hand came up to cup the back of her head, and he deepened the kiss, taking complete control.

He broke away, his eyes boring into hers. Without a word, he scooped her into his arms as if she weighed nothing. He carried her through the hushed lounge and up a private staircase.

The last thing she remembered was the clean, woodsy scent of his cologne and the world tilting as he lifted her from the ground.