From Cliffside Betrayal to Unbreakable Love

ntic clifftop picnic. He poured me a glass of champagne, his smile

o my back. The world dissolved into a blur of sk

n time to hear his voice above. He wa

. gone?"

e could survive that. By the time they find the body, it'll look like a

t. He had already written my obituary, crafting the narr

e, but then something else igni

epped out of a luxury car. It wasn't Mark. It was Julian Thorne, my husband's m

pte

loded behind my eyes. The second was the smell of wet earth and crushed pine needles, a scent so thi

. Above me, through a tangle of dark branches, the sky was a bruised purple, churning with storm clouds. The world was a symphony

ard voices

as female, laced with a cloying swe

void of the warmth he had faked for five years. It was the voice of a man d

ea that made my head swim. The sudden, brutal shove from behind. The sickening sensation of fal

his. He p

oked gasp escaped my lips. My throat felt raw

oe whined. "Someone

"She's as good as dead. By the time they find the body, it'll look like

the ground. He had already written my obituary, crafted the narrative of my de

of a car engine starting, and then the crunch of tires driving awa

the rain wash over me, a broken doll discarded in the woods. But then, a spark of something else ignited in the cold darkne

through my body, but the rage was a stronger fuel. I crawled through the thick underbrush, sharp twigs and stones tearing at

oden bird, intricately carved, its surface smooth and strangely pristine despite the mud. It felt solid and real in my pal

iver wracked my body. Hypothermia was setting in. I was losing the battle. My vision began to tunnel, the edges turning gr

top on the winding road just beyond the treeline. My heart hammered agains

ms. He moved with an unnerving grace, an apex predator annoyed by an obstacle in his path. He

yes the color of storm clouds. I knew that face. I had seen it in magazines, on financial news channels, in the furious glares Mar

a mask of cold disdain. There was n

"Well, well. Clara Vance. Looks like your

his expression didn't soften. He looked as if he was enjoying the sight.

sessed, I lunged, my fingers closing around the fine leather of his expensive s

down at my hand as

om my throat. My eyes, wide with terror

d there, caught between his deep-seated hatred for my husband and the horrifying, bleeding evidence of a crime right