Betrayed Bride, Ruthless Tycoon, Real Love

e my fiancé, Mark, had promised me. The ballroom glittered, fille

trance, I overheard him tal

llowed every lie. This sham of an engagement se

y to find them locked in a

ked at me, h

you really think I could ever l

h Mark, the man who had just destroyed my life. A text message confirme

Julian Thorne. A ruthless corporat

d, calculating eyes and revealed a shocking secret. My

e my revenge. In return, I had to sign

pte

contrast to the warmth blooming in my chest. Tonight was su

g faces. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and white roses, my fav

piece, the color of a summer sky at dusk, and it had cost a fortune. Mark had insisted. "Nothing is too good for my future wife

nized the smooth, confident cadence of my fiancé, Mark Sterling, and the lighter, sharper tones of his

aching for the heavy oak door, w

hook, line, and sinker." His voice was laced with a cruel amus

ing about me.* It had to be a joke, s

oted fiancé act? The endless talk about your 'perfect Clara'? You deserve an award. Did you see

my skin clammy. The heirloom ring on my

the corridor, my breath catching in my throat. The scent o

signed. Her father's company, all its assets, everything her family built... it'

ble floor. The sound was deafening in the sudden silence of my world. T

his isn't

ng the shock. I shoved the study door open with a force t

with his sister. He had Isabella pressed against a large mahogany desk, his hands tangled in her hai

image was burned into my mind. The sight of

hifting from momentary shock to a cold, reptilian smirk. There

s gaze sweeping over my carefully chosen gown, my tear-filled eyes, my trembling hands, as if I were something distast

to a million pieces. Pathetic. Naive. A tool to be used and discarded. The m

ed. I ran from the study, past the blurred, questioning faces at the ballroom entrance, past the glittering li

The carefully styled curls in my hair collapsed, sending streams of water and mascara down my face. I didn't care. I just ran, blindly, my

car that materialized out of the deluge. Tires screeched against the wet asphalt, the sound a ra

trapped bird. My entire body trembled, not from the cold

a dashboard light. His face was all sharp angles and shadows, his jaw tight, his eyes a piercing, glacial blue. It was Julian Thorne. The Julian Thorne. A man

he street like a drowned rat. His expressi

voice a low, chilling rumble that

on the antique silver locket resting against my collarbone, a final gift from my late mother. For a split second, the disdain

slide up, sealing him away in his world of power an