Chapter 2

The replacement dress was a nightmare. It was a simple, off-the-rack navy blue sheath that Isabella had clearly brought for herself as a backup. The fabric was a cheap polyester blend that felt scratchy against my skin, a stark contrast to the smooth silk I had been wearing. It was too tight in the shoulders and too loose at the waist, a sartorial insult that perfectly mirrored my emotional state. I felt like an imposter in my own life.

Staring at my reflection in the suite's ornate mirror, I saw a stranger. The woman from an hour ago-radiant, confident, in love-was gone. In her place was this pale, diminished version, her eyes shadowed with a hurt so profound it felt like a physical ache in my chest.

*Get a grip, Clara,* I chided my reflection, my voice a harsh whisper in the silent room. *You're being overly sensitive. It was an accident. Mark was just stressed, trying to protect his sister. You can fix this.*

The desperate need to believe in the dream was a powerful force. I had staked everything on this engagement, on them. To admit it was a sham was to admit my own foolishness, my own blindness. I couldn't face that. Not yet.

Determined to salvage what was left of the evening, I decided to find them. I would apologize for being emotional, smooth things over, and we would walk onto that stage together, a united front. I would force the smile back onto my face and play my part.

I left the suite and made my way through the hushed, carpeted hallways of the hotel's private wing. The distant sound of the party, the muffled music and laughter, felt like it was coming from another planet. As I neared the end of the corridor, I heard their voices drifting from a slightly ajar door-the hotel's library, a secluded study often used for private meetings.

Mark's voice was sharp and clear. "-can't believe she almost made a scene over a spilled drink. So dramatic."

I froze, my hand hovering over the doorknob. My heart began to pound, a slow, heavy drumbeat of dread.

"She's always been naive," Alex's voice replied, laced with a weary contempt that cut me to the bone. "It's what makes her so easy to manage. But honestly, I'll be glad when this is all over and we can drop the act."

The air in my lungs turned to ice. *Drop the act?*

Then, I heard Isabella's voice, no longer soft and fragile, but sharp and triumphant. "Did you see her face? She looked like a pathetic, drowned rat. It was perfect. That cream dress was far too beautiful for her anyway."

"It was a masterstroke, Izzy," Mark said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. It was a cruel, chilling sound. "But the real prize is her company's shipping contracts. Once we have control of those through the marriage merger, her family's board will be irrelevant. We'll absorb the entire operation within a year."

My stomach twisted into a knot of pure sickness. I pressed my ear to the door, my body trembling. I needed to hear it all. I needed the poison to be pure.

"And what about her?" Isabella asked, a coy, possessive note in her tone. "What will you do with your little bride then, Mark?"

There was a pause, a silence that stretched for an eternity. Then Mark laughed, a low, intimate chuckle that was utterly devoid of warmth.

"Clara? She'll be a well-kept wife with a generous allowance, locked away in a big house where she can't cause any trouble. My dear sister, you know you're the only one I've ever truly cared about. My affection, my real affection, has always been for you."

The words hit me with the force of a physical blow. The world tilted on its axis, the plush carpet seeming to fall away beneath my feet. The air was thick and unbreathable. The entire relationship, every shared laugh, every whispered promise, every tender touch-it was all a lie. A meticulously crafted performance designed to secure my family's assets. I wasn't a partner; I was a target. A naive fool to be mocked and manipulated.

The sound of their laughter, a shared, conspiratorial sound, was the final nail in the coffin of my heart.

I couldn't breathe. I stumbled back from the door, my hand clamped over my mouth to stifle a sob. I had to get away. I turned and ran, blindly, my vision blurred by a hot, stinging flood of tears. I didn't know where I was going, only that I had to escape the sound of their voices, the crushing weight of their betrayal.

I burst out of the private wing and into a quieter, deserted corridor, my cheap heels slipping on the polished marble floor. I collided with something solid, a wall of dark wool and unyielding muscle.

"Oof!" The air rushed out of me as I fell backward.

A strong hand shot out, grabbing my arm, steadying me before I could hit the ground. My purse clattered to the floor, its contents spilling across the marble-my lipstick, my keys, and a small, silver locket.

I looked up into the cold, slate-grey eyes of Julian Thorne.

He looked down at me, his face impassive. He seemed to take in my dishevelled state, the ugly dress, the raw devastation on my face, all in a single, sweeping glance. He then bent down, his movements economical and precise, and picked up the items that had scattered. He paused when his fingers closed around the silver locket.

He straightened up, holding it in his palm. He didn't hand it back immediately. Instead, his thumb brushed across the surface, and the locket sprang open, revealing the tiny, faded photograph inside: a picture of my late mother, her smile warm and genuine.

His gaze lifted from the photograph to my tear-streaked face, and for a moment, I saw a flicker of something in his eyes. Not pity. Something harder. Recognition, perhaps.

He snapped the locket shut, the click echoing in the silent hallway. He held it out to me, his expression as cold and remote as ever.

"Sentiment is a liability," he stated, his voice a low, resonant baritone. It wasn't an observation; it was a verdict. "The only thing they can't take from you is power."

He placed the locket into my trembling palm, his fingers brushing against mine for a brief, electric moment. The warmth of his skin was a shocking contrast to the ice filling my veins.

He didn't offer comfort. He didn't ask if I was okay. He simply stated a brutal truth, a truth that resonated with the ugly reality I had just been forced to confront. The false sentiment I had escaped, the cloying lies of Mark and Alex, were worthless. Power was the only currency that mattered in their world.

And in that moment, I had never felt more powerless.