Chapter 14
I must’ve drifted off sometime. The wine on my nightstand was still half full, silk robe knotted loosely at my waist, and that soft classical playlist Adrian left running played like a lullaby in the background. Rich girl insomnia, I guess. Too many thoughts and not enough patience.
The last thing I remember was watching the chandelier throw diamonds across the ceiling… and then-
A floorboard creaked.
Soft. Subtle. Almost apologetic.
But my instincts are sharper than they used to be. Trauma has a way of sharpening edges you never asked for. I didn’t open my eyes right away. I just listened.
Another step.
Whispers. Male voices. Low and gutter–slick.
“Go for the neck. Fast. No sound.”
Oh, hell no.
Before I could fully react, the bedroom door slammed open like a thunderclap. Luther’s voice cracked through the silence, hard and raw.
“Get the fuck away from her.”
I sat up instantly, my head still fuzzy but my pulse cold and focused.
What happened next was fast and brutal.
Luther tackled one of the masked bastards to the floor, fist slamming into jaw, knee twisting under his ribs. The second one lunged at him with a knife, but Luther spun, caught his arm mid–swing, and drove the guy face–first into my antique dresser.
Glass shattered. The wine hit the floor. My silk sheets got painted red–thankfully not my blood.
I stood, calmly tying my robe tighter like I was preparing for a spa, not a murder attempt. “You’re early,” I told the attackers, stepping around them as Luther wrestled the second guy into a chokehold. “The wedding’s not ‘til tomorrow.”
Luther had them both on the floor now, breathing like a damn storm–shirt half ripped, sweat at his temples, that protective rage in his eyes that made him look devastatingly sexy.
He yanked the curtain cords clean from the wall and started tying up their hands behind their backs. Then he ripped hotel belts from the closet to secure their ankles. No hesitation. No mercy.
“Talk,” he growled. “Who sent you?”
They didn’t speak.
Chapter 13
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So I crouched beside the one with the cleaner face–less blood, less broken teeth. And I smiled like a woman who owned every second of this nightmare. I held out my phone to him.
“Here,” I said sweetly. “Call your boss. Tell her I’m dead.”
He hesitated, blinking through the pain.
“I won’t ask twice,” I added, my voice slicing colder than the knives they brought.
He unlocked the phone with trembling fingers. Dialed. Put it on speaker.
It rang once. Twice.
Then–her voice.
“Is it done?”
Mrs. Cunningham. And in the background? Caroline, laughing about something, oblivious.
“Yeah,” the man croaked. “She’s… She’s dead.”
There was a pause.
Then her voice, flat and venom–laced:
“Good. Dump her in the sea. I don’t want that bitch anywhere near the wedding tomorrow.”
Click.
Silence.
I stood slowly. Smoothed the sleeves of my robe.
Then looked at Luther. His jaw tightened. Not a word from him. Just a loaded look. A shared rage between us that didn’t need explanation.
“Take them,” I said.
We dragged them into Luther’s suite next door. Gagged. Restrained. Locked in tight. One of them tried to spit at me. I kicked him in the chest so hard he slid back like a doll.
When we came back into my room, Luther checked every window, every lock, like he was ready to burn the whole resort down.
“I’m staying,” he said, wiping blood off his knuckles. “Don’t argue.”
I didn’t.
I just sat down on the bed, tucked one leg under the other, and watched him as he paced like a wolf on edge.
“Do you always sleep in silk and chaos?” he muttered, shooting me a half–smirk even though his eyes were still all fury.
I smiled back, lifting a brow. “Only when someone puts a hit on me at midnight. Keeps the skin young.”
He crossed the room, stopped in front of me, and looked down like he was trying to memorize something important.
“They tried to kill you,” he said, voice low.
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“I know.”
“They wanted you gone.”
“They should’ve brought more than two.”
He chuckled–just once–and sat beside me. Close. Protective. His arm brushed mine.
For a while, we didn’t speak.
Outside, the island wind howled like it knew what we were planning.
Inside? I lay down, finally letting my heart slow.
He didn’t move far. Just dragged the armchair closer to the bed, arms crossed, muscles still tense.
I didn’t stop him. Because tonight?
The real war had just begun.
Morning came like a slap.
Sun blazing through the glass. Waves crashing like drums. And somewhere below, the scent of salt, roses, and shameless betrayal filled the air like expensive perfume gone sour.
I stood on the balcony, sipping fresh champagne in a violet silk gown that clung to every curve like it was designed to start wars. My heels were tall enough to make the earth tremble. My hair? Pulled back in a sleek twist that screamed money and revenge.
Luther stood behind me, buttoning his crisp black suit. That man looked like he walked off the cover of a billionaire crime thriller. Sharp jaw. Calm fury. The kind of broad–shouldered danger that made bodyguards look like interns.
“You sure about this?” he asked, sliding on his Rolex.
I smiled into my glass. “What’s the worst that can happen? I get tackled in heels? Please. I’ve been through worse. They already tried to kill me last night.”
He walked over, kissed my bare shoulder once, then handed me the flash drive. “Don’t miss
your cue.”
“Never do.”
By the time we arrived at the seaside altar, everything was picture–perfect. Chairs lined up like soldiers. Flowers dripping in crystals. Guests dressed to kill–or at least to judge.
And there they were. Favio–looking like the groom from a fraudulent fairytale. Clean suit. Slick smile. Eyes empty as ever.
Caroline–in a white lace gown that probably cost more than my townhouse. She was radiant, smug, glowing with the kind of delusion that only cheaters and liars wear well. The priest cleared his throat. “If anyone here objects to this union, speak now or forever hold your peace-”
Clap Clap. Clap.
Slow, Loud. Measured like gunfire. Every head turned. I stepped onto the aisle, heels
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striking against marble like a countdown. Violet silk hugging me like revenge itself. A fres glass of champagne in hand,
“Sorry I’m late,” I said casually, strolling past gasping socialites and horrified uncles, “Go held up… by your hitmen,”
Gasps.
