The brass door handle was cold against her sweaty palm. Isolde Mitchell stared at the heavy oak door of the private suite, her chest tight with a mixture of dread and reckless fury. The image of Clark's hands roaming over Kelsey Byrd's body in the back of his Mercedes flashed behind her eyelids. It burned away her hesitation. She pushed the handle down. The door clicked open.
The suite was dim, bathed only in the neon glow bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows. A tall silhouette stood facing the glass, the outline of his shoulders broad and unyielding. Isolde stepped inside, her heart hammering against her ribs. She pushed the door shut behind her, the lock engaging with a solid, final thunk.
She had paid for discretion. She needed a tool, a stranger who could erase Clark's touch from her skin without asking a single question.
"I think we both know why we're here," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "So let's... skip the boring preamble."
The silhouette turned. The city lights caught the sharp angle of his jaw, the straight line of his nose. His eyes were dark, piercing, locking onto her with an intensity that made the air in her lungs turn to ice. He didn't move to unbutton his shirt. He didn't look like a man who took orders.
He took a step forward. Then another. The sheer size of him filled her vision, erasing the rest of the room. Isolde's breath hitched. She took a step back, her spine hitting the door.
"Excuse me?" His voice was a low rumble, vibrating in the small space between them.
"I said..." Isolde swallowed, trying to regain control. "I paid for a service. I want you to start."
A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips. He closed the remaining distance, crowding her against the wood. His hand came up, his long fingers wrapping around her chin, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. His thumb brushed across her lower lip, the touch burning hot against her chilled skin.
"Do you even know what kind of fire you're playing with?" he asked, his voice dropping to a whisper that brushed against her cheek.
The scent hit her. Cedar. Smoke. A faint trace of leather. The world tilted sideways. The intoxicating, overwhelming aroma wrapped around her, suddenly triggering a suffocating sense of dread, as if touching a dark, terrifying switch buried deep within her mind. She gasped, her eyes flying wide. No. That was the past. This was now. This was her choice.
She grabbed the lapels of his suit jacket, her fingers digging into the expensive fabric. She pulled him closer, desperate to overwrite the old memory with a new reality, desperate to scrub Clark's betrayal off her skin.
Jacques Valdez looked down at her hands, then back at her face. His gaze drifted down, snagging on her collarbone. The silver bracelet resting there, the Mitchell family crest glinting in the low light. His pupils contracted. His body went rigid.
The shrill, piercing ringtone of a cell phone shattered the moment.
Isolde flinched, her head snapping toward her clutch bag on the side table. The screen glowed with a name: Clark.
Reality crashed back over her like a bucket of ice water. What was she doing? She shoved Jacques back with all her strength. He stepped back, caught off guard. Isolde stumbled away from the door, her hip catching the edge of the side table. A crystal whiskey glass wobbled, tipped, and shattered on the floor, amber liquid splashing across the hem of her dress.
"I'm sorry," she stammered, her voice cracking. "I have to go."
She grabbed her bag and ran. Her heels slipped on the thick carpet, but she didn't stop. She yanked the door open and fled into the hallway, the sound of her ragged breathing drowning out the persistent ringing of her phone.
She didn't look back. She couldn't.
Inside the suite, Jacques stood motionless. The smell of her perfume still hung in the air, mixing with the sharp tang of spilled whiskey. He looked down at the carpet. A silver bracelet lay there, its clasp broken. He bent down, his fingers closing around the cool metal. He rubbed his thumb over the engraved crest. The Mitchell crest. He had been looking for this for four years.
He slipped the bracelet into his inner jacket pocket, right against his heart. He walked to the door and pulled it open.
"Ken," he said to the large man standing in the hall.
His bodyguard stepped forward. "Sir?"
"Find out who that woman was. Now."
Isolde drove like a maniac, her hands shaking so badly the steering wheel vibrated. She glanced in the rearview mirror. Her makeup was smudged, her hair a mess. The thrill of revenge she had expected never came. Only a deep, gnawing fear. That man wasn't an escort. He was a predator. And she had just walked right into his den.
The gates of the Ruiz estate swung open. As she pulled up the long driveway, her stomach dropped. The main house was ablaze with light. Every window on the ground floor glowed. A shadow moved behind the curtains of the living room. Agnes Ruiz.
Isolde cut the engine and sat in the dark for a moment, trying to slow her racing heart. She had to pull herself together. She had to face whatever was waiting for her inside.
She walked through the front door and nearly collided with Linda McCoy. The older housekeeper balanced a tray with a steaming cup of tea, her eyes filled with pity.
"Mrs. Ruiz," Linda murmured, glancing toward the living room. "Your mother-in-law is waiting for you."
Isolde nodded, smoothing down her ruined dress. She pasted on a blank mask and walked into the living room.
Agnes Ruiz sat on the velvet sofa, her spine straight as a ruler. Beside her, arranged neatly on the coffee table, was a stack of pastel-colored baby blankets and a set of ivory feeding bottles. Isolde's steps faltered. A cold dread settled in her stomach.
"Sit down, Isolde." Agnes's voice was like dry leaves scraping against stone.
Isolde remained standing. "What is all this?"
Agnes took a delicate sip of her tea, her pinky finger extended. "It's time we addressed the elephant in the room, isn't it? Your father's company went under years ago. The Mitchell name is worthless now. And you..." Agnes set her cup down with a sharp clink. "You couldn't even give this family a proper heir."
"I gave you Bria," Isolde said, her nails digging into her palms.
Agnes scoffed, a cruel sound that made Isolde flinch. "A frail little girl who spends more time at the doctor than the playground. What can she do for the Ruiz family? She cannot carry on the legacy or continue our bloodline."
Isolde's stomach cramped. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying, Isolde, that since you are clearly incapable of performing your duties, Clark has found someone who can." Agnes smiled, a thin, venomous line. "Kelsey Byrd is pregnant. And she is carrying a boy."
The room spun. Isolde gripped the back of a chair to steady herself. Four years ago, she had given birth in agony, only to be told her son was dead. And now, Clark was parading his bastard child as the savior of the family line.
"She will not step foot in this house," Isolde said, her voice trembling with rage.
"She already has," Agnes countered, rising to her feet. She walked toward Isolde, her posture imposing. "Clark is bringing her here. To live. Under this roof. So the rightful heir can be born under the Ruiz banner."
"Over my dead body," Isolde spat. "I am his wife. As long as I am breathing, that woman will never cross that threshold."
Agnes laughed, a hollow, grating sound. "You foolish girl. You think you have a choice? If you don't accept this arrangement, Clark will divorce you. And with that ironclad prenup you signed, you will leave here with nothing. Worse, you will leave without Bria. We will take her, Isolde. And you will never see her again."
The threat hung in the air, suffocating. Isolde stared at the older woman, seeing the malice in her eyes, the absolute certainty that she would follow through. Isolde's nails broke the skin of her palms, the sharp pain the only thing keeping her grounded.
She turned on her heel and walked out of the room, slamming the heavy oak door behind her. She wasn't going to stand there and take it. She wasn't going to be a lamb waiting for the slaughter. She was getting out.
Isolde burst into her bedroom, her chest heaving. She ran to the closet and hauled her largest suitcase from the back, throwing it onto the bed. Her hands shook as she unzipped it, but her mind was crystal clear.
She moved to the connecting door and pushed it open. The nightlight cast a soft glow over Bria's sleeping form. Her daughter was curled up, clutching a stuffed rabbit, her breathing soft and even.
"I promise you," Isolde whispered, her throat tight. "I won't let them ruin you. I won't let you become one of them."
She went back to her room and started grabbing clothes from the hangers, not caring if they matched. She shoved them into the suitcase.
A soft knock at the bedroom door made her freeze. She grabbed the heavy brass lamp from the nightstand, her knuckles white around the base.
"Mrs. Ruiz?" Linda's muffled voice came through the wood. "It's me."
Isolde let out a breath and set the lamp down. She opened the door. Linda stood there, holding a mug of steaming milk. Her eyes were red-rimmed.
"I heard the argument," Linda said, stepping inside and closing the door. She set the milk down and began folding the clothes Isolde had crumpled. "Mr. Clark isn't coming home tonight. He's at the apartment in the city. This is your best chance."
Isolde stared at her. "Linda, I can't ask you to-"
"You're not asking." Linda reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a thick wad of bills. She pressed them into Isolde's hand. "It's my savings. Take it. You need cash right now."
Isolde's eyes burned. She squeezed the older woman's hand. "Thank you."
She went back into Bria's room and gently shook her daughter awake. "Hey, sweetie. We're going on an adventure."
Bria rubbed her eyes, her voice sleepy. "An adventure?"
"A big one. We have to be very quiet, okay? Like little mice."
Bria nodded, too tired to argue. Isolde scooped her up, grabbing the stuffed rabbit. They crept down the back stairs, avoiding the main hall. Linda walked ahead, peering around corners. When they reached the side door, Linda created a distraction, dropping a tray of glasses in the kitchen. The guard posted in the hall went to investigate.
Isolde slipped out into the night. She strapped Bria into her car seat, her fingers fumbling with the buckles. She jumped into the driver's seat and started the engine. The tires crunched over the gravel, but she didn't slow down. She hit the gas, and the car shot forward, through the gates, and away from the Ruiz estate.
She didn't breathe easy until the Manhattan skyline appeared in her rearview mirror. She pulled up outside a brick apartment building in the West Village. Vivian Fletcher was already standing by the entrance, her dark hair pulled back, her face tight with worry.
The moment Isolde stepped out, Vivian was there, pulling her and Bria into a fierce hug. "I got your text. Come inside."
Once Bria was tucked away on the spare bed, Isolde collapsed onto Vivian's sofa. The adrenaline faded, leaving her hollowed out. She told Vivian everything. The club. The man with the cedar scent. Agnes's ultimatum. Kelsey's pregnancy.
Vivian's face was a mask of fury. "You need to divorce him, Isolde. Today. Take him for everything he's worth."
Isolde shook her head, her eyes fixed on the floor. "I can't. The prenup... if I file, I walk away with nothing. And Clark will fight me for Bria. He'll use his lawyers, his money. He'll take her just to punish me."
"There has to be a way," Vivian insisted.
The next morning, Isolde dropped Bria off at her elite pre-K program on the Upper East Side. She had just walked back to her car when her phone rang. The screen displayed Clark's name.
She answered, bracing herself. "What do you want, Clark?"
"My office. Now." His voice was devoid of emotion. Cold. Calculating.
"I have nothing to say to you."
"Then listen." The line went quiet for a moment. "I know where you spent the night, Isolde. Vivian Fletcher's apartment on West Village. Second floor, facing the street. Want me to send someone over to say hello?"
A chill ran down her spine. He was watching her. He had been watching the whole time.
"I'll be there," she said, her voice hard.
The drive to Ruiz Architecture was a blur. Isolde parked in the garage and took the elevator to the top floor. She walked into Clark's corner office, the floor-to-ceiling windows offering a sweeping view of the city he thought he owned.
Clark was practicing his golf swing, a putter in his hand. He didn't look up.
"I want a divorce," Isolde said, her voice echoing in the large room.
Clark laughed, a short, ugly sound. He set the putter down and walked toward her. He reached out and grabbed her chin, his fingers digging into her skin. "You ran away like a scared little rabbit last night. How did it feel? Did you think you were actually escaping?"
"I'm not playing games, Clark. I'm leaving."
He dropped his hand, his smile fading. "You're not going anywhere. You're going to do exactly what I tell you." He walked over to his desk and picked up a thick folder. "The Valdez deal is falling apart. You're going to fix it."
Isolde stared at him in disbelief. "You want me to fix your business deal? I'm not your secretary."
"No, you're my wife. And tonight, you're going to attend a dinner at The Cortland Hotel. Jacques Valdez will be there. You're going to go in there, smile, pour his drinks, and do whatever it takes to make him sign that contract."
"I'm not whoring for you," Isolde spat, turning to leave.
"Are you sure about that?" Clark's voice stopped her cold. "Are you sure Bria is safe at that little school of hers?"
Isolde froze. She turned slowly, her blood turning to ice. "What did you do?"
"Nothing yet." Clark leaned against his desk, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "But it's a big city. Accidents happen. Little girls wander off. It would be a shame if something happened to that little bastard of yours."
"You're a monster," Isolde whispered, her hands curling into fists.
"I'm a businessman. And right now, my business needs Valdez's signature. So you will go to that dinner, and you will make him happy. Or you will never see Bria again." He pulled a black credit card from his wallet and tossed it onto the desk. "Buy something appropriate. Don't embarrass me."
Isolde stared at the card, then at Clark. She wanted to scream. She wanted to claw his eyes out. But all she could see was Bria's face. She snatched the card off the desk and walked out, the door slamming shut behind her.
Isolde stared at her reflection in the gilded mirror of the hotel restroom. The black dress she had bought was too tight, too low-cut. It felt like a costume. She smoothed down the fabric, her stomach churning. She splashed cold water on her wrists, trying to calm the frantic beating of her heart.
She walked out, her heels sinking into the plush carpet. She stopped in front of the private dining room. The maître d' pulled the heavy wooden door open for her.
The room was thick with cigar smoke. Four men sat around a large round table, their laughter dying down as she entered. The silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable.
A man with greasy hair and a cheap suit-Rudy Kowalski-was the first to move. He stood up, his eyes crawling over her body. "Well, well. Mrs. Ruiz. I have to say, Clark is a lucky man." He reached out and touched her bare arm. "Thanks for sacrificing your evening for us."
Isolde pulled her arm away, her skin crawling. "Where is the investor?"
Rudy grinned and pointed toward the head of the table. "Right there."
Isolde followed his finger. The man at the head of the table was sitting with his back to her, swirling a glass of amber liquid. As she watched, he slowly turned around.
The air left Isolde's lungs.
The sharp jaw. The dark, piercing eyes. The cedar scent that suddenly overpowered the smell of cigars. It was him. The man from the club. The man she had mistaken for an escort.
Rudy was oblivious to her shock. "Mr. Valdez, this is Isolde Ruiz. She's here to make sure we have a very enjoyable evening."
Jacques Valdez. The CEO of the Valdez Group. One of the most powerful men in the country. And she had tried to hire him for sex. The legendary Jacques Valdez was notoriously private, never giving interviews, his face never gracing the covers of financial magazines-only blurry, years-old silhouettes circulated online. She had never imagined she would meet him in the flesh, let alone in a dark hotel room.
Jacques didn't speak. He simply looked at her, his gaze unreadable. He leaned back in his chair, his long fingers tapping against the table. "Are you here to entertain us, Mrs. Ruiz?"
Isolde opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She thought of Bria. She thought of Clark's threat. She forced herself to nod.
Rudy took that as his cue. He grabbed a bottle of vodka from the table and poured a generous amount into a shot glass. "Let's start with a toast! Three shots to our new partnership!"
He shoved the glass toward her. Isolde looked at the clear liquid. She couldn't drink. She never drank. The smell alone made her head spin.
"Come on, don't be shy!" Rudy urged, his face flushed. He reached out as if to force the glass to her lips.
Isolde closed her eyes, bracing herself for the burn.
Click.
The sharp sound of a lighter snapping shut cut through the room. Isolde's eyes flew open. Jacques was holding a thick Cuban cigar, the flame just extinguished. He looked at Rudy, his expression flat.
"She's not drinking that." Jacques's voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of a command.
Rudy blinked. "But Mr. Valdez, it's just a little-"
"Come here." Jacques looked at Isolde, ignoring Rudy entirely. He held out a gold lighter. "Light this for me."
Isolde hesitated. The men around the table exchanged confused glances. But the look in Jacques's eyes left no room for argument. She walked around the table, her legs unsteady. She took the lighter from him.
She leaned in, striking the flame. It flickered to life, illuminating Jacques's face. He was close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his skin. His eyes locked onto hers, the flame reflecting in their dark depths.
"Nice to see you again, little liar." he murmured, his voice so low only she could hear.
Isolde's hand jerked. The lighter slipped, but Jacques caught it, his hand closing over hers. His grip was firm, his skin hot. He held her gaze for a long moment, then guided the flame to the tip of his cigar.
He took a slow drag, then exhaled a cloud of smoke directly into her face. Isolde coughed, stepping back. He released her hand, his eyes never leaving her face.
"You can go back to your corner now." he said, his voice returning to its normal volume.
Isolde retreated, her heart pounding against her ribs. Little liar. He knew. He knew she had lied at the club. And he was playing with her.
The dinner dragged on. Isolde sat in silence, picking at her food. Every time she looked up, Jacques was watching her. His gaze was heavy, assessing. It made her feel like a piece of meat on a slab.
Rudy, emboldened by the alcohol, tried to pour her another drink. Jacques interrupted him. "Mr. Kowalski, I believe the structural report for the Hudson project is incomplete. Explain the discrepancy in the load-bearing calculations."
Rudy paled, scrambling for his documents. Isolde took the opportunity to slip out of her chair.
"I need the restroom." she mumbled, not waiting for a response.
She fled the room, her heels clicking rapidly down the hallway. She needed air. She needed to think. She needed to figure out how she was going to get out of this nightmare.
