Shattered Vows: Falling For His Worst Enemy

The thick Persian carpet in the second-floor hallway of the St. Regis Hotel swallowed the sound of Christen's stilettos. She kept her gaze on the brass signs, looking for the women's restroom, her breathing slow and even. She passed a secluded VIP lounge. The heavy oak door was left slightly ajar. A muffled, breathless moan slipped through the crack. Christen's footsteps stopped instantly. Her stomach dropped, a cold weight settling in her pelvis. She held her breath, her body moving toward the narrow sliver of light before her brain could stop her. The dim wall sconces from the hallway cast a thin beam into the room, illuminating a pile of fabric discarded on the floor. It was a custom burgundy silk gown. Christen's pupils dilated. Her lungs forgot how to expand. It was the exact dress her best friend, Kaelynn Hudson, was wearing tonight. Her eyes moved upward, following the trail of clothes to the leather sofa. Two silhouettes were tangled together. The man's arm was braced against the backrest. The dim light caught the cold, metallic gleam of a limited-edition Rolex on his wrist. It was the watch she had given her husband, Brendon Jimenez, for their third wedding anniversary. Her heart slammed against her ribs, a physical blow that left her dizzy. Brendon's voice, low and thick with desire, drifted out. He was whispering things to Kaelynn. Things he used to whisper to her. Bile rose in Christen's throat. The acid burned her esophagus. She slapped both hands over her mouth, pressing hard enough to bruise her lips, trapping the scream that clawed at her throat. She stumbled backward. Her shoulder blades hit the cold, hard wall of the corridor. She gasped for air, her chest heaving, but she didn't push the door open. She didn't demand answers. She turned and ran. She fled down the grand staircase, bursting into the noisy VIP bar area on the first floor. The heavy bass of the music vibrated in her chest, but it wasn't loud enough to drown out the images burned into her retinas. She collapsed onto an empty stool at the bar. Her hands shook so violently she had to grip the edge of the counter. "Dry martini. The strongest you have," she told the bartender, her voice cracking. When the glass arrived, she threw her head back and swallowed the clear liquid in one gulp. The alcohol burned a fiery path down her throat, settling hot and heavy in her stomach. It numbed the trembling in her fingers. The crushing grief morphed into something else. Something hot and jagged. Anger. A bitter smile twisted her lips. She turned on her stool, her vision slightly blurred from the sudden rush of alcohol, and scanned the room. Her eyes locked onto a man sitting in a dark corner booth. He was broad-shouldered, dressed in a sharply tailored charcoal suit that screamed old money. He radiated a cold, oppressive energy. Through her alcohol-laced haze, Christen registered him as just another arrogant Wall Street shark looking for a distraction. A reckless, destructive idea formed in her mind. She wanted to tear Brendon's world apart the exact same way he had just torn hers. She ordered a second drink, grabbed the glass, and pushed herself off the stool. She walked straight toward the dark booth. Before she could reach the table, two massive bodyguards in black suits stepped out of the shadows, forming a solid wall in front of her. The man in the booth slowly raised his eyes. His gaze cut through the cigar smoke, landing on her flushed cheeks. He didn't speak. He just raised a single finger. The bodyguards stepped back, melting into the darkness. Christen slid into the empty space next to him on the leather bench. She was close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. Close enough to smell the sharp, clean scent of cedar and expensive tobacco. She leaned in, her movements slightly clumsy but fueled by pure defiance. She didn't offer a blatant invitation; instead, she tilted her chin up, her eyes locking onto his with a reckless glint. "Buy me a drink?" she asked, her voice trembling just enough to betray her bravado. "You look infinitely more interesting than my husband." The man didn't pull away. Instead, a low, dark chuckle vibrated in his chest. It was a sound dripping with pure mockery. Before she could react, his long fingers shot out and clamped around her jaw. His grip was like a vice. He forced her head up, making her look directly into his eyes. "Christen Craft," he said. Her breath hitched. His voice was ice. He didn't just say her name; he stripped away her pathetic attempt at seduction in two words. The alcohol evaporated from her bloodstream. Her vision snapped into sharp focus. She stared at the sharp angles of his face, the ruthless line of his jaw, the dead-calm eyes. Panic seized her throat. This wasn't a random stranger. It was Kile Barrett. The tech and venture capital titan. The one man her husband feared more than anyone else in New York.