The Rolls-Royce descended into the private, subterranean parking garage of a towering glass high-rise in Tribeca. The car slid smoothly into a designated spot flanked by concrete pillars.
Darrien was out of the passenger seat before the engine fully cut off, pulling open the rear door.
Chloe pulled Carlisle's suit jacket tighter around her shoulders. She stepped out of the car, her bare feet hitting the polished epoxy floor. The cold seeped up through her soles, making her curl her toes. She felt entirely out of place, a ruined runaway bride standing in a billionaire's fortress.
Carlisle walked past her without a word. He approached a set of brushed steel elevator doors and pressed his thumb against a biometric scanner. A green light flashed, and the doors parted silently.
He stepped in and looked back at her. Chloe hurried inside, favoring her uninjured foot.
The elevator shot upward with terrifying speed. The sudden change in pressure made Chloe's stomach drop. She closed her eyes and pressed her lips together, fighting a wave of nausea.
Carlisle watched her from the corner of his eye. He reached out and tapped a button on the panel. The elevator's ascent smoothed out, the aggressive acceleration dropping to a gentle glide.
The doors opened directly into the penthouse.
Chloe stepped out and stopped dead. The space was massive, defined by cold concrete pillars, dark hardwood floors, and floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a dizzying, panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline. There was no warmth here, no personal touches. It looked less like a home and more like a high-altitude command center.
An older man in a pristine suit appeared from the hallway.
"Prepare the guest suite," Carlisle told the butler, his tone clipped. "And have a set of clean women's clothing brought up immediately."
The butler's eyes flicked to Chloe for a fraction of a second, registering the blood and the torn dress, but his expression remained perfectly neutral. "Right away, Mr. Holder."
Carlisle pointed down the hall. "Go shower. Wash the dirt off."
Chloe nodded, too exhausted to argue. She limped down the hall and entered the guest suite. The bathroom was a masterpiece of black marble and chrome. She stripped off the heavy, ruined wedding dress, letting it fall to the floor in a wet heap. She stepped into the massive glass shower and turned the water as hot as she could stand it.
She scrubbed her skin until it turned red, trying to wash away the feeling of Sean's hands and the panic of the alley.
When she stepped out and dried off, she checked the bedroom. The clothes the butler was supposed to bring hadn't arrived yet. She opened the heavy oak closet doors. It was empty except for a few dry-cleaning bags containing men's dress shirts.
Having no other option, she tore the plastic off a crisp white button-down shirt and put it on. The hem fell to her mid-thigh, the sleeves hanging past her fingertips. She rolled the cuffs up and stepped out of the room, rubbing her wet hair with a towel.
The sound of the front door opening made her stop in the hallway.
A man carrying a leather medical bag strode into the living room. Gus Lloyd, Carlisle's private physician.
Gus stopped in his tracks when he saw Chloe standing in the hallway wearing nothing but his boss's shirt. His jaw practically hit the floor.
Gus spun around and grabbed Carlisle by the arm, dragging him toward the wet bar.
"Are you out of your mind?" Gus hissed, keeping his voice low but failing to hide his panic. "Do you know who that is? That's Chloe Sinclair. The whole city is talking about her sex scandal. She's a walking PR disaster!"
Chloe froze in the shadows of the hallway. Her fingers tightened around the towel.
"She is a laughingstock, Carlisle," Gus continued, his voice dripping with disdain. "If the board finds out you brought that mess into your home, it will tank the stock price. Throw her out."
Carlisle stood at the bar, pouring a glass of amber whiskey. He didn't look at Gus. He slowly raised the glass to his lips and took a sip. Then, he set the glass down with a sharp, heavy clack against the marble counter.
He turned his head. His eyes were dead, devoid of any human warmth.
"Watch your mouth, Gus," Carlisle said softly. The quietness of his voice made it infinitely more terrifying. "Who I bring into my home is none of your concern. Do not ever tell me what to do again."
Gus swallowed hard. The color drained from his face. He recognized the look in Carlisle's eyes-it was the look he got right before he dismantled a rival company and ruined hundreds of lives.
Gus nodded tightly, set a bottle of antibiotics on the counter, and practically ran for the elevator.
Chloe leaned her head against the wall and closed her eyes. Shame burned in her chest like acid. Gus was right. She was a worthless piece of trash. She was the woman who had become a synonym for scandal. And now, she stood in a billionaire’s penthouse, wearing his shirt, while his doctor called her a joke.
Carlisle picked up the medicine bottle and walked toward the Chloe. He saw her standing there—against the wall. His shirt covered her delicate figure, and her wet hair clung to her cheeks. His gaze lingered on her bare legs for less than a microsecond, before quickly returning to her eyes.
He handed over the medicine bottle. “Take this. Go to bed.”
Chloe took the medicine bottle, her fingers briefly touching his. His skin was warm. “I’m sorry for bringing my troubles here,” she said softly.
Carlisle said nothing. He simply turned around and walked away.
Hours later, the storm outside intensified. Thunder rattled the massive windows.
Chloe tossed and turned in the massive bed. The exhaustion had dragged her into sleep, but her mind dragged her right back to the nightmare. She was back at the party. The room was spinning. Hands were grabbing at her clothes. The cameras were flashing.
She thrashed against the silk sheets, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps. Cold sweat coated her forehead.
In the study down the hall, Carlisle sat at his desk, reviewing contracts. He heard the muffled sounds of distress. He dropped his pen, walked down the hall, and pushed the guest room door open.
He stepped toward the bed, reaching out to shake her shoulder to wake her from the terror.
"Cicero..." Chloe sobbed in her sleep, her voice broken and desperate. "Cicero, save me..."
Carlisle's hand stopped an inch from her skin.
The air in the room seemed to freeze. Carlisle slowly pulled his hand back. He curled his fingers inward until they formed a tight fist. He grabbed the thick wooden edge of the nightstand. His knuckles turned bone-white. The muscles in his jaw locked so tight a faint popping sound echoed in the quiet room.
A dark, suffocating wave of jealousy crashed over him, burning hot in his chest. He stood there in the dark, staring down at her, consumed by the fact that even in her darkest moment, she was calling out for another man.
