His hands were everywhere.
One hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head back. The other gripped her thigh, his fingers digging into the soft flesh.
He kissed her like he wanted to devour her. It was angry and desperate. It was the clash of two people who hated the world and each other, finding the only common ground in the friction of skin.
She ground down against him.
A low groan vibrated in his throat.
The wheelchair shifted. They tilted dangerously.
"Not here," he growled against her mouth.
He gripped her waist and lifted her. Even without his legs, his upper body strength was terrifying. He tossed her onto the leather sofa nearby.
He wheeled himself closer, his eyes predatory.
The room spun.
The sudden movement was a mistake. The vodka in her stomach sloshed violently.
The heat turned to nausea in a split second.
"Wait," she gasped.
She put a hand over her mouth.
Augustine reached for her. "Aislinn?"
She lurched forward.
She vomited.
All over his pristine tuxedo trousers. All over the expensive rug.
The smell of bile and alcohol filled the air, instantly killing the mood.
Augustine froze. He looked down at his lap. His face went blank with shock, then twisted into a mask of pure disgust.
"Jesus Christ."
She groaned and flopped back onto the cushions. The room was spinning faster now.
"Get Marta," he barked at the air. He wheeled himself backward, away from the mess, away from her.
She closed her eyes. And passed out.
She woke up to a throbbing headache and a dry mouth.
The penthouse was silent. The digital clock on the wall said 3:00 AM.
She sat up. She was still on the sofa, but someone had thrown a blanket over her. The mess on the floor was gone.
She remembered. The kiss. The vomit.
Shame washed over her, hot and prickly.
But underneath the shame, clarity returned.
Augustine was probably in the shower, or burning his clothes. The guards were likely on the perimeter, assuming she was out cold for the night.
This was it.
She crept to the kitchen, her movements silent. Her art appraisal work had taught her to observe details others missed. She'd noticed the sweep pattern of a security camera in the hall earlier, a four-second blind spot near the service corridor. She'd also seen where Marta placed her keycard-an older model, likely with less security clearance-in a bowl by the fruit basket.
She found it.
She also found a spare uniform in the laundry room off the kitchen. She changed out of the ruined Valentino dress.
She took the service elevator down. Her heart hammered against her ribs with every floor that passed. She timed her exit from the elevator to coincide with the camera's blind spot.
Ding.
The basement. Loading dock.
The night guard was in his booth, but his back was turned, focused on a small television. She needed a diversion. She spotted a stack of empty metal trays. With a flick of her wrist, she sent one clattering to the concrete floor a good twenty feet away from the exit.
The guard jumped, startled, and moved toward the sound.
She was out.
She hailed a cab on 5th Avenue.
"Where to?" the driver asked.
She didn't say the police station. The police were bought.
"The Plaza Hotel," she said.
The party would still be going. These galas went until dawn.
She had to know. She had to look Grant in the eye and hear him say it.
She got into the Plaza through the catering entrance, blending in with a group of servers taking a smoke break. She grabbed a tray of empty champagne flutes from a rack.
She walked into the ballroom.
It was a sea of diamonds and tuxedos.
And there they were. On the stage. Grant was holding a microphone, toasting the crowd. Yvonne was beaming by his side.
"...and to new beginnings," Grant was saying. "To finding true partners."
The crowd applauded.
She dropped the tray.
Smash.
The sound of breaking crystal cut through the applause like a gunshot.
Silence rippled through the room. Heads turned.
She walked toward the stage. Her maid's uniform was ill-fitting, her hair was a mess, but she didn't care.
"Grant!" she shouted.
Grant froze. His face went pale.
"Aislinn?" he whispered into the mic.
"You coward," she said, climbing the stairs to the stage. "You stole my life. You stole my dress."
She stood in front of Yvonne. She looked terrified.
"And you," she said. "You sister-stealing leech."
She pulled her hand back.
Slap.
She hit her with everything she had. The sound was amplified by the microphone Grant was still holding.
"That," she said, her voice shaking, "was for my father."
