Clara hit the bed hard, bouncing on the soft mattress. Before she could push up, a heavy shadow crashed down, pinning her completely.

She opened her mouth to scream. Hot, ragged lips crushed hers, swallowing the sound.

She thrashed wildly. Her hands clawed in the dark. Her nails scraped across a broad back and met sticky, wet warmth. Blood.

The man grunted, low and rough. The pain only drove him wilder. He grabbed both her wrists with one hand and pinned them above her head. His strength was terrifying. He moved on pure, mindless instinct.

Clara realized his skin burned against hers. He had been heavily drugged.

He ripped her trench coat open. His burning mouth trailed down her neck. Clara twisted, tears sliding into her hair.

"Let me go... please..." she sobbed against his skin when he paused to breathe.

The drug had stolen his mind.

Fabric tore. He ripped her underwear away. A sharp, searing pain tore through her. She arched up and sank her teeth into his shoulder.

His muscles locked. His throat worked against her skin. A deep growl rumbled from his chest, and he took her with even more brutal force.

Time blurred. Pain swallowed everything. The scent of cedarwood and blood seared itself into her memory.

Eventually, the violent movements stopped. The heavy body collapsed on her. His breathing evened out. He had passed out.

Ignoring the pain stabbing through her bones, Clara slid out from under him, terrified of making a sound.

She crawled on the floor, searching for her clothes. Her fingers hit something sharp. She hissed as it sliced her fingertip open.

In her panic, her platinum bracelet caught on the metal carving of the bed frame. She yanked free. The clasp snapped. The bracelet vanished into the thick carpet.

Voices sounded in the hallway. Security checking the breakers. The power would return any second.

Clara grabbed her trench coat, wrapped it around her naked, bruised body, and ran out barefoot.

She sprinted down the hall. The moment she crashed through the fire door, the lights blazed back on. The sudden brightness stung her eyes.

She leaned against the stairwell wall. She stared at her arms, the bruises and dark marks scattered across her skin. Hot tears spilled over her cheeks.

She forced herself upright. Dragging her heavy legs, she climbed back to the presidential suite. Every step was a reminder of the two hells she had survived tonight.

The suite was empty. Julian wasn't back. She let out a small breath.

She went into the bathroom, turned the shower to the hottest setting, and stood under the scalding water. She scrubbed her skin violently, trying to wash away the stranger's scent.

The mirror fogged over. Clara wiped it and stared at her reflection. Tangled dark hair. Red-rimmed eyes. The despair in her expression slowly hardened into cold, sharp ice.

She grabbed the first aid kit, bandaged her bleeding finger, and applied thick layers of concealer over her neck and collarbones. She changed into a long-sleeved, high-necked silk pajama set. The ruined trench coat and torn wedding dress went into a garbage bag, hidden at the bottom of her suitcase.

Just as she zipped the suitcase, the front door clicked open. Julian walked in, humming.

Clara dove into bed, turned her back, and squeezed her eyes shut. Under the blanket, her hands curled into fists.

Julian walked to the edge of the bed. The overwhelming smell of fresh body wash radiated off him. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her cheek.

"Honey, are you asleep? Sorry, I ran into some old friends." His gentle voice made her stomach heave.

She pretended to stir. "Exhausted. My head is killing me," she rasped, shifting away from his touch.

Relief flickered across his face. He turned and walked into the bathroom.

In the dark, Clara opened her eyes. Cold. Hard. The woman who had walked down the aisle yesterday was gone. She would make them both pay.

Morning sun cut through the blinds. Clara woke first, stared at Julian's sleeping face with disgust, and got out of bed.

She walked into the closet and chose a sharp black Tom Ford suit. She pulled her dark hair into a tight bun and put on pearl earrings. In the mirror, she checked her neck. No red marks. She took a breath and walked out.

Julian sat up in bed. His eyes narrowed at her corporate look. A crease formed between his brows.

"Sweetheart, weren't we supposed to walk in Central Park today?" He moved to wrap his arms around her waist.

Clara sidestepped him and picked up her coffee. "Honeymoon's over. I'm going to the office."

Julian's face darkened, then he quickly masked it with a loving smile. "Back to work? You're too tired. The doctor said to rest and prepare for a baby."

A baby? With who? Clara kept her expression blank. "The company is pushing the AI medical project. I spearheaded it. I need to oversee it."

"Baby, making money is my job. I'll wire fifty thousand a month into your trust. Go shopping. Go to the spa."

Clara set her cup down with a sharp clink. "Fifty thousand? My mother's special care unit costs thirty. You want me to shop with the rest?"

Julian's jaw tightened. A flash of anger crossed his eyes. "You're too aggressive. What kind of wealthy wife shows her face in public like this?"

"I am the co-founder of Vance Tech. I own twenty percent of the original shares. I have the right to audit the books."

At the word "audit," panic flickered in Julian's eyes. His attitude softened instantly. "Okay, okay. If you want to go back, go back. I just worry about your health." He stepped forward and forced a kiss on her forehead.

Clara fought the urge to vomit. She forced a fake smile. "Thank you, husband."

Julian turned and walked into the bathroom. The second the door closed, he pulled out his phone and sent a text to Mitch. "Clara is coming back today. Stick her at the lowest desk. Make her life miserable so she quits."

Outside the door, Clara stared at the frosted glass. She ordered an Uber. She would rather walk than sit in his car.

Forty minutes later, she stood before the glass tower of Vance Group headquarters in Midtown. She inhaled the freezing New York air and walked in.

Heels clicking, she crossed the lobby. The receptionist's jaw dropped before she quickly bowed her head. Clara walked straight to the VIP elevator, pressed the button, and stared at her reflection in the metal doors.

Ding. The doors slid open.

Clara lifted her foot but froze. Her heel scraped against the tile.

Conrad Vance stood in the center of the elevator. Tall, broad-shouldered, in a perfectly tailored dark grey suit. His features were sharp and cold. A faint scar rested above his brow. His deep-set eyes locked onto her.

Julian's uncle. The CEO.

Her breath caught. Then her eyes dropped to his right hand. Three scabbed scratch marks tracked across the back. The same size and spacing as the scratches she had left on the man in the dark room last night.

Her mind reeled. The cedarwood scent seemed to rush out of the elevator and tighten around her throat.

The doors started to close. Conrad's scarred hand shot out and stopped them. His voice was low, slightly rough.

"Are you getting in?"

Clara stared at his hand blocking the door. Her scalp prickled. She forced her stiff legs to step inside and pressed herself into the far corner.

"Good morning, Uncle Conrad," she whispered. Her voice trembled.

Conrad pulled his hand back. He gave a low "Hmm" and turned to his assistant, Marcus, beside him.

The doors shut. The elevator shot upward.

In the small space, Conrad's cedarwood scent filled her lungs. Clara's stomach cramped. Cold sweat broke out on her back. Her hand flew to her high collar.

Marcus looked at his tablet. "Boss, the board members who drugged your drink at the Plaza last night have been dealt with."

Plaza Hotel. Drugged. The words hit Clara hard. Her legs buckled. Her heel twisted, and she slammed against the elevator wall.

The thud made Conrad frown. His gaze cut to her. "Are you sick?" His voice carried the weight of command.

"I'm fine. Didn't sleep well. Low blood sugar." She forced a smile.

Conrad's eyes lingered on her pale face and high collar.

Suddenly, a loud screech of grinding metal. The elevator jerked violently. The lights died.

Another blackout. The terror from last night surged. Clara let out a short scream and slid down the wall.

In the pitch black, a strong arm shot out and hooked around her waist. She was yanked against a broad, solid chest. Conrad.

She fought wildly, shoving at his jacket, nails digging in. "Don't touch me! Let go!"

Conrad's arm tightened. "Clara, calm down. It's just a power failure." His voice was right by her ear. His hot breath hit her neck.

His voice and the heat shocked her back. She stopped thrashing, breathing hard.

The backup generator kicked in. The lights flickered on.

Conrad's eyes narrowed. Clara's collar had shifted. The concealer had rubbed off against his suit. A dark, violent hickey was glaring on her collarbone.

His gaze turned dangerous. A flash of memory—a woman crying beneath him in the dark.

Clara saw his stare. She gasped, clamped her hand over the mark, and shoved him away. She backed into the corner, panting.

Ding. The elevator stopped at the fifteenth floor. Sales Department. The doors opened.

Clara bolted out without a word.

Conrad stood in the cabin, watching her terrified back disappear. He slowly raised his right hand and stared at the three scratches. His eyes went black.

"Boss, should I look into Julian's recent activities?" Marcus asked quietly.

Conrad dropped his hand. "Pull the security footage from the fifteenth floor of the Plaza last night. I want to know exactly who was in that room."

Clara ran into the women's restroom. She splashed cold water on her face and stared at her reflection. The real war had just begun.