Divorced And Disgraced: My Spectacular Comeback

Claire Ashley POV:

Flashes. Champagne. A man's heavy breathing. Pain.

Whoosh.

My eyes flew open to an unfamiliar crystal chandelier, its light stabbing into my skull.

A gasp tore from my throat. The world tilted, then slammed into focus.

This wasn't my bedroom. This wasn't the apartment I shared with my husband, Jefferson.

I tried to move, and a sharp, tearing pain shot through my lower body. The sound that escaped me was raw, swallowed by the oppressive silence of the hotel suite.

Silk sheets slid from my bare shoulders. I looked down.

Naked. Angry red marks across my skin. A dark stain on the white sheets.

My stomach lurched.

The air was thick with stale champagne and an unfamiliar cologne. Not Jefferson's.

I pressed a hand to my temple, fragments of memory surfacing through a thick fog. The charity gala. Jefferson on my arm, the dutiful wife. My stepsister, Falon, handing me a glass of champagne, her smile too sweet to be real.

Then nothing. Just flashes. Blinding lights. A man's heavy breathing. My own helpless sobs.

I needed to leave. Now.

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, and the pain between my thighs made me cry out. I gripped the nightstand, knuckles white. Every movement sent a fresh wave of agony through my body, but I forced myself upright.

My evening gown lay in a torn heap in the corner. My clutch was open, its contents scattered across the floor. I spotted my phone, screen cracked but still glowing.

I took one step, then another. Each one was a small battle against the burning, stabbing pain that radiated from between my legs. My thighs trembled. My hand shot out to brace against the wall.

I grabbed the phone from the floor. My fingers hovered over Jefferson's name. He would protect me. He had to.

Before I could dial, a notification exploded across the screen.

"SHOCKING SCANDAL: Hockey Star Jefferson Mann's Wife Caught Cheating!"

I tapped the link. A high-resolution photo filled the screen.

Me. Naked in this very bed. A man's blurry back pressing down on me. The angle capturing the dazed, humiliated expression on my face with perfect cruelty.

My fingers went numb. The phone slipped from my grasp and thudded onto the carpet.

This wasn't an accident. It was a trap.

Falon's champagne. The blinding flashes. The torn dress.

I had to get out of here.

I grabbed a white hotel robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door and wrapped it around myself. Every movement was fire. The ache in my thighs, the raw soreness, the sharp twinge deep in my stomach. The pain was a constant, merciless reminder of what had been done to me.

I made it to the door. My hand closed around the cold metal handle.

The electronic lock beeped.

The door swung open before I could turn it.

I stumbled back, nearly losing my balance.

Jefferson stood in the doorway.

And beside him—arm linked intimately through his—was Falon.

She wore the same dress from last night, no longer the sweet-smelling stepsister with the gentle smile. Now her red lips curved into a slow, triumphant smirk that she didn't bother to hide.

"Oh, Claire." Her voice dripped with mock concern. "You look terrible."

Jefferson didn't speak. His eyes traveled over me—the robe, the marks on my neck, the tear-streaked face—and a cold, satisfied smile spread across his lips.

Behind them, a pack of reporters raised their cameras like weapons.

"Perfect timing," Falon murmured, just loud enough for me to hear. She tilted her head, pretending to fix Jefferson's collar. "Make sure they get her good side, darling."

The cameras began to fire. One after another. A relentless, blinding storm.

I stood frozen in the doorway, too broken to run, too proud to fall.

And the last thing I saw before the white light swallowed everything was Falon resting her head on Jefferson's shoulder, her smile wide enough to burn itself into my memory forever.