Flash Marriage To The Ruthless General

The key slid into the lock with a familiar, weary click. Alice Howe pushed the heavy door open, her shoulder aching from the weight of her briefcase. The first thing that hit her wasn't the darkness of the unlit apartment, but the smell.

It was a cloying, sweet perfume, something cheap and desperate trying to smell expensive. It clung to the air, a foreign invader in the clean, minimalist space she shared with Brandon.

Her heart gave a single, hard thud against her ribs.

She set her briefcase down on the entryway console, her movements deliberately silent. The leather made a soft, sighing sound against the wood. Her fingers, suddenly cold, fumbled with the clasps of her heels. She slipped them off, the cool shock of the hardwood floor against her bare feet doing nothing to calm the tremor starting in her stomach.

A low murmur of voices drifted from the bedroom. A woman's laugh, short and sharp, followed by Brandon's deeper rumble.

Alice's breath caught in her throat. She stood frozen for a moment, a statue in the dim light filtering in from the hallway. Then, she began to move, her steps as quiet as a predator's.

The bedroom door was slightly ajar. Through the crack, she could see a silk blouse she didn't recognize draped over her favorite armchair. A pair of strappy red heels lay discarded near the foot of the bed.

Her bed.

She stopped breathing altogether. The air in her lungs felt like a block of ice. She didn't feel anger, not yet. Just a profound, hollow coldness that seemed to start in her marrow and spread outward.

With a steady hand, she pushed the door open.

The bedside lamp was on, casting a harsh, yellow glare over the tangled sheets. Brandon Foster jerked upright, his bare chest slick with sweat. His eyes widened in panic as he saw her, his hand instinctively grabbing for the duvet to cover the woman beside him.

Megan Sullivan, a junior analyst from his firm, let out a pathetic squeak and burrowed her face into Alice's pillow.

Alice didn't scream. She didn't cry. Her gaze swept over the scene, taking in every detail with a chilling clarity. The half-empty champagne bottle on her nightstand. The way Megan's blonde hair fanned out across the Egyptian cotton sheets she had spent a fortune on. The room, her sanctuary, felt violated, contaminated.

Brandon, recovering from the initial shock, found his voice. It was laced with a defensive fury. "What the hell, Alice? You can't just barge in here!"

A dry, humorless laugh escaped her lips. "I can't barge into the apartment I pay for? Into my own bedroom?"

"This is what I'm talking about!" he blustered, sitting up straighter, the duvet slipping to reveal more of Megan's cowering form. "You're always working, always gone. You're never here! What did you expect?"

The accusation hung in the air, a classic piece of misdirection. He was trying to make this her fault. The coldness inside her began to burn, transforming into a sharp, focused rage.

"I expected the man I've been supporting for the last year not to be screwing his coworker in our bed," she said, her voice dangerously level. "Especially not after using my credit card to buy himself a new Tag Heuer yesterday."

Brandon's face went from red to a pasty white. The bravado faltered. "That's none of your business."

"It became my business when the fraud alert hit my phone," she replied, taking a step into the room.

He scrambled off the bed, heedless of his nakedness, and puffed out his chest. It was a pathetic attempt at intimidation. "The lease is in my name, Alice. I want you out. Now."

From under the covers, Megan peeked out, her voice dripping with faux pity. "Just go, Alice. Have some dignity."

That was the spark. The word dignity, from her, in this room.

Alice's eyes narrowed. She walked over to her dresser, picked up the glass of water she always kept there, and with a flick of her wrist, tossed its contents directly into Brandon's face.

He sputtered, ice-cold water dripping from his hair and chin. The shock quickly turned to rage. "You bitch!" he roared, wiping his eyes. He lunged, his arm swinging back to slap her.

Time seemed to slow down. It was instinct, honed and buried deep, but never gone. Her body moved before her mind could process the threat. She saw the trajectory of his hand, the tightening of the muscles in his shoulder.

She sidestepped his clumsy swing, her left hand shooting out to grip his wrist, her fingers finding the pressure point with unerring accuracy. He grunted in pain, his forward momentum stopped dead. He tried to pull back, his eyes wide with surprise at her strength. She was supposed to be a linguist, a bookworm. Not this.

Where did that come from? The thought flickered through her mind, foreign and fleeting.

Alice didn't give him time to recover. She pivoted, using his own weight against him, her right hand coming down hard on the back of his elbow joint.

A raw scream tore from his throat as his arm bent at an unnatural angle. His body pitched forward, completely off balance.

She brought her knee up, a sharp, brutal impact into his solar plexus.

The air left his lungs in a whoosh. He collapsed onto the expensive Persian rug, gagging and clutching his stomach, his body curling into a fetal position.

That move was automatic. How? A sliver of unease cut through the rage.

"Oh my god!" Megan shrieked from the bed. She scrambled for a weapon, her panicked eyes landing on a heavy crystal vase on the nightstand. She snatched it up and hurled it at Alice.

Alice ducked her head to the side. The vase sailed past her ear and shattered against the wall with a deafening crash, sending shards of glass and water cascading onto the floor.

The sound echoed in the sudden silence. Then, from the hallway outside the apartment, a muffled voice called out. "Is everything okay in there?"

Footsteps. Neighbors.

Brandon saw his opportunity. He pushed himself up, his face contorted with pain and fury, and launched himself at her from behind.

It was a mistake.

Alice felt the shift in the air, sensed the movement without seeing it. She spun, her right elbow striking backward in a tight, vicious arc. It connected solidly with his jaw.

There was a sickening crack of bone on bone.

Brandon's head snapped to the side. He stumbled backward, his eyes rolling up in his head, and crashed into the wardrobe. The heavy doors shuddered, and a few of his shirts slithered off their hangers and fell onto his unconscious form.

Alice stood over him, her chest heaving, not from exertion, but from the adrenaline coursing through her veins. She looked at the wreckage of her room, at the terrified woman in her bed, at the man crumpled on the floor.

She felt nothing. Just a vast, empty calm.

She reached down, grabbed the collar of Brandon's shirt, and began to drag his dead weight out of the bedroom. He was a mess to be cleaned up. A problem to be removed.

And she was taking out the trash.