CHAPTER 8:

Vespera POV 

My heart hammered violently against my ribs as the heavy knock reverberated through the quiet room.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

I froze near the nightstand, clutching the gray shirt tightly around my collar. The thick cardstock with my name written in bold black ink slipped from my fingers, fluttering back onto the dark wood. Every nerve in my body screamed at me to move, to hide, but my feet felt glued to the floorboards.

"Housekeeping," a muffled, gravelly female voice called out from the other side of the wood. "Need to change the linens."

A ragged breath escaped my lips. Relief washed over me, cool and sudden, though my pulse continued to thud loudly in my ears.

"No, thank you!" I rasped out, my voice raspy and dry. "I'm—I'm fine in here!"

Heavy footsteps faded down the hallway.

I took a shaky step back, leaning my spine against the nightstand as I swallowed the two pain-relief pills and drained the rest of the cold water. The headache throbbed behind my temples, but it was nothing compared to the knot of dread twisting inside my stomach.

I looked over at the small black television sitting on a dust-covered wooden dresser across the bed. Beside it lay a small plastic remote with faded rubber buttons.

With reluctant, trembling fingers, I reached for the remote and pressed the power button.

The screen flickered to life with a loud, static buzz before settling on the bright, vibrant graphics of a national morning news broadcast. A tall female anchor sat behind a sleek glass desk, her expression dark and serious.

Behind her, filling half the screen, was a massive, high-definition photo of me.

" What the hell...."

It was taken at the gala last night. I was wearing the green dress, looking terrified, my hazel eyes wide and filled with tears while Everett stood beside me looking like a grieving, tragic hero.

Across the bottom of the screen ran a thick red banner in bold capital letters:

THE GOLD-DIGGING HEIST OF WALL STREET: BILLIONAIRE'S WIFE FRAMED OR GUILTY?

My stomach dropped into a cold, endless void.

"Turn it off," I whispered to myself, but my thumb wouldn't move over the button. I stood paralyzed, watching my life shatter on live television.

"Sources close to Kane Enterprises confirm that over twelve million dollars have vanished from private accounts," the news anchor announced, her voice filled with dramatic intensity. "Everett Kane, CEO of Kane Enterprises, publicly confronted his wife of six months, Vespera Bennett, at the annual Wall Street charity gala last night. Leaked internal documents suggest Bennett used her private access to forge transfer approvals."

The screen cut to footage of Everett leaving his Manhattan tower early this morning. He was surrounded by dozens of reporters, looking exhausted yet stoic, wearing a flawless tailored suit.

"Mr. Kane! Did your wife act alone?" a reporter shouted from the crowd. "Where is Vespera Bennett hiding?"

Everett paused near the open door of his limousine, looking directly into the camera lens with an expression of profound, heartbroken disappointment.

"I trusted her," Everett said, his voice carrying over the noise of the press crowd. "I gave her everything. I took her out of poverty and gave her a home, a name, and my heart. To learn that she was systematically robbing my company... it breaks my soul. I only hope law enforcement finds her soon so justice can be served."

"Liar!" I screamed at the screen, my chest heaving as tears of pure rage blurred my vision. "You lying bastard!"

He was playing the tragic victim so perfectly. The media was eating out of the palm of his hand. To the entire world, Everett Kane was the generous billionaire who had tried to save a poor orphan girl, only to be stabbed in the back. And I was the ruthless, greedy leech who had stolen millions and run into the dark.

The screen cut to a trashy tabloid show. My picture was plastered next to old, grainy photos of the rundown foster homes where I grew up.

"Who is the real Vespera Bennett?" the tabloid host sneered. "Neighbors from her past describe her as quiet, but opportunist. Did this low-income orphan plan the ultimate Wall Street long-con from the very beginning? Bounty rewards are already reaching fifty thousand dollars for photos of her whereabouts."

Fifty thousand dollars.

Every tabloid reporter, every paparazzi, every desperate person in New York City was looking for my face right now. I was completely trapped. I couldn't step outside this room. I couldn't go to a coffee shop, couldn't get on a subway, couldn't even walk down the block without someone recognizing me and calling the police or the press.

The walls of the small motel room suddenly felt like they were closing in on me. The air grew thin, hot, suffocating.

I grabbed my face in my hands, dropping to the edge of the bed as a sob tore out of my throat.

~You have nothing,~a dark voice whispered inside my head. ~No money. No reputation. No home. The whole world hates you.~

I sat there in the silence, listening to the TV anchor talk about my imminent arrest. But as the tears spilled over my eyelashes and hit the cotton shirt covering my knees, something inside me snapped. The suffocating fear began to burn away, replaced by a cold, stubborn fire.

Everett wanted me to hide in a corner and break. He wanted me to run away like a coward so everyone would believe I was guilty. He wanted me erased.

"No," I murmured, wiping my wet cheeks violently with the back of my hand. "I won't give you the satisfaction."

I stood up, walking straight over to the armchair where my green dress lay. It was ruined, torn at the shoulder, but it was all I had. I pulled off the stranger's gray shirt, folding it carefully, and slipped back into my dress. My hands were steady now. My chest didn't feel weak anymore.

I was going to find out who altered those files. I was going to trace every single line of code until I had proof of Everett's lies. I didn't care if I had to fight the entire city of New York alone—I would tear his reputation to shreds just like he did to mine.

I walked over to the dresser, grabbing my empty wallet and keys from the top drawer where the stranger had left them.

Suddenly, a loud, heavy bang rattled the wooden frame of the door.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

This wasn't the gentle knock of housekeeping. This was a hard, aggressive pounding that made the hinges creak under the pressure.

My heart stopped instantly.

"Vespera Bennett!" a harsh, unfamiliar male voice shouted from the hallway. "We know you're in there! Open the door!"

I froze,

terror locking my joints as the door handle began to jiggle violently from the outside.