THE PENTHOUSE BETRAYAL I

STORY ONE:

(THE PENTHOUSE BETRAYAL) I

I stepped out of the private elevator into the sprawling 72nd-floor penthouse I shared with my fiancé, the air still carrying the faint scent of the Chanel No. 5 I’d sprayed on my neck before leaving for my final wedding dress fitting. Three days. In seventy-two hours I was supposed to walk down the aisle toward Damien Beckett.

I was the happiest human alive and I assumed the feeling was mutual with Damien.

Instead, the moment the doors slid open, I heard it.

The wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin. A woman’s breathy, p**n-star moans. Damien’s low grunt, the same grunt he gave when he was close.

I didn’t drop my purse. I didn’t scream. I simply walked down the marble hallway on silent Louboutins until I reached the open double doors of the master bedroom.

There he was—my future husband—completely naked, hips snapping forward as he drove his cock into my maid of honor, Sophia. Sophia’s legs were wrapped high around his waist, red-bottomed heels still on, her bridesmaid dress bunched around her waist like a cheap belt. The same bed I had picked out with Damien six months ago. The same Egyptian cotton sheets I’d had monogrammed with our future initials.

Damien’s eyes were closed in concentration, sweat sliding down his back. He didn’t even notice me standing there until Sophia’s eyes flew open mid-moan.

“Oh fuck— Tessa!”

Damien’s head snapped around. His cock slipped out of Sophia with a wet pop, still hard and glistening with another woman’s pussy. “Baby— it’s not—”

I raised one trembling perfectly manicured hand. “Don’t.”

My voice was ice. Calm. Terrifyingly calm.

I pulled my phone from my clutch, scrolled to a contact I had saved months ago under “Emergency — Do Not Call Unless Necessary.” I hit dial and put it on speaker.

He had taken my phone and saved the number himself as an emergency contact and he had warned me not to call unless it was really important.

It rang twice.

A deep, velvet-smooth baritone answered. “Tessa. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The way my name rolled off his tongue was so pleasant, like he practiced it.

Adrian Beckett. Damien’s father. Silver-fox billionaire. Sixty-two years old and built like a man who still ran five miles every morning before dominating boardrooms. Voice like aged whiskey and dark chocolate.

I kept my eyes locked on Damien’s shocked face as I spoke.

“Your son is currently balls-deep in my maid of honor on the bed I bought for our marriage. Three days before our wedding. I thought you should know.”

Silence on the line for half a second. Then Adrian’s low, dangerous chuckle rolled through the speaker.

“I see. And what would you like me to do about that, sweetheart?”

I smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile.

“Come ruin me on this same bed. In every way your pathetic son never could.”

Damien’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. Sophia looked confused more than anyone.

Adrian’s voice dropped, thick with dark promise. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Don’t let him touch you. And Tessa? Leave the heels on.”

The line went dead.

I looked at Damien and Sophia, still frozen on the bed like guilty statues.

“Get out,” I said quietly. “Both of you. Now.”

Sophia scrambled, yanking her dress down, cum already leaking down her thigh.

“Is that my father?!” Damien barked as he got on his feet, sliding his cock back into his pants. “Please, tell me I'm mistaken?!”

“Yes, it's your father. He asked me to call him whenever I needed him the most. So, I just did.”

Damien walked up to me and grabbed my elbow. “Have you gone mad?! What would you possibly do with my father?”

I looked him square in the eyes and spat, “Fuck him. Like you did with my bridesmaid just now.”

Before I knew it, he went down on his knee. “Please, I'm sorry. I know I acted stupidly but, please not my father. Don't also do something stupid. We still have our wedding—”

“Wedding?” I cut him off. “Did you just say wedding? What wedding? The one that ended the second I saw you riding my own bridesmaid or there's another one?”

“Tessa—”

“Leave.”

“Tessa, please, be reasonable—”

“Leave, Damien. But, if you want to watch your father fuck me raw on this same bed you fucked Sophia on, be my guest.”

He searched my eyes one last time, hoping there'd be a change of heart and I'd leave with him to continue our wedding plans. I swirled around, turning my back on him and walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering Manhattan skyline.

I heard him leave in hesitation. The elevator dinged. Silence returned.

Exactly nineteen minutes later, the private elevator opened again.

Adrian Beckett stepped out.

He was devastating in a charcoal three-piece suit, silver hair perfectly styled, ice-blue eyes sharp as diamonds. At 6’3” he filled the doorway with raw, commanding presence. The kind of man who didn’t need to raise his voice to own a room.

His gaze swept over me—still in my elegant cream silk wrap dress, Louboutins on, wedding ring still on my finger.

He smiled. Charismatic as sin.

“Three days before the wedding,” he murmured, loosening his tie as he stalked toward me, dark gaze searching mine. “And my idiot son couldn’t even keep his dick in his pants. Pathetic.”

My pulse thundered between my legs. I had always noticed Adrian—how could I not? The way he commanded attention without trying. The deep timbre of his voice. The way his eyes lingered on me too long at family dinners.

Now those eyes were devouring me.

Adrian stopped inches away. He reached out and brushed a strand of dark hair from my cheek with surprising gentleness.

“You deserve better than my son, Tessa. You always have.” His thumb traced my lower lip. “Tonight I’m going to show you exactly how a real man worships a woman like you.”