Chapter 11

Clara's POV 

I couldn't draw oxygen into my lungs.

The air in the fourth-floor corridor had suddenly grown thick, toxic, and utterly devoid of life. Black spots danced aggressively at the outer edges of my vision, vibrating like swarm insects. I slammed my right hand flat over my mouth to muffle the raw, hideous sob that was tearing its way up from the dark depths of my throat, starving for release.

I stumbled backward out of the alcove, my heels catching on the heavy plush carpet, my hands clawing at the silk-covered walls to keep from collapsing onto the floor right outside Room 412.

I didn't wait for the golden elevator doors to chime. I couldn't stand the thought of standing in that quiet, carpeted lobby waiting for a carriage to take me down while my husband was inside that room, stripping the red dress off a woman who looked like everything I was not. I threw my weight against the heavy steel push-bar of the fire exit stairwell.

The heavy metal door gave way with a dull, echoing clack, and I shoved myself through, tumbling into the raw, unpainted concrete stairwell.

I didn't walk down the steps; I practically threw myself down them. My vision was swimming with tears, blinded by the image of Mark’s hands digging into that woman’s narrow waist. Halfway down the second flight, my left heel caught on the rough nose of a concrete step. I went down hard, my knee slamming into the concrete edge with a sharp, sickening crack that sent a lightning bolt of white-hot agony straight up my thigh.

I didn't stop. I didn't even pause to rub the skin tearing through my dark tights. I scrambled back to my feet, dragging my limping leg, and kept running down. I just needed air. I needed to get out of the heavy, linen-scented tomb where my four-year marriage had just been executed.

I hit the ground floor landing, threw my entire body weight against the red metal panic bar, and burst out into the cold daylight.

The heavy door slammed shut behind me, dumping me into a narrow, filthy service alleyway behind the hotel. The damp air hit my face, thick with the stench of rotting food, damp brick, and diesel exhaust.

My legs gave out completely.

I collapsed against the side of a rusted green dumpster, my knees slamming into the wet, oil-stained asphalt. The dampness soaked through my tights instantly, chilling my skin to the bone, but I couldn't move. I curled into a tight, pathetic ball, wrapping my arms around my stomach, clutching my heavy curves as a full-blown, violent panic attack seized my chest.

I hyperventilated, pulling shallow, ragged gasps of dirty alley air into my lungs.

I was nothing. I was discarded trash. I was a fat, ugly, naive joke of a woman who had actually believed that if she tried hard enough, if she made herself quiet enough, her husband might one day look at her without disgust. Mark had stood in our kitchen and called me crazy, and I had almost believed him. But he wasn't lying because he was confused; he was lying because I meant less than zero to him.

Tears streamed down my cheeks, hot and bitter, mixing with the grime on my face. I sobbed so violently my abdominal muscles cramped, tears blinding me as I rocked back and forth on the wet pavement.

Then, two bright beams of white light cut through the dingy gloom of the alley.

I flinched, throwing a bruised, dirty hand up to shield my eyes from the glare. A sleek, midnight-black Maybach glided silently over the wet asphalt, its engine humming like a purring predator, stopping precisely three feet in front of where I sat crumpled in the mud.

The heavy rear passenger door swung open smoothly.

A pair of immaculate, custom Italian leather shoes stepped directly into a dirty puddle on the pavement. I pushed my wet hair out of my eyes, peering up through a blur of hot tears, my breath hitching in my raw throat.

Julian Thorne stood towering over me in the narrow, filthy alleyway.

He didn't look shocked to find me sitting in the garbage. His dark, unreadable eyes swept over my tear-streaked face, my scraped, bleeding knee through my torn tights, my shaking, mud-caked hands. A muscle in his sharp jaw clenched so hard I could hear his teeth grind from where I sat.

Without saying a single word, the billionaire CEO dropped to his knees, ruining his tailored dark trousers on the wet pavement, a

nd reached out for me.