Clara Morgan's fingertips grazed the edge of her desk calendar, its glossy surface cool beneath her touch. Beyond Hartwell Tower's glass walls, Manhattan dissolved into a haze of rain and flickering billboards. Mia's reflection flickered in the window, her grin too bright for the storm brewing outside.
"Last call for girls' night," Mia chirped, jingling keys adorned with a turquoise fob. "Fifth Avenue's new shop has lace tops that'd give HR a stroke."
The lie slipped out smoother than silk. "Another time," Clara said, stacking folders into precise alignment. "The Windsors want tea."
Mia's smile dimmed. "That crypt? Thought you'd sworn off playing Ethan's punching bag."
Clara's nail dug a crescent into her palm. Punching bag. The term Mia had coined after too many whiskey-fueled rants about Ethan Windsor's curated life—private jets, polo ponies, Instagram models with vacant stares and grasping hands.
"It's…messy," Clara muttered, though messy couldn't capture generations of tangled alliances, the unspoken truth that her parents' fatal crash had been less tragedy than corporate convenience.
Mia squeezed her shoulder, the warmth seeping through Clara's blouse. "Signal if you need rescuing. I'll fake a gas leak in the boardroom."
The elevator's chime severed their laughter. Clara stepped inside, her reflection splintering in the steel doors—shards of the girl she'd been and the blade she'd forged.
Manhattan General's gynecology wing stank of bleach and dread. Clara perched on the exam table, paper crinkling beneath her thighs. Down the hall, a newborn's cry pierced the silence—a sound that coiled around her ribs like barbed wire.
Dr. Patel barged in clutching a clipboard. "Ms. Morgan." Her voice held the warmth of a tax auditor. "Ultrasound shows endometrial thickening. The pain you described—"
"Normal?" Clara hated the waver in her voice, the ghost of the girl who'd once bled through gym shorts, too terrified to ask for help.
The doctor snapped off her gloves. "Trauma-induced dysmenorrhea. Translation?" Her pen tapped the chart. "Tell whoever's in your bed to ease up."
Clara stared at the wall chart—a grotesque pink diagram of fallopian tubes. "No one's there."
Dr. Patel paused. For a heartbeat, her gaze softened. "Lidocaine gel for external abrasions. Use gloves." She tossed a box on the counter. "And consider a protection order."
Clara clutched the prescription bag like a lifeline, heels clicking through fluorescent-lit corridors. She'd nearly reached the parking garage when a familiar voice froze her.
"Ice Queen melting in the stirrup palace?"
Dr. Ethan Clarke lounged against a vending machine, scrubs replaced by a suit that cost more than her Brooklyn studio. Sebastian's oldest friend and part-time provocateur, he dissected lives with the precision of a surgeon.
"Stalking's tacky, Clarke," Clara said, channeling Sebastian's frosty tone.
He pushed off the wall, closing in. "Heard you've been…overexerting." His eyes dropped to the CVS bag. "Endometrial thickening? Must've been quite the marathon."
Her slap cracked like a gunshot. Ethan caught her wrist, clinical grip unyielding.
"Careful," he purred. "Bruise me, and I'll subpoena your medical files." His thumb grazed her racing pulse. "Though I bet you'd rock orange jumpsuits."
She wrenched free, fleeing to the rhythm of his laughter.
Luxe's VIP lounge throbbed with synthetic decadence. Sebastian Hartwell nursed a $30,000 Bordeaux, its ruby depths reflecting the dance floor's chaos. Across the table, Kane Voss—hotel heir and purveyor of discreet sins—swirled whiskey, smirk sharp enough to draw blood.
"Brooding over brunettes?" Kane nodded toward a Clara lookalike grinding under strobes. "Could've saved you the bottle."
Sebastian's knuckle whitened around his glass. "Here for the liquor."
"Bull." Kane leaned in, cufflinks glinting. "You've been radioactive since Clarke's hospital gossip. What'd Morgan do—swap your Viagra for vitamins?"
The tumbler exploded against the wall. Kane's bodyguards twitched but held position.
"Charming," drawled Ethan from the entrance, hospital ID swinging. "Last tantrum, you bankrupted an airline."
Sebastian lunged, fist twisting Ethan's silk tie. "What'd you do to her?"
Ethan grinned through bloodied lips. "Me? Your secretary's OB report reads like a snuff film. Uterine trauma. Bruising. Doctor's orders? Tell the prick to buy a manual."
The punch landed with a wet crunch. Kane wedged between them. "Enough! Hartwell—sit. Clarke—exit."
Ethan dabbed his nose, inspecting crimson smears on his cuff. "Ask yourself—why rage if she's just another lay?"
The curtain fell behind him. Kane turned, phone buzzing. "Clara's downstairs."
Sebastian moved before thought caught up—past bouncers, through service elevators, into the lobby where Clara stood haloed in rain and neon.
"Sebastian, I—"
He caged her against a pillar. "You're hurt."
"It's nothing."
"Liar." His thumb traced the shadow under her eye. "I did this."
Her kiss tasted of salt and surrender. "Take me home."
The Windsor conservatory reeked of dying orchids and old money.
Clara hovered in the doorway, heels sinking into Persian rugs.
"Mind the hybrids," sniffed Mrs. Walsh, the housekeeper's glare sharper than the shears in her apron.
Ethan Windsor lounged amidst hydroponic blooms, Armani shirt hanging open to reveal claw marks that mirrored Clara's. "Back for more?"
She tossed a velvet pouch onto teak. Heirlooms clattered—a pearl pin, a tarnished bracelet, relics of chains she'd worn since childhood.
"Cutting ties?" Ethan didn't glance up. "Dramatic, even for you."
"No more games."
He moved—predator swift—cornering her against shelving. "You think Hartwell's cash erases your stench? You'll always be the charity case who fucked up."
Her slap echoed through glass. Ethan twisted her wrist, bones grinding.
"There's my feral kitten." His breath reeked of Scotch. "Hartwell like your claws?"
She rammed her knee into his groin. Ceramic shattered as rare orchids met marble.
Eleanor's shriek pierced the air. "Ethan!"
Clara fled through servant passages, rain soaking her ruined blouse. Her phone buzzed—one word: Now.
The Voss penthouse loomed—glass fortress above the storm. Clara stepped inside, dripping onto marble.
Sebastian stood framed by lightning. "Talk."
She did—the pact, the Windsors' cold charity, Ethan's cruelty. When she finished, Sebastian's reflection showed a man unhinged.
"Burn them."
Clara pressed her palm to storm-lashed glass. "I want their crown."
His lips found the bruise on her wrist. "Then we'll steal it."
Beyond the windows, Manhattan glittered like a kingdom waiting to fall. Clara smiled.
The hunt was on.