His Unwanted Trash, The Rival's Treasured Queen

Ember Vane POV

The night air was oppressive and humid, clinging to my skin like a second layer of sweat.

I didn't bother waiting for the valet.

I sprinted down the side streets, clutching the ruin of my torn dress to my chest, my heels clicking an uneven, frantic rhythm against the pavement.

I needed to put distance between myself and the Plaza-away from the prying eyes, away from the suffocating humiliation.

Desperate for a taxi, I turned into a narrow alleyway that cut through to the next avenue.

Two shadows detached themselves from the dark brick wall, blocking my path.

They were imposing figures clad in generic streetwear, yet they moved with the disciplined, predatory silence of soldiers.

I stopped.

"Mrs. Vane," one of them acknowledged. His tone held zero warmth.

"I don't have any money," I stammered, instinctively stepping back.

"We don't want your money," the other one replied, cracking his knuckles. "We have a message from the Russo family."

Estelle.

"Stay away from the Underboss," the first man warned. "He's not for you. You're just clutter."

I turned to run, but in these heels, I was far too slow.

The first man seized a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back with brutal force.

A scream rose in my throat, but his hand clamped instantly over my mouth, stifling it.

"Quiet," he hissed.

The second man drove his fist into my stomach.

The pain was blinding, stealing my breath entirely.

I tried to double over, retching, but the iron grip in my hair held me upright.

They didn't touch my face.

They were professionals; they knew exactly how to inflict agony without leaving visible marks that would ruin a photo op.

They kicked my ribs with calculated precision.

Then, they twisted my arm back until the shoulder joint gave way with a sickening pop.

"Estelle sends her regards," the man whispered into my ear before shoving me violently into the stack of metal garbage cans.

I lay crumpled on the wet, filthy asphalt, gasping for air that wouldn't come.

My phone lay where it had fallen from my clutch.

It was recording.

I had managed to hit the voice memo button the split second I saw them step from the shadows.

"Tell the bitch she won," one of them laughed as their footsteps retreated. "The scar-face is done."

I waited until silence returned to the alley before I dragged myself toward my phone.

Trembling, I stopped the recording.

I forced myself up and limped to the main road to hail a cab.

The driver took one look at me-my torn dress, the grime on my face, the way I cradled my ribs-and drove straight to the private ER the Family used.

I sat on the paper-lined exam table, shivering uncontrollably.

My ribs were severely bruised, though not broken.

My shoulder, however, was dislocated.

When the doctor popped it back into the socket, I bit through my lip to keep from screaming.

The door swung open.

Julian walked in.

His expression was one of annoyance, not worry.

"What is this?" he demanded, gesturing vaguely at my condition. "I have a room full of donors asking where my fiancée went, and I get a call that you're in the ER?"

"I was attacked," I rasped.

"Attacked?" He frowned, his impatience visible. "Where?"

"Just outside the hotel. Two men."

"Did they take your jewelry?"

"No."

"Then what?"

"They had a message," I said, lifting my phone with a shaking hand. "From Estelle."

Julian's face went rigid.

"Don't start this, Ember."

"Just listen to it," I insisted, pressing play.

The tinny recording of the men's voices filled the sterile silence of the room.

Estelle sends her regards... Tell the bitch she won...

Julian listened.

His jaw tightened.

He reached out and took the phone from my hand.

"She did this," I said, the reality of it choking me. "She sent her father's soldiers to beat me in an alley."

Julian looked at the phone, then back at me.

"Estelle is traumatized from the crash," he said quietly, calculating. "She's erratic. If I bring this to her father, it starts a war. The Russo family is our biggest ally right now."

"She had me beaten," I whispered, tears finally spilling over. "Julian, they kicked me."

"It was a warning," Julian stated coldly. "Just stay out of her way."

His thumb hovered over the screen.

"What are you doing?" I asked, panic rising.

"Protecting the alliance," he said.

He hit delete.

He deleted the recording.

Then, deliberately, he deleted the backup from the cloud.

He handed the phone back to me.

"It was a mugging," he said firmly. "You resisted. That's the story."

He checked his watch.

"I have to go back. Estelle is still shaking. She needs me."

"I need you," I whispered.

"You're strong, Ember," he said, turning to the door. "You always have been. That's why I picked you. You can take a hit."

He walked out.

He left me in a hospital room with bruised ribs and a dislocated shoulder to go hold the hand of the woman who had ordered the hit.

The throbbing pain in my body faded, replaced by a cold, sharp clarity.

He didn't just choose her.

He sacrificed me to keep her.

I wasn't his partner.

I was his punching bag.

I slid off the table, my legs shaking beneath me.

I wasn't crying anymore.

I walked to the window and looked out at the sprawling city lights.

My flight to Africa was scheduled for three weeks from now.

I decided I wouldn't wait that long.