The Widow's Price: Owned By Adrien

3

Adrien cracked the suite door open. The corridor was empty, but the air felt charged, like the calm before a storm.

He walked back to the bathroom. Aurora was wringing her hands, the sleeves of his shirt flopping uselessly.

"Now," he said. He grabbed her wrist. His grip was firm, not painful, but it brooked no argument.

He dragged her out of the bathroom, past the bed she had almost collapsed on, to a narrow panel in the wall near the closet. It was a servant's entrance, designed for discretion.

"This leads to the garden level," Adrien said. "Stay off the main paths. Go to the parking lot."

Aurora nodded frantically. She was barefoot, holding her ruined heels in one hand. She looked like a runaway bride, or a mistress fleeing a crime scene.

She turned to go, but Adrien caught her shoulder. He spun her around.

"Your collar," he murmured.

Before she could react, his hands were at her neck. He flipped the collar of the shirt up, buttoning one more button. His knuckles grazed her skin-cold against warm. For a second, he didn't pull away. He stared at the pulse point on her neck, his thumb brushing over it.

Aurora held her breath. The moment stretched, taut as a wire.

Then Adrien stepped back, his face a mask of indifference. "Go. Don't let anyone see your face."

Aurora didn't wait. She pushed through the narrow door and ran.

The stairwell was dim and smelled of dust. She took the steps two at a time, her bare feet slapping against the concrete. Pain shot through her soles as she hit the gravel at the bottom, but she didn't stop.

She burst out into the cool evening air. The sun had set, leaving the sky a bruised purple. She was in the rear gardens, a maze of manicured hedges and stone statues.

The wind bit through the thin cotton of Adrien's shirt. She hugged herself, shivering. She felt exposed. Naked.

She ducked behind a row of hydrangeas, trying to orient herself. The parking lot was east. She just needed to cross the koi pond clearing.

Flick. Click.

The sound of a lighter froze her blood.

Ten yards away, under the shadow of an oak tree, a man was leaning against the trunk. Pierce Montgomery. The biggest gossip in the tri-state area.

Aurora dropped to a crouch, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

Pierce turned his head. He squinted into the gloom.

"Hello?" he called out, his voice slurring slightly. He was drunk.

Aurora tried to scramble back, but her foot snapped a dry twig. Crack.

Pierce's eyes widened. He saw a figure. A woman. Long dark hair. A man's white dress shirt. Bare legs.

He let out a low whistle. "Well, well. Looks like the funeral wasn't so boring after all."

He took a step toward her.

Aurora didn't think. She bolted. She sprinted away from the parking lot, deeper into the garden, toward the koi pond.

"Hey! Wait up!" Pierce laughed, but he didn't follow. He didn't need to. He had a story.

Aurora reached the edge of the pond and stopped, gasping for air. Her lungs burned. She looked down at herself. The white shirt was a beacon in the darkness. Even if Pierce hadn't recognized her face, he had seen the shirt.

And now, voices were drifting from the terrace.

"She went this way! Pierce said he saw someone running!"

It was Chloe. And Ingrid.

Aurora looked around wildly. There was nowhere to hide. The hedges were too low. The wall was too high.

She looked at the pond. The water was murky, green with algae and mud.

She looked at the pristine white shirt.

If they found her like this-clean, wearing a man's shirt-she was a whore.

But if she was a victim of an accident...

Aurora made a choice.

---