The Wrong Girl Burns Bright

"You seriously think you can get away with this?" Cleo snapped. "I'll kill you the second I'm out."

She thrashed, but the two guys locked her down like she weighed nothing.

"Kill me?" Nora let out a soft laugh, all smug ease. "You wouldn't even get close. Damian would shut you down first." She tilted her head, smiling. "Or did you forget? He picks me. Every. Single. Time."

That hit exactly where it hurt most.

Yeah. Every single time—right or wrong—Damian chose Nora.

The fight drained out of her, swallowed by that same old helpless drop.

They shoved her into a cold metal chair. Straps locked her wrists and ankles. Electrodes pressed to her skin.

Nora watched, satisfied, then tapped the controller.

"Ahhh!"

The shock ripped through her.

Pain and numbness hit at once. Her body jerked, out of control, a scream tearing out of her throat.

Her vision blacked out.

Her mind snapped loose under the pain.

***

When Cleo woke up, she was on a soft bed—no longer in that nightmare room.

Damian sat beside her, brows tight. "I said three days in the basement. How did it end like this?"

Cleo kept her eyes shut. She didn't want to see him. Didn't want to talk.

She didn't expect him to believe her anyway.

"Cleo." A hint of concern slipped into his voice. "I'm your fiancé. You should tell me everything."

'Fiancé? What a joke.'

She opened her eyes, looking straight at him, voice flat. "Fine. I'll tell you. Your precious Nora dragged people in on day three. Tied me to a chair. Lit me up until I ended up like this."

His pupils tightened. Shock flickered. "An electric chair? That's not possible. Nora... she wouldn't—"

"See?" A mocking smile pulled at her lips. "You don't believe me."

'Figures. Doesn't matter. If he won't believe me, I'll handle it myself.'

And she did.

That night, Cleo had people grab Nora—who was terrified of heights—strip her down, tie her up, and hang her off the edge of Joubert Tower's roof, leaving her out in the freezing wind all night.

The next day, Damian stormed in, fury burning in his eyes. "Cleo, what the hell is wrong with you? You hung Nora off a roof all night. Do you even get what could've happened? She panicked, she slipped—if there wasn't a net, she'd be dead."

Cleo sat by the window, eyes half-lidded, as if it had nothing to do with her.

That only made him angrier. "If our wedding wasn't in a few days, your family and I wouldn't let this slide. You're staying home. You're not going anywhere, and you're done causing problems. Got it?"

She didn't answer.

Like he wasn't even there.

The door slammed on his way out, cold air trailing behind him.

The night before the wedding, Nora finally came home, pale as hell.

The second Harold saw Cleo, he lost it—cursing, calling her vicious, heartless.

Cleo didn't flinch. "If I was that vicious, your precious daughter would've died eight times by now."

Harold shook with rage. "You ungrateful brat! How long are you going to keep this up?"

"You brought your mistress into this house and let her kid take my place." Cleo's voice stayed flat. "I'm still here—what do you expect me to do? Cook for you?"

"You—!" His face flushed, like he might drop on the spot. "Fine. I'm done arguing. Tomorrow's Nora and Damian's wedding. You're not showing up. Don't you dare embarrass us."

Cleo let out a quiet laugh. "Relax. That stiff, suffocating wedding? You couldn't drag me there."