Chapter 2

When I stopped fighting him, his face smoothed out.

"That's my girl. I knew you'd understand. There's a Blackwood Group investors' dinner tomorrow night. The major partners will be there. I expect you to come."

I nodded, numb. Something was lodged in my throat. I couldn't make a sound.

He didn't bother with me after that. He was thinking about Vivienne. He left in a rush.

I sank down against the wall, and the tears came.

When the worst of it passed, there was nothing left inside but quiet.

I wiped my face and dialed a number.

"Help me get divorced. The terms you asked for last time—I accept."

He didn't come home that night.

I didn't see him again until the gala.

And what I saw twisted the knife deeper.

Vivienne was on his arm, glowing.

She was wearing my favorite dress—the one I'd saved for occasions like this—playing hostess at his side.

Adrian walked her over to me, smug.

"Looks good on her, doesn't it? You never wear it anyway."

"She had a fight with her husband. I brought her along to cheer her up."

My eyes landed on their linked arms. I didn't answer.

His brow creased. His voice dropped several degrees.

"Since you're not busy—carry her train for her."

A low, ugly laugh rippled through the crowd around us.

I blinked back the sting in my eyes. I said, "Fine."

I walked across the floor like a puppet on strings and stopped behind Vivienne.

The whispers started right away.

"So that's the Harringtons' adopted one. The fake heiress. No wonder she looks like a slut."

"I heard her sex tape was all over the internet. I can't believe she's showing her face in public."

"Adrian won't actually marry her. No way."

Whore. Ruined. Damaged goods. The words kept landing.

Rusted knives dragging across a heart that was already shredded.

I swallowed the tears. I kept my back straight.

My grandmother used to tell me: whatever happens, never bow your head.

Adrian caught the look on my face. Something hesitated in his eyes.

Just as he was about to intervene, Vivienne screamed.

Her dress slid off her shoulders. Half her strapless bra showed. The room inhaled.

Her eyes filled with tears.

"Claire—I know you're hurting, but even if a thousand men saw you, you can't humiliate me like this just because you're jealous!"

Adrian whipped off his jacket and wrapped her in it. When he turned to me, his eyes were full of disappointment.

"Claire. Do you really hate Vivienne this much?"

I watched him wrap her up the exact way he used to wrap me, and I couldn't get any air.

"It wasn't me."

"Don't lie. You were the only one close to her dress."

The suspicion in his eyes pinned me in place.

Even with my heart already numb, his distrust still managed to gut me.

For a second I was back in those first weeks after the Harringtons took me in.

I hadn't belonged. The girls in that world had torn me apart.

And Adrian had stood between me and them. Proved my innocence. Fought for me.

He used to look at me like I mattered.

Until Vivienne came home from abroad. Everything shifted.

No matter how many times she set me up, he'd just look uncomfortable and ask me to let it go for his sister.

I was tired. My voice came out flat.

"I didn't touch her dress."

"If you don't believe me, pull the security footage—"

"Enough!"

Adrian cut me off, sharp.

"Claire. Give it a rest. What girl would stage something like this to frame someone? Vivienne isn't like you. She can't handle this kind of humiliation."

I looked at him. I went cold all over.

So he understood. A woman's dignity mattered—if the woman was Vivienne.

Vivienne was crying harder now.

"Claire, Mom and Dad loving me more isn't my fault. Please stop hurting me. I'm scared..."

That one line broke him.

His face twisted with the need to protect her. He looked at me like I was a stranger.

"Since you love pulling at people's dresses—maybe you should see how it feels."

He waved at the security detail.

I stared at him, disbelieving.

"Adrian. I'm telling you it wasn't me!"

He caught the fracture in my eyes. Something flickered. Regret, maybe.

Then Vivienne whimpered his name, and the regret was gone.

I screamed. I fought. They pinned me to the floor anyway.

The sound of fabric ripping filled the ballroom.

And for one second I was back in that rainy night three years ago—the hands, the tearing, the begging that never mattered.

The laughter swelled around me. Camera flashes, over and over.

A thousand needles under my skin. Whatever dignity I had left was ground into the floor.