Part 3Unmasking The Fake Fiancee

With a violent jerk of his arm, Harrison threw her off.

The force sent Sloane stumbling backward until her heels gave out. She collapsed onto the thick wool rug, her expensive, invisible undergarments twisting into an embarrassing, disheveled mess.

"Do not ever touch me with your filthy hands again."

Harrison pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket and wiped down his tuxedo sleeve with visceral disgust. His voice dropped to a lethal register.

"Who the hell are you? What is that fake trash on your back? And where is the real girl?!"

Sloane sat paralyzed on the floor, trembling violently as tears and mascara smeared across her face.

She knew it was over.

But in the depths of her sheer panic, something seemed to click in her brain. Her head whipped toward the partially open door of the dressing room.

She knew I was standing right outside.

If Harrison walked out that door right now, if he saw me, if he dug into what she had been doing to me at the company…

A flash of absolute, venomous malice crossed Sloane’s eyes.

Taking advantage of the moment Harrison turned his back to call his Chief of Staff, Sloane snatched her phone off the vanity. Her hands shook uncontrollably as she rapidly blind-typed a text message and hit send.

Out in the hallway, I was still reeling from the emotional whiplash of hearing Harrison mention the jar. Suddenly, a massive, thick arm locked around my throat from behind.

"Mmph!"

Before I could scream, a rag reeking of cheap, musky cologne was clamped brutally over my mouth.

It was Mitch—Sloane’s personal bodyguard, who also happened to be her meathead cousin.

The tray slipped from my hands, but a split second before it hit the ground, Mitch caught it with the toe of his heavy boot, absorbing the impact so the tiara only made a dull thud. It wasn't loud enough to alert Harrison inside.

"Stupid bitch, think you can eavesdrop? You're coming with me," Mitch snarled in my ear, his massive arm tightening like a steel vise around my windpipe. He dragged me backward, practically carrying me down the hall toward the windowless, concrete service stairwell meant for hotel staff.

I fought back wildly. My heels scrambled uselessly against the plush carpet. I dug my fingernails into his thick forearm, clawing hard enough to draw blood.

But the physical disparity was insurmountable. I couldn't break his grip.

He hauled me down the stairs into the damp, freezing bowels of the resort. He shoved me violently into a dark basement storage room that smelled intensely of mildew and industrial bleach.

My knees slammed hard into the concrete floor. The pain was blinding, forcing a sharp gasp from my lungs.

"You sit tight and shut your mouth! Sloane will deal with you after she gets that ring on her finger," Mitch sneered, stepping back into the hall.

The heavy metal door slammed shut, followed by the definitive clack of a deadbolt.

"Open the door! Let me out!"

I threw myself against the steel, pounding on it with my fists until my knuckles bruised, but the only response was the hollow echo of my own voice.

The basement was pitch black. Leaning against the freezing metal, I gasped for air, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

Meanwhile, one floor above me, in the bridal suite.

Harrison hung up the phone after ordering his team to run an immediate, scorched-earth background check on Sloane.

His predatory instincts caught the subtle, frantic movement of Sloane trying to hide her phone under her leg.

"What are you doing?" Harrison crossed the room in two strides and snatched the device from her hands.

The screen hadn't locked yet. It was open to her messages.

The last text read: [HURRY! Grab Stella Reed from the hallway! Lock her in the basement! DO NOT let Hayes see her!! GO NOW!!!]

Stella Reed.

Harrison stared at the name. A fragmented memory from the office breakroom violently surfaced in his mind: the quiet, overlooked design assistant reaching up to wipe her forehead, the sleeve of her blouse sliding down to reveal a very faint, crescent-moon-shaped scar on her wrist…

It was a bite mark. The exact scar the little girl from the group home had gotten when she threw herself in front of a stray dog to protect him.