His Salvation

CHAPTER FOUR

Chapter 4: Secrets in the Dark

Cynthia’s knees hit the gala’s marble floor, Sam’s blood seeping through her sapphire gown. His words—*“Cross… he knew”*—rang in her ears as security dragged his limp body away. The crowd’s gasps and camera flashes drowned out her scream. Ethan’s grip on her arm was iron, his voice a low growl. “Cynthia, we need to talk. Now.”

She yanked free, heart pounding. “Talk? My ex just bled out, accusing you!” Her voice cracked, drawing stares. Sam was a liar, a cheater, but he’d sounded desperate—truthful. And Ethan’s stone-cold face wasn’t helping his case.

“Not here,” Ethan snapped, steering her through the gala’s chaos toward a side exit. His hand on her back burned through her dress, a mix of control and something softer she couldn’t name. “You’re making a scene, and the press is eating it up.”

Outside, rain sheeted down, soaking Manhattan’s streets. Ethan’s Bentley idled, the driver opening the door. Cynthia hesitated, Sam’s warning clashing with Camille’s taunt: “Check his office.” If Ethan was playing her, she needed proof—before the contract marriage swallowed her whole.

“Get in,” Ethan said, rain slicking his dark hair. His tux clung to his frame, and for a stupid second, she noticed how unfairly gorgeous he was. Focus, Cyn.

She slid into the car, the leather warm against her chilled skin. “Where are we going?” she asked, clutching her phone. Sam’s business card, with its scrawled address, was still in her pocket. Was he alive? Dead? And what did he mean, *the bakery’s a front*?

“My penthouse,” Ethan said, voice clipped as the car pulled away. “You’re a liability tonight. I can’t have you running off to your ex’s buddies.”

“Liability?” Cynthia’s temper flared. “Sam was *stabbed*, Ethan! He said you knew something about the bakery. Tell me he’s wrong.” She leaned closer, searching his steel-gray eyes for a lie.

Ethan’s jaw tightened, raindrops catching the dashboard light on his face. “Your ex was drunk, delusional. He crashed my gala to hurt you. Don’t buy his sob story.”

“Then why’s Camille saying to check your office?” The words slipped out before she could stop them. Ethan’s gaze sharpened, like a predator spotting prey.

“Camille’s a snake,” he said, his voice low.“She’s been trying to sabotage me since I ended our engagement. Whatever she told you, it’s a lie.” But his knuckles whitened on the armrest, betraying him.

Cynthia’s gut screamed he was hiding something. The bakery, Sam’s documents, Camille’s secret—pieces of a puzzle she didn’t understand. “If you’re so innocent,” she said, “let me see your office. Now.”

Ethan laughed, cold and sharp. “You’re my fiancée, not my auditor. Stick to the contract—smile, look pretty, stay out of my business.” But his eyes flickered, just for a second, and she caught it: fear.

The Bentley stopped at Microfinance Unlimited’s tower. Ethan’s penthouse was upstairs, but his office was closer. If she could slip away… “Fine,” she said, faking a sigh. “I need a bathroom first. Gala stress, you know?”

He eyed her, suspicious, but nodded. “Five minutes. Don’t test me.”

Inside the lobby, Cynthia beelined for the elevators, her heart racing. She hit the button for Ethan’s floor, praying he wouldn’t follow. The doors opened to his sleek office—glass walls, mahogany desk, city lights glinting outside. Her heels clicked as she rummaged through drawers, finding nothing but contracts and pens. *Come on, Camille, where’s the dirt?*

A locked file cabinet caught her eye. She grabbed a letter opener, jimmying the lock like Kourtney taught her during their broke-college days. The drawer popped open, revealing a folder labeled “Anderson Property.” Her bakery. Her breath hitched as she flipped it open: purchase orders, offshore account numbers, and a memo with her name circled. *“Target acquisition for leverage.”*

Leverage? Ethan had targeted her bakery—her life—on purpose? Sam was right. Her hands shook, betrayal cutting deeper than she’d expected. She’d signed his contract, worn his ring, and let his touch mess with her head. And he’d played her from the start.

Footsteps echoed outside. Cynthia stuffed the memo in her purse, slamming the drawer shut just as Ethan stormed in. His eyes blazed, rain-soaked tux accentuated every muscle. “What the hell are you doing?”

She stood, chin up, channeling her rage. “Looking for the truth. Found it, too.” She held up the memo, voice steady despite her pounding heart. “You targeted my bakery. This marriage? It’s not just about your trust clause, is it?”

Ethan’s face darkened, but he didn’t deny it. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, advancing. “That memo’s out of context. Put it down.”

“No,” she snapped, backing toward the door. “Sam warned me, and I didn’t listen. What else are you hiding, Ethan? Did you have him stabbed?”

He froze, pain flashing across his face. “You think I’d do that?” His voice was raw, almost human. “Cynthia, I’m not a monster. But you’re digging into things that’ll get you hurt.”

Her phone buzzed, shattering the tension. A text from Kourtney: **Cyn, your apartment is trashed. The landlady dumped everything on the lawn. Get here NOW. The eviction notice—she’d forgotten in the gala chaos. Her life was unraveling faster than she could hold it together.

“I have to go,” she said, pushing past Ethan. Her heels slipped on the marble, but she didn’t care. The bakery, Sam, Ethan’s lies—she needed air, space, answers.

Ethan grabbed her wrist, gentler than she expected. “You’re not running into the rain like this. My driver’s taking you.” His eyes searched hers, a flicker of something—guilt? Worry?—breaking through his mask. “Cynthia, I didn’t touch Sam. But you need to trust me, or this deal falls apart.”

“Trust you?” She laughed, bitterly. “You’ve given me nothing but secrets.” But his touch, warm against her cold skin, made her falter. Why did he keep saving her?

The ride to her apartment was silent, rain hammering the Bentley’s roof. Her building’s lawn was a graveyard of her life—clothes, photos, her parents’ old recipe book, all soaked and muddy. Cynthia’s chest ached as she knelt, salvaging what she could. Ethan stood under an umbrella, watching, his face unreadable.

“Why are you here?” she asked, voice breaking. “You got what you wanted. I signed your damn contract.”

He crouched beside her, rain soaking his tux. “Because I don’t leave people in the dirt,” he said quietly. “Not even stubborn fake fiancées.” He handed her the recipe book, their fingers brushing.

Her throat tightened. He was a liar, a manipulator—yet here he was, soaked and steady. Before she could speak, a car screeched to a stop nearby. Camille stepped out, her umbrella shielding a man in a hoodie. His face was shadowed, but his voice sent ice down Cynthia’s spine.

“She’s got the memo,” the man said, low and familiar. “Finish this, Camille.”

Cynthia’s blood froze. It was Sam’s voice—but Sam was bleeding out at the gala. Wasn’t he? She clutched the memo, staring at Ethan, whose face had gone pale. “Cynthia,” he whispered, “run.”

Before she could move, Camille smirked, raising a sleek pistol. “Not so fast, sweetheart. That contract’s about to expire.”