The Groom Who Ruined Me

Chapter 12

The rain began to fall just as the silver town car pulled into the driveway of the Hastings estate. Once a vibrant symbol of old-money luxury, the sprawling brick mansion now looked derelict. The manicured lawns were overgrown, and the grand fountains were completely drained, reflecting the family’s sudden public downfall.

Clara stared out the window, her fingers tracing the faint, jagged white scar on her wrist. The revelations from the night before still made her chest ache with a cold, hollow dread.

"Remember the rules, Clara."

Alec’s voice broke the silence of the car. He sat beside her, immaculately dressed in a charcoal gray overcoat, his expression a wall of absolute stone. He didn't look at her, but his hand resting on his knee was tense. "To your mother, I am still the ruthless predator who forced you into a marriage contract to liquidate your assets. If she suspects we are working together to dig up five-year-old police files, she will lock down. We need her off-guard."

"I know," Clara whispered, adjusting the heavy silk scarf around her neck. "My mother cares about two things: our public reputation and her family secrets. If I look broken, she’ll try to appease you to protect what’s left of our name."

The chauffeur opened the door. Alec stepped out first, extending a cold, formal hand to help her out of the car. To any onlookers or paparazzi hiding in the trees, it looked like a strictly business transaction. But as Clara’s fingers closed around his, Alec’s grip tightened for a brief fraction of a second—a hidden anchor of support before they walked into the lion's den.

The grand front doors were opened by a lone, elderly butler who looked deeply ashamed of the family's state. He guided them into the morning parlor, where Evelyn Hastings sat perched on a velvet chaise lounge.

Even in the wake of bankruptcy and her husband's arrest, Evelyn looked pristine. Her silver-streaked hair was pinned into a flawless chignon, and her diamond earrings caught the dim light of the fireplace. But as her eyes flicked from Alec to Clara’s pale face, a distinct flash of nervous calculation crossed her features.

"Alexander," Evelyn said, her voice smooth and dripping with calculated aristocratic charm as she stood up. "I must say, I didn't expect a social call from the man holding my husband's warrants. And Clara... look at you. You look like a ghost."

"Your daughter is exactly what she needs to be, Mrs. Hastings," Alec sneered, stepping forward to dominate the room, playing his role with terrifying accuracy. He tossed his leather gloves onto the tea table. "She is a Sinclair now, which means her schedule belongs to me. She insisted on retrieving her remaining personal documents from your study. I gave her exactly twenty minutes."

Evelyn’s eyes narrowed slightly, her gaze darting to Clara. "The documents were seized by your legal team last Tuesday, Alexander. There is nothing left here for her."

"There is one thing," Clara stepped forward, her voice trembling slightly on cue, the picture of a stressed, desperate bride. She pulled back her sleeve, exposing the jagged white scar on her wrist directly to the firelight. "I want the medical records from the Swiss clinic, Mother. The ones from five years ago. When I supposedly had pneumonia."

The room went dead silent. The crackle of the fireplace sounded like a gunshot.

Evelyn Hastings went completely rigid. The aristocratic warmth vanished from her face, replaced by a cold, pale mask of absolute panic. She quickly smoothed down her silk skirt, her voice dropping into a harsh, warning register. "Clara, don't be ridiculous. Those records were destroyed in the hospital's digital migration years ago. Why are you dragging up an old childhood illness in front of your husband?"

"Because it wasn't pneumonia, was it?" Clara pushed, taking a step closer to her mother, her hazel eyes blazing with a fierce demand for the truth. "The police pulled an unmarked car from the harbor docks five years ago, filled with my blood. Arthur Sinclair used his corporate accounts to bury the report, and Dad signed over fifty million dollars to cover up what happened to me. What happened to me on those docks, Mother?!"

Evelyn violently slapped her tea glass down onto the silver tray, her fingers shaking with a volatile mix of rage and terror. "Stop this nonsense at once! You had an accident! You fell through the greenhouse glass, your father panicked because of the press, and we moved you to Switzerland to heal in private! There is no conspiracy!"

"You're lying," Alec’s voice cut through the air like a blade. He stepped up beside Clara, his stormy gray eyes fixing Evelyn in place. He leaned down slightly, his towering presence filling the room with an aura of immense legal and physical threat. "I reviewed the Sinclair subsidiary accounts this morning, Mrs. Hastings. The wire transfer to the central precinct wasn't signed by my brother alone. It required a secondary authorization code. A code that belonged to your personal trust fund."

Evelyn backed up a step, her heel catching on the edge of the rug. She looked at Alec, then at Clara, realizing that the golden cage she thought her daughter was locked in wasn't a prison at all—it was a united front.

"You don't know what you're digging up, Alexander," Evelyn breathed, her voice cracking as her regal composure completely dissolved into genuine fear. She reached out, grabbing Clara’s arms, her eyes wide with a desperate, frantic plea. "Clara, listen to me. Your father did what he did to keep you alive. If Julian Vance or the old board members find out that you remember that night... they won't just ruin this family. They will finish what they started five years ago!"

Before Clara could press her for the final name, a heavy, deafening smash shattered the stained-glass windows of the parlor.

A silver canister rolled across the Persian rug, instantly hissing as a thick, blinding cloud of white smoke began to fill the room. Tear gas.

"Clara, cover your face!" Alec roared.

In a fraction of a second, he yanked Clara against his chest, pulling his charcoal overcoat up over her head to shield her lungs from the toxic fumes. Gunfire erupted from the front courtyard, wood splinters and plaster raining down over them as Alec dragged her behind the heavy mahogany desk in the corner of the room.

Through the roaring smoke, Clara heard her mother scream—a sharp, choked sound that was suddenly cut short.

"Mother!" Clara cried, trying to break out of Alec’s grip, but his arms were like steel bands around her waist, keeping her pinned safely to the floor as bullets tore through the room above them.

"Stay down!" Alec hissed, his face inches from hers, his gray eyes burning through the haze with a lethal, protective fury. He drew his weapon, firing two precise shots into the smoke toward the shattered window line. "They aren't here for the data this time, Clara. They're here to silence her."

The screech of tires echoed from the driveway outside, followed by the roaring engines of Julian Vance’s black SUVs speeding away into the rain.

As the smoke slowly began to clear, Alec pushed himself up, his weapon still raised as he scanned the room. The parlor was completely destroyed. And on the velvet chaise lounge, Evelyn Hastings was gone. Smashed glass and a lone, silver diamond earring were the only things left behind in the quiet room.

Clara scrambled out from behind the desk, her knees hitting the glass-covered floor as she stared at the empty lounge. She looked up at Alec, her chest heaving with a terrifying, absolute realization.

"They took her," Clara whispered, her voice trembling as she gripped Alec’s coat. "Julian knows we're getting close to the truth."

Alec stood over her, his jaw set into a hard, rigid line, his eyes tracking the fresh tire marks in the mud outside. He put his weapon away, his fingers tightening around hers with a fierce, burning resolve. "Then we don't play by the corporate rules anymore, Clara. Tonight, we take Julian’s entire empire down."