The Groom Who Ruined Me

Chapter 4

By 4:00 PM, Clara’s fingers were stained with black ink, and her shoulders ached from slouching over the mountain of corporate documents. Through the massive glass wall of the CEO suite, she could see Alec. He had been locked in back-to-back video conferences for hours, his sharp jaw tight, his expression an unreadable mask of cold authority.

He hadn't looked at her once. He was ignoring her, treating her like a piece of office furniture to punish her for the incident with Julian in the elevator.

Let him ignore me, Clara thought, her eyes tracking the blinking lights of the digital scanner. The busier he is, the less he’s watching.

She picked up the next folder from the stack. It was a heavy, unmarked manila folder bound by a thick red string. Unlike the standard corporate tax files she had been logging all day, this one had no barcode. No digital tracking number.

Clara glanced up at the glass office. Alec’s back was turned to her as he gestured to a presentation on his wall monitor.

Her heart began to hammer against her ribs like a trapped bird. Her fingers trembled as she pulled the knot on the red string, sliding the documents out.

The very first page made her breath catch in her throat. It was a forensic audit of the fifty-million-dollar deficit that had destroyed her family's company, Hastings Logistics. But as her eyes scanned the lines of numbers, something didn't make sense.

Clara wasn't an accountant, but she had lived with her father her entire life. She knew his handwriting. She knew his personal digital signature. The authorization codes listed on these transfer sheets didn't belong to her father's computer network. They routed back to an internal server located right here—inside Sinclair Enterprises.

My father didn't steal the money, Clara’s mind reeled, a wave of fierce, emotional validation crashing over her. He was a scapegoat. Someone inside Alec’s own company stole the fifty million and left a trail of breadcrumbs leading straight to my father's desk.

She flipped to the next page, desperate for a name, a department, anything.

Suddenly, a shadow fell over her desk.

Clara reacted on pure instinct. She slammed the manila folder shut and slid it under a massive stack of completed tax logs just as a heavy, masculine hand came down on the edge of her workspace.

"Are you done daydreaming, Clara?"

She looked up, her heart leaping into her throat. Alec was standing over her, his suit jacket removed, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms. His stormy gray eyes were narrowed, tracking the rapid rise and fall of her chest.

"I... I was just finishing the last batch," Clara stammered, fighting with every ounce of her willpower to keep her voice from shaking. She forced her hands into her lap so he wouldn't see them trembling. "I’m on track to finish by five, just like I promised."

Alec didn't back away. He leaned down slightly, his gaze dropping to the stack of files she had just hidden the folder under, then shifting back to her face. He was too perceptive, too analytical. He could smell her fear.

"You look like you've seen a ghost, wife," Alec murmured, his voice dangerously smooth. He reached out, his thumb slowly tracing the line of her jaw, his touch sending a confusing jolt of electricity straight down her spine. "Did the paperwork prove too difficult for your artistic mind?"

Clara pulled her face back, breaking his touch. She needed to distract him before he decided to look at the desk. "The paperwork is fine, Mr. Sinclair. I’m just tired. Unlike you, I actually have a conscience, and marrying the man who ruined my life is exhausting."

Alec’s eyes darkened, the temperature around the desk instantly dropping. Instead of getting angry, a slow, cruel smirk spread across his lips.

"Good. I want you exhausted. I want you to feel the weight of every dollar your family took," he said, straightening up to his full height. He checked his luxury watch. "Pack up your things. We are leaving."

Clara blinked, glancing at the clock. "It's only four-thirty. You said I couldn't leave until every file was logged."

"The board meeting for the annual charity gala was pushed forward," Alec replied coldly, turning his back on her as he grabbed his coat from his office. "A town car is waiting downstairs to take you back to the estate. A stylist will be arriving at five o'clock sharp to prepare you."

Clara stood up, her legs feeling like lead. "Prepare me for what?"

Alec paused at the doorway, looking over his shoulder. The gray evening light caught the sharp angles of his face, making him look devastatingly handsome and utterly terrifying all at once.

"Tonight is your official debut to the high society of this city as Mrs. Alexander Sinclair," he said, his voice laced with grim satisfaction. "The press will be there. The board will be there. And Julian Vance will be there. You are going to wear the dress I selected, stand by my side, and play the role of a doting, submissive bride."

Clara clutched her hands into fists. "And if I refuse to play along? If I tell the press exactly how you blackmailed me into this ring?"

Alec stepped back into her space, his towering shadow swallowing her whole. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.

"Then by midnight, the medical care your father is receiving in his holding cell will be completely disconnected," Alec whispered, his threat terrifyingly casual. "Play your part beautifully tonight, Clara. Smile for the cameras. Because your family’s survival depends on how happy you look in my arms."

He pulled back, giving her one last unreadable look before walking out of the executive suite, leaving her standing alone in the darkening office.

The moment the heavy glass doors clicked shut, Clara let out the breath she had been holding. Her tears finally spilled over, hot and angry against her cheeks. She reached under the stack of files and pulled out the hidden manila folder.

She couldn't take the whole file, Alec's security would catch it on the cameras. Instead, she quickly slipped the page containing the internal Sinclair server codes out of the string binding, folded it tightly, and hid it inside the lining of her shoe.

You think you hold all the cards, Alec, she thought, wiping her tears away with the back of her ink-stained hand. But tonight, I am going to that gala. And I am going to find out exactly who inside your empire is the real monster.