The Groom Who Ruined Me

Chapter 1

The white lace of the wedding dress felt like a shroud of spun glass against Clara’s skin. Every breath she took was a battle against the tight, suffocating corset, but the true suffocation was the heavy silver ring sitting on the mahogany desk between them.

"Sign it, Clara. My patience has a very specific, very expensive limit."

Alexander "Alec" Sinclair didn’t look like a man about to get married. He looked like an executioner reviewing a death warrant. He sat behind his massive desk in the penthouse office of Sinclair Enterprises, the gray light of the city skyline framing his broad shoulders. He hadn't even bothered to take off his dark tailored suit jacket or loosen his tie. To him, this was just Tuesday.

Clara Hastings picked up the heavy fountain pen. Her fingers shook, tracing the cold metal. "If I sign this... the warrants for my father’s arrest vanish? Tonight?"

"The moment your signature dries, the Sinclair legal team withdraws the fraud charges," Alec said, his voice a smooth, low baritone that sent a shiver of pure ice down her spine. "The debt your father owes my firm will be wiped clean. The Hastings name will be saved from total public ruin."

"And the price is me," Clara whispered, looking up.

Alec’s eyes were a piercing, stormy gray, entirely devoid of warmth. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk, invading her space without moving an inch. "Let’s not flatter ourselves, Clara. You aren't the prize. You are the collateral. Your father stole fifty million dollars from my family's legacy. Since he cannot pay me back in currency, he is paying me what he values most. His precious, pristine daughter."

"I had nothing to do with his business!" Clara flared, fire sparking through her terror. "I am an artist, Alec! I never touch the company books!"

"But you live under his roof. You wear the clothes his stolen money bought. You breathe the air his theft paid for," Alec countered coldly. His gaze dropped to her trembling lips, then back to her eyes.

"You enjoyed the luxury of the Hastings name. Now, you get to pay the tax."

Clara swallowed the lump of glass in her throat. She looked down at the marriage contract. It wasn't a standard prenuptial agreement. It was a prison sentence. It stated that she would remain his legal wife for as long as he deemed necessary. She would obey his public directives. She would live under his roof. And she would forfeit all personal assets.

She thought of her father, a broken man currently sitting in a holding cell, his heart failing under the stress. She thought of her mother, sobbing on the kitchen floor as movers slapped foreclosure stickers on their family heirlooms.

I don't have a choice, she realized. I never did.

With a shaking hand, she pressed the pen to the paper. Clara Hastings.

The ink looked like blood against the stark white page.

Alec didn't smile. He merely reached out, took the paper, and slid it into a secure drawer. He stood up, his towering six-foot-two frame instantly dominating the room. He picked up the heavy silver wedding band from the desk and walked around to her side.

"Hand," he commanded.

Clara hesitated, then held out her left hand. Alec took her fingers in his. His hand was large, warm, and calloused, a stark contrast to the coldness of his demeanor. He slid the heavy band onto her ring finger. It felt like a handcuff.

"From this moment on, you are Clara Sinclair," he murmured, his breath brushing her forehead. "You will pack one suitcase from your old home. Anything else will be provided by me, under my terms. You will not speak to the press. You will not leave the penthouse without my driver. And you will remember exactly why you are here."

Clara pulled her hand back, clutching it against her chest. "And why is that, Alec? To be your trophy? To show the world you conquered the Hastings family?"

Alec leaned down, his face inches from hers. The scent of expensive woodsmoke and expensive whiskey enveloped her. A dark, terrifying smirk played on his lips.

"A trophy is something you cherish, Clara," he whispered, his voice dangerously soft. "I didn't marry you to display you. I married you to ruin you. I am going to strip away your pride, your freedom, and that pathetic little hope you keep holding onto. By the time I am done with you, you will realize that prison would have been a mercy for your family."

He straightened up, snapping his fingers. The heavy double doors of the office opened instantly, and two burly men in black suits stepped inside.

"Take Mrs. Sinclair to the estate," Alec ordered, not looking at her again as he turned back to his laptop. "Lock her in the eastern wing. I have a gala to attend tonight. She can begin her new life in the dark."

Clara stood up, her wedding gown rustling loudly in the quiet office. She kept her chin high, refusing to let the tears blinding her vision fall in front of him.

"I might be your prisoner, Alec," she said, her voice steadying with a sudden, fierce resolve. "But pieces of wood can be broken. I won't break for you."

Alec didn't even look up from his screen. "We'll see, Clara. The night is very long."

The guards stepped forward, politely but firmly guiding her toward the exit. As the heavy doors shut behind her, Clara knew her life as she knew it was over. She was officially entering the lion's den, married to the groom who had sworn to ruin her.