Claimed By My Ex-Fiancé's Ruthless Brother

At dawn, gray light slipped through the gap in the heavy velvet curtains and slid across the rumpled white sheets.

Darlene's eyelids fluttered open. Every bone in her body felt as if it had been smashed and ground to powder; the lingering dizziness from the drug had not completely faded.

She tried to turn over, but a huge weight pinned her down. A thick, muscular arm lay possessively across her bare waist, radiating an oppressive heat through the sheet.

Memories of the previous night flooded into her mind all at once.

Her throat tightened, and her breath stopped. She covered her mouth with both hands, suppressing the scream about to burst out.

Slowly, fearfully, she turned her head.

The man beside her slept on his stomach, his face turned toward the wall. His broad, bare back was covered with dark, angry red scratches.

He seemed deeply asleep. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, an impeccable physique, and a face so breathtakingly handsome that even in sleep he looked like someone who had stepped out of a painting.

Torn scraps of champagne-colored silk and damaged lace lay scattered across the floor like the wreckage after an explosion.

"Oh God... oh God... what happened? I actually spent the night with a strange man."

Darlene bit her lower lip unconsciously. "Did I go into the wrong room? Did the drug cloud my mind, and I forced myself on this man?"

The thought slammed into her mind, and shame and panic swept over her instantly, making her whole body burn hot.

She had to leave. Especially since she believed she had wronged him, she did not dare wait for the man to wake.

Darlene held her breath, slid her palms under the man's forearm, and lifted the heavy weight millimeter by millimeter until she could pull herself free.

The moment her bare feet touched the cold hardwood floor, her knees buckled. She gripped the carved bedpost tightly and waited for the dizziness to pass.

Her dress was ruined. It was nothing but rags.

She crept to the walk-in closet, slid the heavy sliding door open just enough, and snatched a loose black cashmere coat from a hanger. She draped it over her bruised, marked skin, wrapped it tightly around herself, and cinched the belt until she could barely breathe.

Beside the armchair, she saw her leather handbag. The strap was broken, but the contents were intact.

When she picked up the bag, her gaze involuntarily darted to the man on the bed and quickly away, completely unaware that the man had already woken and quietly closed his eyes again, pretending to sleep.

On the nightstand lay a leather-bound guest registry for a private party at the hotel lounge.

Her heart ached with bitter nausea.

"Demario didn't just abandon me. His goal was to completely destroy me," she realized coldly. "Forget it. No matter what, I should pay first. This man is probably a high-end model at the club or a gigolo. He... must be short on money."

Darlene opened the coin purse of her wallet. There was no gold card inside. Her father's accounts had been frozen by the bankruptcy trustee months ago. All she had left was the change remaining from Dwight's clinic out-of-pocket expenses and her part-time tips.

Three crumpled, folded one-hundred-dollar bills.

As she smoothed them flat on her thigh, her fingers trembled with humiliation.

She crept to the nightstand, slapped the three bills onto the cold marble, and shoved them directly under the man's heavy gold lighter.

That was all the money she had.

Barefoot, she turned, clutched the bag tightly against her ribs, opened the suite door, and slipped into the empty carpeted hallway. Avoiding the elevator, she took the service stairs and disappeared into the cold morning mist of Lexington Avenue.

Inside the suite, the soft click of the heavy door echoed in the silence.

On the bed, Clayton Montgomery opened his slate-blue eyes and sat up, lazily running a hand through his dark hair. His cold gaze swept over the empty side of the mattress, then landed on the nightstand.

Three green bills were pressed beneath his Cartier lighter.

He reached out and picked up the old bills with two long fingers. A dark, dangerous smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.

"Three hundred dollars? You sleep with me and leave only this much?"

His low voice echoed against the high ceiling; his thin lips curved upward, and he actually laughed.

There were two knocks on the hidden door leading to the outer reception room, and then it opened. Gavin Hayes walked in, his tailored suit spotless and his expression resolute.

"Sir," Gavin reported respectfully, eyes lowered, "the eight paparazzi lying in wait downstairs have been detained by our private security team. All memory cards have been erased and destroyed."

Clayton tossed the three bills onto the rumpled sheets. His expression instantly returned to its usual cold, untouchable arrogance.

"Where is Demario?"

"He returned to the Long Island estate at dawn, sir. He is telling board members that he is hosting a family brunch for your grandfather. He seems to be waiting for the news to spread."

Clayton stood, stepping soundlessly on the floor. He bent down, picked up a small piece of champagne-colored silk from the carpet, and gripped it tightly until his knuckles cracked.

"Have the car brought around," Clayton said, walking toward the marble bathroom. "It's time to show my half-brother what happens when he tries to play games with my property."