Claimed By My Ex-Fiancé's Ruthless Brother

The black Lincoln Continental came to a smooth halt beneath the grand porte-cochère of the Montgomery estate in the Hamptons.

A footman pulled open the rear passenger door immediately.

Darlene stepped out onto the gravel driveway. Clayton’s men tracked her down mere hours after she fled the suite, silently forcing her into this vehicle and pressing this borrowed high-necked navy wool dress into her hands. Her hands clenched deep in the pockets. The collar was fastened tightly beneath her jaw, hiding the dark marks scattering her throat and collarbone.

Demario Montgomery stood on the top step, adjusting the knot of his silk tie.

When he saw her step out alone, a flicker of nervous calculation darted across his eyes before his face settled into an easy, rehearsed smile.

"Darling," Demario said, hurrying down the steps to catch her hand. "You vanished after feeling unwell last night. Why do you still look so pale?"

Darlene pulled her hand back as if she had touched a hot stove.

Her stomach churned with violent disgust. The memory of the sweet, chemically laced champagne he had handed her made her bile rise.

Demario's smile vanished. He stepped close, his fingers digging like iron claws into the small of her waist, his voice dropping to a vicious hiss against her ear.

"Drop the attitude, Darlene. The entire family is inside. Play the dutiful fiancée, or I swear to God, the administrator at St. Luke's will shut off your brother's ventilator before dessert."

Darlene dug her fingernails into her palms, the sharp pain keeping her from screaming. She swallowed the metallic taste of blood in her mouth and let him steer her through the towering oak double doors.

The grand reception hall was packed with the East Coast elite. Old money heirs, hedge fund titans, and Montgomery family board members stood in tight clusters under massive crystal chandeliers, murmuring in hushed, reverent tones.

"I heard the real head of the family showed up today," a socialite nearby whispered behind her flute of mimosa. "He hasn't attended a family brunch since the European acquisition."

A sharp voice from the butler sliced through the quartet's gentle strings.

"Mr. Clayton Montgomery has arrived."

The entire room fell dead silent.

Arrogant men who controlled billions in capital instantly straightened their spines and stepped aside, clearing a wide path down the center of the hall.

The steady, measured click of bespoke leather shoes echoed against the polished marble floor.

Clayton Montgomery walked into the hall flanked by six private security guards.

Darlene lifted her chin, her gaze drifting toward the center of the room.

The air was ripped from her lungs in an abrupt, brutal rush.

The man walking down the carpet was dressed in a charcoal three-piece suit, his posture radiating absolute authority. The sharp jawline, the broad shoulders, the terrifying slate-blue eyes—

It was the man from the hotel bed.

Not some hired escort. Not a random freelance model she’d drunkenly accosted the night before.

It was Clayton Montgomery—the ruthless, untouchable tyrant who controlled Montgomery Enterprises and held Wall Street by the throat.

A cold sweat broke out across Darlene's back. Her knees shook so violently she had to lean against the mahogany credenza behind her to keep from collapsing.

Beside her, Demario straightened his jacket and stepped forward, bowing his head with sickening deference.

"Brother," Demario said, his voice dripping with sycophancy as he dragged a paralyzed Darlene forward. "We are honored by your presence today. It is rare to see you away from the trading floor."

Clayton stopped.

He did not look at Demario. His eyes slid past his half-brother as if he were looking through empty glass.

His gaze dropped, sharp and dissecting, landing directly on Darlene's high collar. A razor-thin smirk touched the corner of his lips.

"And who is this?" Clayton asked, his deep baritone cutting through the silence.

Demario puffed out his chest, resting a proprietary hand on Darlene's shoulder.

"You remember my fiancée, Darlene Gilmore. As the eldest of the Gilmores, she’ll be a perfect addition to the family when we formalize the date next month."

"Fiancée?" Clayton repeated the word, rolling it over his tongue with mocking amusement.

He took one step forward.

His immense physical presence swallowed her in shadow. The faint, unmistakable scent of cold cedar and expensive tobacco washed over her senses, suffocating her completely.

Darlene could not breathe. She stared at the polished tip of his wingtips, terrified that he would pull those three crumpled hundred-dollar bills from his pocket and expose her in front of the entire room.

"Since she is to be my future sister-in-law," Clayton said coldly, "has no one taught her the family customs? Bring the tea."

A servant appeared instantly, holding out a silver tray bearing a fine porcelain cup of steaming Earl Grey.

"Serve it," Clayton directed, his eyes locked on her face.

Darlene's hands shook violently as she lifted the scalding porcelain cup. She kept her head bowed, her vision blurring with unshed tears, and held the cup up toward his chest.

"Mr. Montgomery... please."

Clayton reached out to take the cup.

His long, calloused fingers deliberately brushed across the back of her trembling hand, lingering for two full, agonizing seconds.

The rough contact sent a violent jolt through her spine. The hot tea sloshed against the rim, nearly spilling over.

Around them, several society matrons exchanged cold, disapproving glances.

Clayton brought the cup to his lips, took a slow sip, and set it back on the silver tray with a sharp, ringing clatter.

"The tea is lukewarm," he said, his voice flat. "And your hands are trembling, Miss Gilmore. Did you not sleep well last night?"

The public humiliation sliced deep. Darlene’s teeth sank hard into the flesh of her inner palm, fighting to calm her ragged breaths. She forced the words through her clenched teeth.

"I am fine, Mr. Montgomery. Thank you for your concern."

Clayton reached into the breast pocket of his tailored jacket.

Slowly, deliberately, he pulled out a folded silk pocket square to wipe his fingertips.

Darlene's heart stopped.

The fabric in his hand was champagne-colored silk, edged with the exact unique hand-sewn pearl trim of the evening gown she had worn the night before.