Bound to the CEO

"You're back late."

The voice, smooth as silk but layered with ice, cut through the pounding in Chloe Miller's head. She flinched, her hand tightening on the strap of her handbag.

Frances Sterling sat in a high-backed armchair in the center of the cavernous living room, a porcelain teacup held delicately in her perfectly manicured fingers. She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. Those eyes, the color of a winter sky, raked over Chloe from head to toe.

"I... I'm sorry, Frances. I was out with Phoenix. We lost track of time." The lie felt thick and clumsy on her tongue. Her stomach churned with a mixture of cheap champagne and guilt.

"Phoenix Bell? That spirited little gallery owner?" Frances took a slow, deliberate sip of her tea. "She does seem like a rather... distracting influence."

Chloe tugged at the collar of her turtleneck sweater. The wool felt suffocating against her skin, a desperate attempt to hide the evidence of a night she couldn't fully remember. A hotel room. A man whose face was a blur of shadows. The searing heat of his mouth on her skin.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage.

"Come, sit, dear," Frances said, patting the empty space on the velvet sofa beside her. It wasn't an invitation; it was a summons.

Chloe walked across the Persian rug, each step feeling like she was wading through cement. The air in the room was heavy with the scent of lilies and unspoken judgment. She sat on the very edge of the cushion, her back ramrod straight.

"Julian was so worried," Frances continued, her voice dripping with manufactured concern. "He called and called. He's had to fly to Geneva for an emergency meeting with the board. A sudden crisis."

Chloe's blood ran cold. Julian was gone? She had been counting on seeing him, on confessing, on begging for his forgiveness before his mother could sink her claws in.

"Oh, you poor thing, you look flustered," Frances cooed, setting her teacup down with a soft click. She leaned forward, her expensive perfume enveloping Chloe in a suffocating cloud. "Your collar is all crooked."

Before Chloe could react, Frances's cool, strong fingers were on her neck. With a swift, sharp tug, she pulled the collar of the sweater down.

The air in the room seemed to vanish.

There, stark against the pale skin of her throat, was a dark, angry-red mark. A kiss. A bite. A brand of her betrayal, exposed under the merciless light of the crystal chandelier.

The change in Frances was instantaneous. The polite mask dissolved, revealing a face contorted with cold, triumphant fury. Her pupils constricted to pinpricks.

Chloe's heart stopped. It didn't just skip a beat; it ceased to function entirely for a terrifying second. The blood in her veins turned to ice.

Frances recoiled as if she'd touched something filthy. She rose to her feet, her movements stiff with disgust.

"So, this is what you are," she hissed, her voice low and venomous.

She walked over to a polished mahogany desk where a stack of elegant, cream-colored cards lay. The wedding invitations. Julian's name and hers, entwined in gold calligraphy.

Frances picked one up. She looked at Chloe, a cruel smirk twisting her lips.