The Broken Lunas Second Chance by ND Lawson

"If you don't let me marry Erick, I will die right here. Tomorrow, the Wyatt family will be the biggest joke in the country."

Hayden Larson pressed the jagged edge of the broken champagne flute harder against her left wrist.

The sharp glass pierced her pale skin.

A thick drop of dark red blood welled up, sliding down her forearm before dripping onto the priceless Persian rug beneath her bare feet.

Her chest heaved. She dragged in shallow, ragged breaths, her eyes locked on the man sitting on the leather sofa opposite her.

Alois Wyatt sat entirely in the shadows.

The harsh overhead lights of the VIP club room barely caught the sharp, rigid lines of his jaw.

His large hands gripped the armrests of the sofa. The knuckles were stark white. The thick blue veins on the backs of his hands bulged against his skin.

The air in the room felt like solid concrete.

Barnett Stephens stood a few feet away, his mouth slightly open, holding his breath. He didn't dare make a single sound.

Alois stared at the blood dripping from Hayden's wrist. A violent spasm of pain and raw, suppressed rage flashed through his dark eyes.

He closed his eyes hard. His Adam's apple bobbed as he forced a swallow down his dry throat.

The room was dead silent. The only sound was the faint hum of the air conditioning vent above them.

Alois opened his eyes.

"Fine," he said. His voice was a harsh, gravelly scrape, like sandpaper against raw wood. "I agree."

Those three words hit Hayden's ears.

They were supposed to be her victory. They were supposed to mean she finally got what she wanted.

Instead, a high-pitched ringing exploded in her eardrums.

Her vision blurred. The expensive wood paneling and the leather sofas began to twist and spin, like a warped reel of old film.

A freezing chill shot up from the soles of her feet, straight into her skull.

Suddenly, her nostrils flared.

She smelled it. The thick, choking stench of gasoline. The sickening odor of burning flesh.