Crimson Vows

The silk sheets are stained with blood.

Not hers.

Not him.

But someone's.

And that's only the tip of the iceberg.

The worst part is, I have absolutely no concept of how I arrived here. Or why my name is written in lipstick on the mirror.

SCARLETT - RUN

Thunder booms like a threat against the glass panes of the hotel room. The New York skyline lies hidden under a rainstorm that batters the glass like fists against a coffin. It is poetic - if only the kind of poetry that would sound like a hangover mixed with fear and perfume.

I wrap the crumpled bedsheet tightly over myself. My black silk dress with the torn strap lies scattered across the floor as though it had fallen from my body and perished. There is glass scattered alongside the minibar. One stiletto. One earring. There is a bottle of champagne with a ring of crimson encircling the neck.

And him.

He's at the window, tall, still, and ominous. Lit up by lightning. No shirt. Bare feet. A snake tattoo encircles his ribcage. His low-slung pants are cinched low across hips. One hand clasps a tumbler of golden regret.

"Where's the girl?" I croak, my voice not natural.

He doesn't turn.

"She's gone ten minutes now," he tells me. "Just after telling me that she knew your name wasn't actually Scarlett."

I blink. My body grows cold.

Which woman?

He now faces.

I also wished he hadn't.

Because the man I'm looking at is Jaxon Vale - the billionaire no one prepared me thoroughly for. The man whose name is whispered in boardrooms and screamed in bedrooms. The man whose sister was found dead in a tub five years ago and whose eyes have had a look of vengeance since then.

And me?

I'm his assistant.

I was.

Until last night.

It was not supposed to happen.

"Why can't I remember anything?." I whispered, "why am I here?"

He comes towards me gingerly, glass in one hand, storm in his eyes.

Didn't you sign the contract as well?

I gasp for air. "What contract?"

He lets the paper fall onto the bed. The letters are blurred, but my name is written there.

Scarlett Hale,

Party of the First Part.

He is directly beneath.

Jaxon Vale. Party of the Second Part.

And under that

Binding contract of marriage, effective immediately.

I recoil, my back hitting the headboard. "This is a joke."

Jaxon says nothing. He sets the glass down beside the nightstand and pulls the sheet up over the stain.

Red. Dry. Spattered like someone coughed up secrets.

I shake my head. I have no clue what this is. But I did not agree to marry you.

"In a legal sense, you did. Emotionally, you're playing catch-up."

I was intoxicated

"You were desperate."

I stiffen. He smiles, not in his eyes, however.

"You got fired yesterday, didn't you?" he says, tilting head to the side. "No warning. No severance. No explanation. I made you very wealthy, Mrs. Vale."

My heart stops.

"No," I tell her. "No, no. There's a mix-up. I'm not-"

"I saved you from being eaten alive," he cuts in, and his tone is as cold as the rain. "The vultures were swooping. Your landlord. Your past foster care. That unpaid 2019 hospital bill."

He's learned too much.

"Why me?" I ask. "Why not someone else?"

There is a shadow across the eyes.

"Victoria Crane despises you", he says.

That name. It comes crashing into my head like a door flung off its hinges. Victoria - the woman I had only heard about in black and white corporate papers, following me now?

"I don't see-"

"You will," he says, turning about and walking towards the door.

"Where are you headed?" I ask.

"To clean up the damage in 407," he says. "Where the actual blood is."

He walks out.

And there are clicking locks from the outside.

Three hours later, I find my dress, my phone - dead - and a cab willing to accept cash. My ID is missing. So is my voice.

I do not go home. I go to the one place nobody would think to find secrets: the library. The basement level. Wi-Fi, no cameras, dimmed lights. It's filled with the scent of dreams not yet realized.

I open a browser and type:

"Victoria Crane and Scarlett Hale relationship" The screen flashes briefly.

Then something unexpected happens.

The file automatically downloads. The icon flashes red. The name of the file is: DO NOT OPEN.

I do so anyway.

Photos

A child. Myself?

One of the men beside me with a half-smile and sea eyes.

Caption: Lucien Hale, CEO of Hale Pharmaceuticals, declared dead in 2003.

I remember that name.

Lucien Hale was the man Victoria replaced when she became the head of Crane Corporation. He died in a car explosion. No survivors. Nobody.

He was also, as it would appear, my father.

I release the mouse.

And then, I hear it.

The breath.

Behind you.

I spin.

But there isn't anyone there.

Only a note, left on the table where there had previously been none.

RUN FASTER. SHE'S AWAR

Later that evening

I return to my apartment.

The door isn't locked.

The light is illuminated.

And quietly sitting on my well-worn secondhand couch... is Mya.

My former roommate. My closest friend. The hacker. The fixer. The only person in the world who is familiar with all my skeletons in the closet since she helped bury them.

"You're trending," she says.

I blink.

She throws her phone.

BREAKING: Billionaire CEO Weds Personal Assistant in a Small Ceremony.

Here's a photograph.

I, barefoot and amazed

He by my hand.

Blood on his cuff.

"What is it?" I whisper.

Mya takes my shoulders and sits up.

"You're not only married," she says, "but you're branded."

She rolls up her cuff. A tattoo - the very same one as Jaxon's - burned onto her wrist.

She's shoving my wrist aside

I look.

Bruised, fragile. But genuine.

The same sign.

"You're not his wife," she tells her.

He's your weapon.

It's raining hard against the windows the following morning. I sit at the edge of the bed, the contract in my hands. Mya is sleeping on the couch, a knife under her pillow.

I signed my name.

Scarlett Hale Vale

I do not remember signing it.

But I remember what Jaxon said last night.

I loathe Victoria Crane.

Why

Why would the most powerful woman in Manhattan want a former foster child murdered?

I lift the jammed envelope from the contract. I did not see it there the night before. There is a photograph. Yellowed. With one corner missing.

It's me.

As a child.

Located between Jaxon Vale and Lucien Hale.

But on the other side, a sentence in a script I did not recognize:

"They, one of them murdered your mother."

A knock at the door.

Three short raps.

One long.

I shake.

That was our cue. Mya's and mine.

But she's still sleeping.

I creep up to the peephole.

No one.

I open the door slightly.

And there he is.

Jaxon Vale.

Stood in the hallway.

With a gun in one hand.

Blood from the other.

And in the background a figure in a red sea.

"You have to go with me," he says, hoarsely.

"Why"

He leans in close..

"Because your mother's not dead."