Bonus Epilogue

ILEAH - THE GALA

T onight was incredible. Between the beautiful decor Jaclyn coordinated, the lively music, and watching the bachelors auctioned off to women with entirely too much money, I don't remember the last time I had this much fun at a gala.

Settled in bed with Tim fast asleep, I count the minutes until it's 2 a.m. In thirty, my husband's political future will be secure. The Gallaghers didn't give me the details other than it would be solved by two this morning—the less I know, the better. Exhausted from the night, I finally close my eyes, giddy that Tim will have another term in the Senate.

Several minutes later, I'm half asleep when there's a loud click of the door unlocking with a key card. My eyes flutter open, and I mumble to Tim, "Everything okay?"

He doesn't answer. Instead, there's a strange gurgling sound. I sit up and turn on a light, but it doesn't work. The alarm clock is blinking 12:00; there must been a power outage. Using the flashlight on my phone, I find Tim next to me, hand on his neck, choking on his own blood.

"Tim!" I shriek, tossing my phone aside, even if it's the only light illuminating the room. His face is cast in shadows as my hands instinctively reach for his throat to keep him from bleeding out. I'm unable to stop the crimson syrup from spilling from him. "I'll get help." Before I can reach for my phone again, his watery breath ceases. "No! Stay with me, baby!"

I press my ear to his chest.

Nothing .

Check his pulse.

Also, nothing.

"Don't you dare die on me." Placing one palm over the other, I shove my hands against his chest to the rhythm of "Staying Alive" by the Bee Gees. I continue chest compressions for over a minute, more blood gushing from his neck.

Tears fall as the love of my life remains breathless. I pick up the hotel to dial 911, but the line is dead. My cell phone has no reception. I attempt to use the WiFi; also out.

Sliding off the bed, my fight-or-flight response finally does what's supposed to; the fight outweighing the flight. Someone sliced my husband's throat, but I never heard the door open a second time. Whoever did this could still be here.

I may be next.

As I take a quick survey of the room, the sharpest item in here is a plastic spork. Then, I spot the two champagne flutes from earlier. I snatch one and smash it against the table. There are four sharp peaks; if I aim properly, I can do enough damage to get away.

There's a small rustle in the closet, confirmation that they are still here.

My options are slim:

Make a run for it and risk whoever is in there catching me first.

Murder this motherfucker and call someone to clean it up.

I have no desire to die tonight, so option two it is.

Keeping my back flush with the wall next to the closet, I'll wait him, or her, out. My hands shake, the champagne flute raised next to my head, ready to attack. They likely assume I'm still in here, so I open and close the bathroom door, hoping they'll believe I've fled, then return to my spot on the wall.

If this is how I die, I'll go down swinging.

My heart stops, sucking in a breath when the air conditioning roars to life and the lamp on the bedside table turns on. I wait several minutes and stifle a scream when the closet door opens. Still poised to attack whoever is in there, the moment they come into view, I jab the broken flute into their neck, effortlessly slicing through their flesh. Blood spurts from the puncture as they crumple to the ground, grasping the glass and pulling it from the wound. There's a vase with faux flowers sitting on the table. I run for it and launch it at their head. My aim is perfect, striking them in the temple, and they fall flat, lying lifeless on the ground.

Looking back at my husband, his face is now white, and my heart plummets. This wasn't a random hotel break in. Whoever this man on the floor is, he planned it. He had access to a key card—or at least found a way to have a universal one made.

Could it be one of Tim's opponents?

Rage fills me, and not giving a fuck that I'm barefoot, I stomp once on his neck. It crunches beneath my heel, and the satisfaction momentarily eases my anger.

"That's for killing my husband." I stomp a second time, more blood seeping from his neck and mouth. "And that's for thinking you can fuck with a Vasileiou."

With everything that's happened, there's only one person I could call about this who would be able to help me. Unfortunately, I'd rather join this asshole on the ground in a bloody death than call him. I settle for his brother instead. The phone rings twice, and he picks up.

Without giving him a chance to say ‘hello,' I growl, "I need a cleaner. Right fucking now."