Page 4 of Corrupted Bride

I smash the button and drop the phone, both hands flying to my mouth to stifle a scream.

Sara sinks to one knee, she’s laughing so hard. Tears roll down her cheeks. “He heard!” she says, gasping for air. “Oh my god—this is so—fucking—funny!”

“No it’s not,” I snap, mortified. Ever since I was forced to work here, I’ve been nothing but professional. I follow every rule. I treat every guest with courtesy and compassion.

I keep my head down and do my job.

But this? Oh my god, this?!

It’s a nightmare.

If Sara understood even half the trouble I could be in right now, she wouldn’t be laughing.

Hector, he knows who my people are. But Sara’s still blissfully ignorant.

“Holy crap, this is the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.” She groans, pushing to her feet and wiping her eyes. “Mari, you should see your face. You’re, like, paler than a ghost. Seriously… it’s crazy… Mari?”

I slump back against the counter, hugging myself to keep from shaking. “Can you call the order in to the kitchen, please?”

“Sure, no problem, but seriously, it’s not that big of a deal. I’m sure that guy—” She cuts off when the phone rings again.

This time, neither of us lunge for it.

My chest tightens. Fear bristles down every inch of my skin.

Sara slowly picks up the receiver. “Front desk, Sara speaking.” She pauses, listening. A deep frown passes over her face and her shoulders sag. “Okay. Yes, sir. I’ll tell her.”

She hangs up and stares at me.

“Mr. Bass said he wants you to bring the food to his room.”

2

MARI

This is crazy. I’m making a huge mistake.

It’s not too late to turn around.

I glance at myself in the mirror of the elevator and adjust my dark hair. It’s wavy, especially tonight, but I try to keep it pinned back and neat. I hate the way the uniform’s vest clings to my chest; I have more curves than Sara does and it only makes me look wide. I chew my lip, heart pattering, wondering why I haven’t gotten off at a different floor and asked someone else to finish the job, when I know this is only going to be a massive problem.

I know men like Mr. Bass.

Maybe not him exactly, but I’ve grown up around them my whole life.

Dangerous men. The sort of men that treat women like me as if we’re playthings.

Men with money. Men with violence in their souls.

I never, ever let myself get anywhere near the kind of men my cousins hung around with, or my brother’s stupid, asshole friends, but here I am, willingly heading to a door I know I should avoid.

What’s the point of this?

The elevator reaches the top floor and dings.

I flinch as the doors slide open.

A short hallway. At the end is the penthouse suite’s entrance.