Shattered Bonds: The Reborn Heiress Strikes Back

"Eloise. Open the door."

The voice scraped against her spine like rusted metal.

Eloise Ferguson's eyes snapped open. Her lungs violently expanded, sucking in the air, thick with the cloying scent of lavender mixed with harsh chemical cleaners, inside the Ritz-Carlton restroom. Her hands flew to her throat. There was no blood. There was no crushing weight of a collapsed trachea. Her fingers dug into the flawless, expensive silk of her evening gown. No IV tubes. No hospital restraints.

She stared at her hands. They were trembling, but they were young. The skin was smooth, unmarred by the defensive wounds that had defined her final days. She was twenty-two again. The charity gala.

"Eloise, darling. Don't be difficult."

Bradyn Chandler's voice bled through the heavy wooden door of the restroom. The sound of it made her stomach violently contract. Acid clawed up her throat. Her body remembered the trauma even if the timeline had reset. She pressed her thumb hard into the collarbone hidden beneath her dress, right where the bullet scar lay, using the physical pressure to ground her spiraling mind.

Heavy footsteps stopped right outside the main restroom door. Bradyn pushed. The door rattled but didn't open. A cleaning cart had been wedged against it from the inside.

Eloise clamped both hands over her mouth. Her heart hammered against her ribs so hard she thought it might crack her sternum. She needed an exit. Now.

She tilted her head back. Above the toilet, a square ventilation grate sat flush against the ceiling. Next to the sinks, a tall, wooden stool had been left behind by the cleaning staff.

"I'm losing my patience, Eloise," Bradyn warned. The handle rattled violently. He was adjusting his cuffs-she could hear the familiar clink of his platinum cufflinks. It was his tell. He was losing control.

Eloise kicked off her five-thousand-dollar stilettos. The cold tile shocked her bare feet. She dragged the stool into the stall, the wooden legs scraping against the floor. Every sound felt like a gunshot. She climbed onto the stool, her bare feet gripping the edges. She reached up, her fingers hooking into the slats of the metal grate.

In the psychiatric facility of her past life, she had learned how to dislocate and leverage her own joints to escape restraints. She applied that same brutal force now. She twisted her wrists, ignoring the sharp, tearing pain in her tendons, and yanked.

The grate popped loose with a harsh metallic snap.

At that exact second, the main restroom door burst open. The cleaning cart crashed against the marble sinks. Bradyn's heavy footsteps stormed onto the tile.

"You think you can embarrass me?" Bradyn snarled.

He started kicking the stall doors open. Bang. Bang.

Eloise shoved the grate aside, grabbed the dusty edge of the duct, and pulled her entire body weight upward. Her silk dress caught on a jagged screw, ripping a massive gash up her thigh. She didn't care. She threw her upper body into the dark, narrow shaft just as Bradyn kicked open the door to her stall.

She held her breath, freezing in the darkness.

Below her, Bradyn stared at the empty stall. He let out a vicious string of curses and kicked the porcelain toilet bowl so hard the water sloshed over the rim. He turned and stormed out, the door slamming shut behind him.

Eloise exhaled a shaky breath. The air in the duct was thick with decades of dust. It coated her throat, triggering an intense biological urge to cough. She bit down on the back of her hand, her teeth breaking the skin, forcing the cough back down into her chest.

She began to crawl. The metal dug into her bare knees. The shredded silk of her dress offered no protection. Her eyes were fixed on the faint sliver of light ahead. She knew the layout of this hotel. If she crawled toward the rear, she would end up above the VIP smoking lounge hallway. It was the only way to bypass the main ballroom where her family's spies were waiting.

She reached the vent overlooking the back hallway. Peering through the slats, she saw thick Persian carpets and dim, amber lighting. Empty.

She kicked the grate out. It clattered softly onto the carpet. Eloise squeezed her shoulders through the opening and dropped.

She hit the floor hard. Her right ankle rolled inward with a sickening pop. Pain shot up her leg, sharp and blinding. She bit her lip to swallow the scream, collapsing onto the carpet.

"Check the back corridors. No one leaves early without passing us."

The crackle of a security radio echoed from the far end of the hall. Heavy boots marched in her direction.

Eloise scrambled backward. Her ankle throbbed with a hot, pulsing agony. She dragged herself toward a recessed alcove where the lighting didn't reach. She pushed herself back into the shadows, moving too fast, too desperately.

Her back slammed into something solid. Something warm.

A low gasp escaped her lips. It wasn't a wall. It was a chest.

Before she could pull away, a thick, muscular arm wrapped around her waist, locking her in place. She was pulled flush against a hard body. The scent of expensive cedarwood and a faint trace of dark tobacco filled her lungs.

A flashlight beam swept past the alcove. Eloise went entirely rigid. Her breath stopped.

"Lost, gentlemen?"

The voice rumbled from the chest pressed against her back. It was deep, lazy, and dripping with the kind of absolute, unquestionable authority that only came from generational power.

The security guards stopped dead in their tracks. The flashlight dropped to the floor.

"Mr. Callahan. Apologies, sir. We were just looking for a guest."

"Look elsewhere," the man drawled.

"Yes, sir. Right away."

The footsteps retreated in a frantic hurry.

Silence fell over the hallway. Eloise immediately twisted her body, shoving her hands against the man's chest to break the physical contact.

The arm around her waist didn't let go. Instead, it tightened slightly, pulling her back.

The flickering wall sconce illuminated his face. Eloise's stomach dropped. She knew that face. Everyone in Washington knew that face. Arch Callahan. The second son of the Callahan political dynasty. The city's most notorious, reckless playboy.

Arch tilted his head, a slow, predatory smirk touching his lips. His dark eyes dragged over her bare feet, her bleeding knees, and the shredded silk of her dress.

"Are we playing a new escape room game, sweetheart?" he murmured, his voice thick with amusement. "Or did you just fall out of the ceiling for me?"

Eloise's jaw clenched. She didn't have time for a drunk socialite. She reached out, her fingers wrapping tightly around his thick wrist, intending to use his arm as leverage to pull herself up on her bad ankle.