Free Inferno: Part 1 by Alyssa Winters Page A

anger.
    “I know who you are. No mother. A father clinging to life. You struggle for money and my son becomes infatuated enough to help you out. But you are nothing.”
    The words make my heart drop to my stomach. And I’m frozen by the intimidating force of this woman.
    “The Coles helped build New York. We carry on the traditions of polite society and you serve the appetizers. That is all. Do not be confused—you do not belong here. My son will not be your ticket to wealth.” She’s glaring at me and leaning close so I can hear every single word of her malice towards me.
    It’s like the air is buzzing around me and I can’t hear anymore. Left with what feels like no other option, I bolt from the kitchen.
    The crowd has grown, and I cannot reach the front door as more guests continually pour in, so I race up the stairs, to get away from Mrs. Cole.
    Mascara must be running down my face, because as I wipe away the tears they stain my fingers.
    There are so many doors, so I open each one, praying for a bathroom.
    A study is behind door number one. Even with my panic I can see the floor to ceiling wooden shelves, smell what must be cigar smoke and leather. I shake my head—even the air smells rich.
    The next room is a guest bedroom, with four poster bed and a gilded mirror that must be at least eight feet tall, leaning against the wall opposite the bed. Hopefully this means I’m close to a bathroom. My panic is heightened when I hear muffled sounds. It could be moaning but I’m not sure, and not I have to get the right door so I can escape being seen until I calm myself down.
    My hand pauses over the next door, floating about the golden doorknob. Just let this be it—I need a place to hide for a little while, away from the disdain of Mrs. Cole.
    Finally, I work up the nerve to open the tall door, and right in front of me is a scene that stops me cold.
    A muscular man with brown hair is completely naked, his back to me. The muscles in his back clench as he pounds into a woman who is face down on an ornate bed. Both are moaning with pleasure.
    Her long blonde hair is fanned out on the bed, but all I can focus on is the sick feeling in my stomach. The angel on my shoulder reminds me I should never have mixed pleasure with business, and if I wasn’t already crying, I’d burst into tears.
    All I can do is stare at that hair, the muscular back I had been caressing less than a day ago.
    I only manage to choke out a single word….“Bryce?”