Chapter 2

I stood on the sidewalk, staring at the building I'd called home for three years. Through the window, I could see Travis pacing in the living room. Part of me wanted to get in my car and drive away. But my car keys were inside. My phone was dying. Everything I owned was in that penthouse.

I had to go back.

The cold bit through the thin lace as I pushed open the front door. Travis spun around, relief flooding his face.

"Chloe, thank god. I knew you'd come back. We need to talk about this reasonably."

"There's nothing to talk about." My voice came out steady despite my shaking body. "I want a divorce."

"No." He crossed his arms. "I'm not signing any divorce papers."

"You don't get to decide that."

"Actually, I do." He moved closer, and I saw the calculation in his eyes. The same look he got during business negotiations. "The company goes public in three weeks, Chloe. Three weeks. Do you know how much investor confidence matters? They want stability. A solid family man with a devoted wife. Not a divorced CEO with drama."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "So what, I'm supposed to stay married to you? After what I just saw?"

"Why not?" He shrugged like we were discussing dinner plans. "Open marriages are very common now, especially among high-quality elites. It's practical. Modern. We both get what we need."

My stomach turned. "What you need is my sister in your bed."

"And you need the lifestyle I provide." His tone turned condescending, like he was explaining something simple to a child. "Think about it, Chloe. Blair can move into the guest room. It'll be good for Leo to have his mother around. A proper mother-son reunion. You'll barely see her. I'll even increase your allowance. You can shop more, get your nails done, whatever makes you happy."

"You think money will fix this?" I felt rage building in my chest, hot and fierce. "You think I'll just smile and pretend while you sleep with my sister under the same roof?"

"Don't be so emotional. This arrangement benefits everyone. Blair gets to be close to Leo. I maintain my image. You keep your comfortable life."

"Everyone except me!" I shoved him hard. He stumbled back, surprise flashing across his face. "You betrayed me! She betrayed me! You have a child together! And you want me to just accept it?"

I shoved him again, harder. He caught my wrists.

"Calm down, Chloe. You're being hysterical."

"I'm being hysterical?" I jerked away from him. "I'm being perfectly rational. I want a divorce. I want out of this nightmare."

His expression hardened. "Fine. Leave. But you're not taking anything with me."

"What?"

"Everything in this penthouse, I bought. Every single thing." He gestured around the room. "That cashmere coat you love? Mine. Those wool sweaters, the designer handbags, the jewelry? All mine. I paid for it. It stays here."

I looked down at the lingerie clinging to my body. Even this. Even this humiliating scrap of lace, I'd bought with his credit card.

"I don't care," I said. "Keep it all."

"Your car too. It's registered in my name. Your phone? My account. Your credit cards? Canceled the moment you walk out that door." He smiled, cold and triumphant. "Where exactly are you planning to go, Chloe? You have no job. No money. No friends who'll take you in without me finding out. And those design innovations my company uses? Those sustainable fabric techniques? I'll claim you developed them as my employee. You signed papers when we got married, remember? Community property. Everything you created is half mine."

For a moment, doubt crept in. But then I remembered Blair's face. Travis's hands on her body. The three years of lies.

"I'd rather have nothing than stay here another second."

I turned and walked toward the door.

"You'll be back," Travis called after me. "You always come back. You're too weak to survive on your own. You're nothing without me."

I didn't answer. I just opened the door and stepped out into the December snow.

The cold hit me immediately, brutal and unforgiving. Winter in Manhattan wasn't kind to women in lingerie. I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to preserve what little warmth I had. My bare feet went numb against the frozen sidewalk.

People stared. A couple walking their dog crossed to the other side of the street. A taxi slowed down, the driver's mouth falling open. I kept walking.

I needed a drink. Something strong enough to burn away the taste of this night.

The Crimson Room was four blocks away, an exclusive club I'd passed a hundred times but never entered. Through the frosted windows, I could see warm light and movement. Music thumped from inside, promising oblivion.

The bouncer's eyes widened when he saw me. For a moment, I thought he'd turn me away. Then he stepped aside and unhooked the velvet rope.

"VIP entrance," he said, gesturing me through.

I didn't question it. I just walked inside.

The club was packed with fashion industry elite. I recognized faces from magazine covers, designers whose shows I'd attended, models Blair had worked with. Everyone who was anyone in New York fashion seemed to be here. Some kind of Fashion Week after-party.

Heat wrapped around me like a blanket. I headed straight for the bar, ignoring the stares.

A waiter appeared at my elbow. "Miss, the stage is waiting. You're late for your performance."

"What?"

"Your showcase. The experimental fashion piece. Everyone's been talking about it. Come on."

Before I could explain the misunderstanding, he was guiding me through the crowd. People parted as we passed. Someone whistled. Someone else applauded. Camera flashes went off.

Then I was climbing stairs, and the waiter was pushing me onto a small stage. Spotlights blinded me. Music pounded. Below, hundreds of faces turned up to watch, phones raised to capture whatever was happening.

I should have run. Should have explained I wasn't a performer. But standing there, looking down at the fashion world that had once been my dream, I felt something shift inside me.

For three years, I'd been invisible. The perfect wife. The doting mother to a child that wasn't mine. I'd made myself small, quiet, convenient. I'd let Travis take credit for my innovations while I stayed in the shadows.

Not anymore.

I grabbed a bottle of champagne from a passing server and took a long drink. It burned going down, but I welcomed the pain. The crowd cheered, thinking this was all part of some avant-garde performance.

That's when I saw him.

He sat in a private booth elevated above the main floor, separated from the chaos around him. Dark hair swept back from a face that looked carved from marble. Sharp jaw. High cheekbones. But it was his eyes that caught me. Dark and intense, they tracked my every movement like I was the only person in the room.

He wore a suit that probably cost more than my wedding ring. His tie was loosened, his sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms. Everything about him screamed power and money and danger.

I wanted him.

The thought shocked me. I'd never wanted anyone the way I suddenly wanted this stranger. My body ached with it.

I climbed down from the stage and walked toward him. The crowd parted like I had every right to do this. Security guards stepped aside. He didn't move, just watched me approach with those dark, unreadable eyes.

When I reached his booth, I didn't ask permission. I just slid onto his lap, my thighs straddling his.

Up close, he was even more devastating. His scent wrapped around me, expensive cologne mixed with something darker. Male. Intoxicating.

"Hi," I whispered, my lips inches from his.

His hands came to my waist, large and warm through the thin lace. Heat radiated from his body, soaking into my frozen skin. I felt every hard plane of muscle beneath his expensive clothes.

I ran my fingers through his hair. It was soft, thick. He still hadn't moved, but I felt the tension in his body. Felt the way his grip tightened on my waist, possessive and controlled.

I leaned closer, my breasts pressing against his chest. His eyes darkened, dropping to my mouth. My heart pounded. I could feel his breath on my lips, smell the whiskey he'd been drinking.

Then his hand came up and gently but firmly pushed my face away.

"I don't sleep with prostitutes," he said, his voice low and rough.

The words hung between us. The insult should have stung. Should have made me slap him and walk away.

Instead, I laughed.