3

The doors click shut as he leaves.

I realize I have been holding my breath since Steve first grabbed my wrist.

My legs finally give out, and I sink back against the wallpaper, dragging in a gasp of air.

Before I can even process the insanity of what I've just done, a harsh, continuous buzzing vibrates through the floorboards.

It is coming from the employee locker room down the hall.

I shove off the wall and sprint down the narrow corridor, my eight-inch clear heels slipping on the cheap carpet.

I burst into the locker room, tearing open locker number four.

My phone is lighting up.

Three missed calls from Mark, Steve's executive assistant.

And for the first time in years, two texts from Steve himself.

~Cancel tomorrow. Master suite by Midnight ~

I glance at the cracked clock on the locker room wall. 11:21 PM.

"Shit," I breathe, the word tearing out of my throat. "Shit, shit, shit."

It is a twenty-five-minute drive to the penthouse in good traffic. I have thirty-nine minutes to shed an entire identity, cross the city, and somehow be waiting in the master suite looking like I haven't just been grinding on a pole in the basement of the Neon Orchid.

I rip the sapphire wig off my head, wincing as the bobby pins tear at my scalp, and let my natural dark hair tumble down my back.

I grab a fistful of makeup wipes, scrubbing furiously at my face until my skin is raw and the heavy black eyeliner and bruised-plum lipstick are entirely gone.

I kick off the Pleasers, shove my diamond engagement ring back onto my finger, and throw my modest, camel-colored trench coat directly over my silk stage robe.

I practically throw myself into the back of a waiting cab at the corner, slamming a crumpled hundred-dollar bill against the plastic partition.

"The Carter Building on 5th," I order, my voice shaking. "If you get me there in fifteen minutes, there's another three hundred in it for you."

The driver doesn't ask questions. My heart is hammering so violently against my ribs I think I am going to throw up.

If he beats me there, if he walks into that quiet penthouse and finds his wife missing after specifically ordering her to wait, the facade is over. The marriage is over and that CANNOT happen.

At 11:46, the cab slams to a halt outside the towering glass-and-steel monolith of the Carter Building.

I throw the cash at the front seat and sprint through the private entrance, ignoring the startled look of the night concierge.

I hit the button for the private elevator, bouncing on my toes as the numbers slowly tick up to 40.

The doors slide open. 11:48 PM.

I burst into the penthouse.

"Mrs. Carter!"

Maria, my personal stylist and housekeeper, is waiting in the foyer, her eyes wide with urgency.

Over her arm, she carries a delicate, ridiculously expensive set of white La Perla lace.

"He called ahead," Maria says, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward the master suite. "He said he's five minutes away."

"Draw the shower," I command, throwing off my trench coat and the silk stage robe, leaving them in a heap on the marble floor. "Cold. Just turn it on."

I don't have time to wash my hair, but I have to get the scent of cheap vanilla body spray off my skin.

I step under the freezing spray of the shower just long enough to shock my system and scrub the smell away.

I jump out, my teeth chattering, as Maria vigorously towel-dries me.

She shoves me into the white lace lingerie, her hands shaking almost as much as mine.

I grab my bottle of Baccarat Rouge, spraying it heavily over my collarbones and wrists, desperate to mask any lingering trace of the club.

"He's in the private elevator, ma'am," Maria whispers, backing out of the room.

The doors click shut behind her.

11:58 PM.

I sit on the edge of the massive, king-sized bed. The sheets are cold silk.

My skin is still damp, my heart racing at a dangerous, erratic speed.

I stare at the double doors leading to the main hallway, waiting.

I feel completely exposed, stripped of the sapphire wig and the heavy makeup that usually shields me.

Now, I am just Serena. And Serena is about to pay the price for Blue's advice.

Right at midnight, the brass handles turn, the doors push open.

Steve stands in the doorway, and all the air violently leaves my lungs.

He is wearing nothing but a dark silk robe, left loosely tied at his waist, exposing the hard, muscular plane of his chest.

I have been married to him for six months, and I have never seen him undressed.

He closes the doors behind him and crosses the massive room in four long strides.

My brain completely short-circuits. I expect the cold, detached politician. But as he stops directly in front of me, the heat radiating off his body is unmistakable.

He reaches down. His large hands grip my bare waist, his thumbs digging firmly into the soft skin just above my hips.

With one effortless pull, he hauls me off the edge of the mattress and drags me flush against his chest.

I gasp, my hands flying up to rest against his bare skin to steady myself.

He looks down at me, his icy blue eyes dark and completely focused, tracing the line of my jaw, the frantic pulse at my throat, the slope of my shoulders.

"Steve," I whisper, the name feeling foreign on my tongue.

He doesn't answer. He just slides one hand from my waist up into my damp hair, gripping the back of my neck with a firm, possessive hold that sends a jolt of pure electricity straight down my spine.

He tilts my head back, his gaze dropping to my mouth. He is going to kiss me. He is going to tear the polite fiction of our marriage to shreds, right here, right now.

He leans in, his lips barely an inch from mine, his breath mixing with my own.

And then, he freezes.

The hand in my hair goes completely rigid. His eyes dart down, past my mouth, past my jawline, landing squarely on the base of my throat.

Slowly, Steve reaches out with his free hand. His fingers brush against my skin, hooking beneath the thick, cheap band of black velvet I have forgotten to unclip from my neck, the exact same choker he was staring at in Room Four twenty minutes ago.