LOGINFor one terrible second, Verity could not move. Jessica was straddling Quentin on the bed, leaning over him with one hand pressed against his chest. His jacket was gone, the collar of his shirt was open, and his face was flushed with sweat. Then Verity looked at his eyes. Something was definitely wrong. Quentin was staring upward, but his focus was poor. His arms were not around Jessica. He was not kissing her. He was barely responding to the woman sitting on top of him. The shock inside Verity disappeared beneath a wave of rage. “What the hell are you doing?” Jessica spun around. “Verity—” Verity crossed the room before Jessica could finish. She grabbed her by the arm and pulled her off Quentin with enough force to send Jessica stumbling against the side table. Jessica caught herself quick. “Are you crazy?” Verity shoved her farther away from the bed. “Do not touch my husband.” “Listen to me.” “I said don't touch him!” Jessica reached for her, but Verity knocked her hand
Theodore’s birthday celebration continued well into the night. By then, the formal introductions had eased into something warmer. Guests moved freely between the main ballroom and the glass pavilion, music filled the gardens, and groups that had spent the first hour discussing business were now laughing over drinks. Verity stood beside Quentin as Theodore stepped onto the small raised platform near the center of the ballroom. A microphone was handed to him. The room gradually fell silent. Theodore looked around at the crowd and smiled. “I was told this evening was supposed to be intimate.” Laughter immediately moved through the room. Vivienne shook her head from where she stood nearby. Theodore continued, “Apparently, my wife and I have very different definitions of that word.” More laughter followed. He thanked everyone for coming, mentioning friends who had known him for decades, business partners who had become family, and family members who had somehow managed to tolerate
Verity was still laughing about Blake when Camille linked her arm through hers and pulled her away from Quentin. “I am borrowing your wife,” Camille announced. Quentin looked at Verity before answering. “For how long?” Camille stared at him. “You do know she existed before she married you, right?” “I’m aware.” “Good. Then you can survive without her for twenty minutes.” Verity laughed and squeezed Quentin’s hand before allowing Camille to lead her toward the large glass pavilion at the back of the estate. Theodore’s party had grown even livelier. The orchestra had changed to softer contemporary music, waiters moved between guests with trays of champagne and carefully prepared appetizers, and almost every corner of the massive garden held a different conversation. Verity recognized people from business magazines, art exhibitions, charity events, and society pages. Some were people she had met during her marriage to Kingsley, while others belonged more to Quentin’s world. Camil
When Quentin and Verity arrived at the Holmby Hills estate, the celebration was already alive. The long private drive was lined with discreet security, luxury vehicles, and valet attendants moving with practiced efficiency. Beyond the gates, Theodore and Vivienne Langford’s estate glowed beneath hundreds of warm lights. The old-money mansion stood at the center of perfectly landscaped grounds, while an enormous glass pavilion had been built across the rear gardens for the evening. Verity looked through the window as their car moved toward the entrance. “So this is what your family calls intimate?” Quentin followed her gaze. “Apparently.” “There are enough cars here to start another country.” He smiled. “Theodore knows people.” “That was your excuse on the jet too.” “It remains true.” Verity shook her head, but she could not stop smiling. The moment the car stopped, Quentin stepped out first and came around to her side. He offered his hand, and Verity placed hers in it with
Verity stirred against him. Quentin reached for the phone on the bedside table and checked the date as if there was some possibility he had mistaken it. But he hadn't. Verity opened one eye. “What happened?” Quentin sat up. She frowned at him. “Quentin?” “I forgot something.” That immediately caught her attention. Verity pushed herself higher against the pillows and stared at him. “You forgot something?” “Yes.” “You?” He gave her a look. She was already smiling. “What did you forget? A meeting? A company? One of your islands?” “My uncle’s birthday celebration.” Her smile disappeared. “Theodore?” “Yes.” “His birthday is today?” “Tomorrow.” Verity blinked. “Tomorrow?” “The celebration is tomorrow night in Los Angeles.” She stared at him for several seconds before slowly sitting upright. “And you are only telling me this now?” “I forgot to mention it.” “To your wife, who is expected to attend with you?” Quentin sighed. “Yes.” Verity folded her arms. “That is worse
Quentin opened the suite door and stopped. Verity was exactly where he told her to be. She lay on the bed with nothing on, her dark hair spread across the pillow, her legs open for him. The late afternoon light from the window touched her skin and made her look even softer than she had on his desk. Between her thighs, she was still wet. Still waiting. His eyes darkened at once. “Good girl.” Verity did not close her legs. She watched him loosen his tie, then his jacket, then the rest of his clothes, and she did not look away. By the time he was naked, she was already breathing faster. Quentin climbed onto the bed and settled between her thighs, but he did not enter her yet. He kissed her slowly and deeply. His mouth moved from her lips to her throat, then down to her breasts. He took one nipple into his mouth and sucked until she arched beneath him. Then he gave the other the same attention. “Quentin…” “I know.” He kissed the skin between her breasts. “I sat in that room listen
Verity didn’t sleep all through. She sat on the edge of the bed in the empty Central Park West penthouse until four in the morning, staring at the photo on her phone. Kingsley and Judith. Naked. Tangled together in the very sheets she had chosen herself. The image burned behind her eyelids every ti
Verity Langford stood near the center of the gallery, smoothing down the front of her black silk dress for what felt like the hundredth time. Soft lighting illuminated her paintings on the white walls of West 24th Street in Chelsea. This was her first exhibition in two years, and the turnout had be
Verity stood in the kitchen of the Central Park West penthouse, stirring a pot of pasta she had no intention of eating. The simple act of cooking had always calmed her, but tonight the sauce simmered untouched while her mind refused to quiet. She had spent the entire day trying to push yesterday’s
Verity barely remembered the drive from her parents’ house. The moment she got home, the tears she had held back finally broke free. She sat still in her car in the driveway, sobbing so hard her chest hurt. Her phone rang. It was Monica. “Vee? Where are you? I’ve been calling you for hours.” The







