CHAPTER TWO

I stared at the envelope on the counter, my heart twisting so painfully that the pain had circled back around to something cleaner. Sharper.

Anger.

Five years of marriage, and this was it? Five years of swallowing my pride, and this was how it ended?

I blinked back tears and forced my face neutral. Picked up the envelope. Pulled out the papers with steady hands even though I was shaking inside. Snatched the pen.

"That's my girl," Marcus said. "I knew you'd see reason."

I signed my name on every yellow tab. Evelyn Hart. Evelyn Hart. Over and over until it was just shapes on paper, meaningless scribbles erasing five years of my life.

I set the pen down and slid the envelope back to Marcus with a smile that felt like broken glass.

"Done." My voice came out steadier than expected. "You can burn all my things. I don't want any of it. But I expect that ten billion in my account within the hour, Marcus. Not tomorrow. Not next week. One hour."

Marcus blinked, clearly surprised I wasn't crying or begging. "Fine. "

"Good." I grabbed my purse. "Enjoy your twins, Mara. I hope they inherit their father's charm."

Then I walked out. Through the kitchen, across the foyer where our broken wedding picture still lay in pieces, and out into the blinding Los Angeles sunshine.

I didn't look back.

Three hours later, I was at Obscura with six shots of tequila burning through my system and bass pounding in my bones.

The heartbreak hadn't dulled. It was still raw, bleeding, consuming everything.

I was sad. I was angry. At Marcus for discarding me like trash. At myself for being so pathetic that I'd endured five years of abuse and called it love. For making my entire life revolve around a man who couldn't even look at me without disgust.

And where did it get me?

Divorced. Discarded. Replaced.

I laughed and gulped down another shot. The burn felt good. Real.

I should have left first. Should have walked away after the first mistress, or the second, or the tenth. But I'd stayed. Smiled. Endured. Convinced myself I was being noble.

And he'd still tossed me aside.

Fuck him. Fuck his MBA-educated, fertile Mara with her smug grin and perfect legs.

I was done being the good wife. The faithful wife who denied herself every pleasure while Marcus fucked anything that moved.

What had that gotten me? A divorce and a broken heart.

Well, no more.

I pulled out my phone, nearly dropping it twice. My fingers were clumsy as I searched. Elite Obsidian Services. The most exclusive escort agency in the city. Where bored billionaire wives went for what their marriages couldn't give them.

I called before I could talk myself out of it.

"Elite Obsidian Services, how may I provide you with an unforgettable evening?"

"I need someone." My voice was too loud, slurred. "Your best. The hottest one you have. I don't care what it costs."

"Of course. May I have your payment information?"

I rattled off Marcus's black Amex—the one he'd given me for "household expenses" that I'd never used for anything fun. Let this be the last charge he ever saw from me.

"Perfect, Mrs. Hart. Your payment makes you a VIP client. Room 303 on the third floor at Obscura. Your companion is waiting."

The line went dead.

I stared at my phone, heart pounding. This was insane. Reckless. Exactly the kind of thing the old Evelyn would never do.

Good. The old Evelyn was dead. Signed away in triplicate.

I stood, swaying slightly, and headed for the private elevator.

Room 303 was at the end of a hallway—all black walls and dim lighting and oppressive luxury.

My hand shook as I knocked.

The door opened immediately.

And the world tilted.

The man in the doorway was the most devastating thing I'd ever seen. Tall—at least six-three. Broad shoulders in a custom suit. Dark hair falling across a face carved by an artist who believed in sin. Sharp jaw. High cheekbones. Eyes like a storm—grey-green-blue all at once, impossible to pin down.

He was barefoot.

But it wasn't just his looks that stopped my breath.

It was the pull.

The moment our eyes met, something in my chest yanked hard toward him, like a hook had lodged behind my ribs and was trying to drag me forward. My skin felt too tight. Too hot. Every nerve ending suddenly awoke and screamed for something I didn't understand.

I'd never felt anything like it. This desperate, aching need made my bones hurt.

His eyes widened. Something flickered across his face—recognition? Shock—too fast to read.

"Damn." I whistled low, trying to cover the fact that my hands were trembling. "You really are fucking hot."

One corner of his mouth curved. "Oh, really?"

"Yeah, really." I brushed past him into the room, and the brief contact when my shoulder grazed his chest sent electricity racing down my spine. Made me want to press closer, to touch more, to…

What the hell is wrong with me?

The room was gorgeous—floor-to-ceiling windows, a massive bed, everything in black and burgundy. But I barely saw it. All I could focus on was the man behind me, the heat of him, the inexplicable feeling that I needed him closer.

“Well, your looks is going to make all these easier.”

"Make what easier?"

I turned to face him. "I need someone who can fuck me so thoroughly that I forget the last five years ever happened."

His expression shifted. "You want to use me to get over another man?"

"Yes. Is that a problem?"

He was quiet, just looking at me with an intensity that made heat pool low in my stomach. Then his mouth curved into pure sin. "No problem at all, sweetheart. I'll make sure you never think about him again."

Then he moved.

Three strides and he was in front of me, one hand sliding into my hair, gripping hard enough to make me gasp. The touch sent shockwaves through my entire body. Made that inexplicable yearning intensify until I thought I might crawl out of my skin.

"But if we're doing this," he said, voice dropping lower, "we're doing it my way. You don't get to think. You just feel. Understand?"

I nodded, breathless, burning.

"Say it."

"I understand."

"Good girl."

Then his mouth was on mine.

And I ignited.

The kiss was hard, desperate, claiming—and it still wasn't enough. I needed more, needed closer, needed to crawl inside his skin and live there. The intensity terrified me. I'd never wanted anyone like this. Didn't know it was possible to crave someone with such visceral desperation.

My hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him harder against me. His grip tightened in my hair, angling my head exactly where he wanted it, and I melted. Surrendered. Let him consume me.

He tasted like whiskey and danger and something that made me want to beg.

His hands were everywhere—sliding down my back, gripping my ass, pulling my thigh up around his hip. My dress rode up as he walked me backward toward the bed, and every touch made that ache worse. Made me need him with an intensity that felt like dying.

"This dress," he growled against my mouth. "Needs to go."

"Then take it off."

He did. One smooth motion and it was gone. Then his hands were on my skin—rough palms against my stomach and my ribs, sliding up to cup my breasts through my bra—and I gasped. Arched into his touch like I was starving for it.

Because I was. God, I was.

"You're gorgeous," he said, mouth trailing down my neck, teeth scraping my collarbone. "Absolutely fucking gorgeous."

The praise cracked something open in my chest, but I couldn't afford softness. Not now. "Don't be nice. Just—"

His teeth closed on my neck, hard enough to sting. "Then I'll make you scream instead."

"Yes."

He stripped away my bra and my panties until I was bare while he was still dressed. The imbalance should have made me feel vulnerable. Instead, it made me feel powerful. Wanted.

He pushed me back onto the bed, his weight following, and I reached for his shirt with shaking hands. Needed to feel his skin against mine. Needed it with an urgency that made no sense.

"Impatient?" Amusement colored his voice.

"You have no idea."

He helped me, shrugging out of his jacket and shirt in seconds. His chest was ridiculous—all muscle and golden skin. My hands spread across his abs, and even that wasn't enough. I wanted to press my entire body against him, wanted to erase every millimeter of space between us.

I fumbled with his belt. Pushed his pants down. And then there was nothing between us except anticipation.

He settled between my thighs, one hand sliding up to curl gently around my throat. Not squeezing. Just holding. The touch made me whimper—actually whimper—with need.

"Last chance to change your mind, sweetheart," he said, voice rough. "Because once we start, I'm not stopping until you're ruined for anyone else."

He positioned himself at my entrance, and even that pressure made me gasp. Made the ache spike into something unbearable.

"What's your name?" he asked suddenly.

"Does it matter?"

"Yes."

"Evelyn."

"Evelyn." He said it like a prayer. Like a claim. "I'm Sebastian. And I want you to remember my name when you scream it."

Then he thrust forward in one devastating motion.

White light exploded behind my eyes. My back arched off the bed, nails digging into his shoulders as he filled me completely. And even with him inside me, even with no space left between us, I still wanted more. Wanted him deeper, closer, everywhere.

"Oh God—"

"No," Sebastian growled against my ear. "Not God. Just me."