Obsidian

             POV: Vivienne Ashford

Obsidian was one of the most exclusive clubs in Westbridge City. Billionaires, politicians and other powerful men came here, away from the public eye.

I pushed through the entrance, ignoring the bouncer's surprised look. I was still wearing my ivory silk blouse and pencil skirt. I hadn't even bothered to change after leaving the hospital.

I took a seat at the bar and signalled the bartender.

"Macallan 25. Neat. Leave the bottle."

He placed a glass in front of me and poured the whiskey.

I drank it in one gulp.

Four weeks pregnant.

The words kept repeating in my head. Two years of swallowing insults from his mother. Two years of paying for his sisters' designer clothes. Two years of crying alone after every negative pregnancy test, blaming my own body, while Damon was sneaking around with my secretary and buying her Louis Vuitton bags with my money.

I poured another glass, then a third.

Genevieve Winslow walked in a few minutes later. She spotted me at the bar and came straight over.

She took the seat beside me, her eyes settling on the bottle.

"Vivienne... what happened? You sounded like you were bleeding out on the phone."

"I was," I rasped, pouring her a drink. "Damon didn’t have a client lunch today, Gen. He was at St. Catherine’s."

Genevieve frowned. "With who?"

"Camille Rowe. My secretary." My voice cracked. "She’s four weeks pregnant. I stood outside the consultation room and heard him call me his frigid, sterile wife."

Genevieve slammed her hand against the bar.

"That parasitic bastard! After everything you did for his pathetic family? The five percent shares, the mansion, the executive title?"

"I'm going to strip him of everything," I said. "I'll take back the shares. I'll throw his mother and sisters out of my house. But right now..." I paused. "Right now, I just feel sick."

"We file the papers tomorrow morning," Genevieve said, gripping my wrist. "I'll make sure he leaves with less than the clothes on his back."

Her phone rang. She checked the caller ID and cursed.

"It's the managing partner. I need two minutes to take this outside, Viv. Don't touch another glass until I get back."

She walked towards the entrance with the phone to her ear.

I looked down at my reflection in the bar. A good wife. A dutiful daughter. A forgiving CEO. I'd spent two years doing everything right. And what had I got in return? Betrayal. Humiliation.

If he could break our vows without a second thought, why should I keep holding on to mine?

The whiskey had made me careless. For once, I didn't want to think about the consequences. Damon had betrayed me and found someone to replace me. Tonight, I was done being the faithful wife.

I got up and headed towards the private corridor at the back.

A velvet rope blocked the staircase to the upper floor. Two security guards stood at the bottom.

"Ma'am, this area is private," one said, stepping in front of me.

"I don't care," I muttered.

A commotion broke out near the entrance. A group of oil executives were arguing over a reservation. Both guards turned towards the noise.

I slipped past them and hurried up the stairs.

At the end of the upper hallway, I found a pair of glass doors standing slightly open. Men's voices came from inside.

I didn't knock. I pushed the door open and walked in.

The conversation stopped.

Seven men sat around a large table. They were all dressed in dark suits, each with a shoulder holster beneath his jacket. At the head of the table sat a man who immediately caught my attention.

He looked to be in his late thirties, with a broad frame and a sharp jaw. His black hair was combed back, and a trace of dark stubble covered his jaw. His eyes were ice-blue.

He held a glass of whiskey in one hand and a silver pen in the other.

The men around him reached beneath their jackets, gripping their sidearms.

"Who the hell let her up here?" one of them snarled, half-rising from his chair.

I ignored him. The alcohol had given me enough courage to do what I would never have considered sober.

I walked straight to the man at the head of the table and stopped in front of him. My fingers trembled slightly as I raised one manicured finger and pointed it at his chest.

"You," I said.

He tilted his head, glanced at my finger, then looked back at me. His expression was unreadable, but he seemed curious.

"I want to sleep with you tonight," I said, leaning closer. "Tell me your price."