The chandelier above the long dining table cast a warm glow over the crystal glasses and delicate bone china. Soft light sparkled off the silverware and the deep red wine in our glasses. I sat at the far end of the table, legs crossed tightly beneath my emerald silk dress, trying my best to appear composed. Inside, my heart hammered wildly against my ribs. Russell Harrington sat at the head like a king on his throne. At forty-eight, he was still strikingly handsome — silver threading through his thick dark hair, a sharp, commanding jawline, and that calm, authoritative presence that made everyone around him sit up straighter. He was twenty-two years older than me, and there were moments, like tonight, when it felt as though he had purchased me along with this sprawling mansion, the designer wardrobe, and the luxurious life that came with being Mrs. Russell Harrington. Two of his most important business associates had joined us for dinner. Mr. Viktor Lang, a tall, imposing German inv
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