argriman
Seven hundred and thirty nights of marriage, and my husband never touched me once.
Preston Sinclair claimed the car crash before our wedding left him medically impotent. Out of guilt and devotion, I walked away from my billionaire family’s empire, hid my identity as the world-renowned biochemical formulator "S.K.," and spent two years building his company from the shadows.
Until the night of our second anniversary. Standing outside his study door, I heard my "impotent" husband moaning the name of my best friend, Chloe—the only person I trusted when I had nothing.
"Wait until the $500M patent clears," Preston panted into the phone. "Once I steal her formula, I’ll dump my pathetic charity case of a wife and make you Mrs. Sinclair."
I didn't cry. I printed the divorce papers on the spot, triggering a mandatory 30-day cooling-off period.
When I stepped into the dark hallway, I collided with the one man Preston fears most: Dominic Sinclair. His ruthless older half-brother. The cold-blooded head of Sinclair Global who walks with a titanium cane and never removes his black leather gloves.
Except tonight, Dominic peeled off his glove in the dark, pressed his bare thumb to my lips, and whispered a lethal bargain:
"Give me thirty days, little sister-in-law. And I’ll help you burn their world to ash—starting in my bed."
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