The Ultimatum Wife
“Literally two weeks ago.”
“Which is exactly,” she replied, sliding out of bed in silk pajamas she did not pay for herself, “why I deserve retail therapy.”
Jace covered the mouthpiece to shout at someone, something about encryption and datapackets, then came back: “You don’t shop. You steal, hack, and hit people in the face with champagne bottles.”
“That was one time,” Elena lied. It was at least six times.
She continued, pacing, hair messy, energy restless: “I want clothes. Shoes. A new watch. Something stupidly expensive I’ll never wear. I want to blow Roman’s wallet and make the stock market cry.”
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