The Discarded Wife
Elena stood before the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the Plaza’s VIP dressing suite, her breath coming in shallow, uneven completely.
The gown Jaxon had delivered to her earlier that evening lay against her skin like a physical threat. It was a masterpiece of dark crimson silk—backless, plunging dangerously low in the front, with a thigh-high slit that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. It was not the dress of a conservative, obedient wife. It was the dress of a sovereign who belonged to men who wanted the entire world to know they owned her, without ever saying a word.
The heavy suite door opened and closed with a soft click.