My Accidental Billionaire Husband
The collision was sharp, her shoulder hitting his chest with a force that had her stumbling back a step.
I looked up.
Standing in the doorway, dressed in an immaculate, dark three-piece suit that cost more than my first server array, was Jude Wolfe.
His face was still tightly held together by wire mesh and titanium screws, his nose packed with small gauze, his left eye swollen into a plum-colored slit. He held a sleek, silver cane in his hand, his posture perfectly straight, his dark hair styled with the pristine, unhurried elegance of a British aristocrat who owned every room he walked into regardless of his physical decimation.
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