The Billionaire's Scandalous Fat Wife
I opened my mouth to say something, anything, and instead took one stumbling step backward into four hundred thousand dollars of imported marble sculpture, which toppled, and shattered against the floor into a sound loud enough to finally, mercifully, stop every single conversation in the room.
A hand closed around my wrist before I'd even processed what I'd broken.
Ace Stone didn't say a word to the room. He didn't look at Cassandra, didn't glance at the wreckage of white marble at our feet. He just pulled me — fast, silent, furious in a way that had nothing warm left in it — through a side door, down a short hallway, into what looked like a groom's dressing suite, and locked it behind us.