The next morning, Chantal pulls open the heavy oak doors of her closet to get dressed for work.

She freezes.

Her cheap blouses and skirts are gone. The canvas duffel bag is gone.

In their place hangs a perfectly color-coordinated row of designer dresses, tailored suits, and silk blouses. Below them, a dozen pairs of luxury heels sit in perfect alignment.

Chantal's blood boils. Her chest heaves with sudden, violent anger.

She spins around and marches out of the bedroom. She finds Reginald in the downstairs hallway, inspecting a floral arrangement.

"Where are my clothes?" Chantal demands, her voice shaking with rage.

Reginald turns, his face impassive. "Mr. Valdez left instructions to dispose of your previous wardrobe, ma'am. He felt it was not suitable for your new position."

Chantal's hands curl into fists. Her nails bite into her palms. He is treating her like a doll. A prop he can dress up to suit his aesthetic.

She turns and marches toward the stairs, fully intending to kick Dell's bedroom door in.

She gets to the top step, raises her fist to pound on the wood, and stops.

Clause 4: The wife shall maintain a public image befitting the Valdez name.

She drops her hand. A sickening wave of helplessness washes over her. She turns around, walks back to her room, and pulls the most boring, conservative gray designer suit from the rack.

The anger of that morning slowly fades into the monotonous, suffocating rhythm of the next few weeks.

The crisp November air turns biting and brutal as Thanksgiving passes in complete isolation. They live like ghosts in the same house. They communicate only through Reginald. They never eat together. They never speak.

Until a Friday evening in early December.

Chantal is sitting in her office at Lumina Jewelry, rubbing her aching temples as she reviews a supplier contract.

Her personal phone, which rarely makes a sound, vibrates violently against the desk.

She glances at the screen. The caller ID says Mr. Valdez.

Her heart skips a beat. She picks up the phone and opens the text message.

The Plaza Hotel. 7:00 PM. Wear the red dress. We have a performance tonight.

Chantal stares at the words. Her stomach twists into a tight knot. A performance? What does that even mean?

She looks at the clock on the wall. It is 5:15 PM.

Panic spikes in her chest. She shoves the contracts into her drawer, grabs her keys, and runs out of the office.

She drives like a maniac back to the Upper East Side. The tires of her Honda Civic squeal as she takes the turns too fast.

She sprints up the stairs to her bedroom and tears through the closet. She finds it pushed to the back. A dark red velvet gown with a slit that runs dangerously high up the thigh.

She strips off her work clothes and pulls the dress on.

She turns to the full-length mirror. The dress clings to every curve of her body like a second skin. It is aggressive. It is incredibly exposing.

She tries to find a shawl to cover her bare shoulders, but a knock on the door stops her.

"The car is waiting, ma'am," Reginald calls out.

Chantal abandons the search. She quickly pins her hair up, swipes a bold red lipstick across her mouth, and grabs a heavy black wool coat.

She walks downstairs and gets into the back of the waiting Rolls-Royce.

The drive back into Manhattan is a blur of anxiety. Her mind races, trying to calculate what kind of crisis requires her presence after six months of absolute silence.

The car pulls onto Fifth Avenue. The brilliant, glowing lights of The Plaza Hotel come into view.

The driver opens her door. Chantal takes a deep breath, her lungs fighting against the tight corset of the dress, and steps out into the freezing night.

The night air outside The Plaza Hotel is sharp, but it does nothing to cool the sudden, frantic beating of Chantal's heart.

She stands at the edge of the red carpet, pulling her black coat tighter around her shoulders. She scans the crowd of wealthy socialites and businessmen, looking for Dell.

Suddenly, a large, heavy hand clamps down on her waist.

Chantal gasps, her entire body flinching. She whips her head around and crashes straight into Dell's solid chest.

He is wearing a custom tuxedo that makes him look devastatingly dangerous. His dark eyes lock onto hers, burning with an intensity she hasn't seen in weeks.

He leans down, his mouth hovering just an inch from her ear.

"Relax your shoulders," Dell orders, his voice a low, rough whisper.

Chantal's body goes completely rigid. She hates the feeling of his hand on her waist. She hates the sudden heat radiating from his body. She places her hands on his chest, trying to push him away.

Dell's arm tightens like a steel band. He jerks her flush against his body, eliminating every millimeter of space between them.

"Smile," he growls against her ear. "Unless you want to breach the contract."

Chantal's jaw clenches so hard her teeth ache. She forces the corners of her mouth up into a rigid, fake smile and tilts her head to look at him.

At that exact second, from the dark shadows across the street, three rapid, faint flashes of light go off.

Dell's eyes flick toward the flashes. A dark, satisfied gleam appears in his eyes.

He keeps his arm firmly locked around her waist and guides her toward the golden doors of the hotel.

As they walk, the high slit of the red dress falls open, exposing her bare leg to the freezing air and the stares of the men around them.

Dell notices the stares. His jaw ticks. He subtly shifts his body, blocking her from the view of the other guests.

They step into the massive, glittering lobby. The heat hits them instantly.

Chantal shrugs off her heavy black coat. The dress dips low in the back, exposing the smooth skin of her spine.

Dell's eyes drop to her bare back. He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. He quickly takes the coat and hands it to the coat check attendant.

He places his hand on the bare skin of her lower back. His touch is scorching hot.

He guides her to the VIP elevator. The doors slide shut, sealing them in a small, enclosed space.

Chantal takes a breath, and her lungs fill with the scent of his cologne. Cedarwood, dark tobacco, and something uniquely him.

The scent hits her brain like a physical blow.

Her vision blurs. The memory flash from weeks ago hits her again, but this time it is violent and vivid. The smell of that exact cologne mixed with sweat. The feeling of heavy hands pinning her down. The darkness.

Her chest heaves. She feels like she is suffocating. She presses her back against the elevator wall, her fingers digging into the brass railing.

"What is wrong with you?" Dell asks, his voice sharp, noticing her sudden panic.

Chantal shakes her head violently, forcing the memory back into the dark corners of her mind. She pinches her palm until the pain grounds her.

"Nothing," she snaps, her voice trembling slightly.

The elevator dings. The doors open to the penthouse VIP floor.

Dell's expression hardens back into a mask of corporate ruthlessness.

"We are meeting important people," Dell says, his voice cold. "Smile. Act like you belong to me."

"As you wish, boss," Chantal spits back, the venom in her voice clear.

Dell's lips twitch into a dark smirk. He offers her his arm.

Chantal takes a deep breath, wraps her hand around his bicep, and walks toward the heavy oak doors at the end of the hall.

The heavy oak doors of the VIP suite swing open, releasing a cloud of expensive cigar smoke and the low hum of power.

Chantal walks in, her hand gripping Dell's arm.

Two men are sitting on the plush leather sofas. One is Jay Elliott, Dell's Chief Technology Officer, holding a glass of amber liquid. The other man sits in the center. He radiates quiet authority. Senator Chauncey Lewis.

Jay whistles low. "Well, well. You finally let the wife out of the cage, Dell."

Dell ignores the comment. He leads Chantal to the sofa and introduces them.

When Chantal hears the name Chauncey Lewis, she extends her hand. As their fingers touch, a bizarre, unexplainable wave of familiarity washes over her. His eyes, a shade so similar to her own, hold a warmth that instantly puts her at ease.

Chauncey holds her hand for a second longer than necessary. His sharp eyes scan her face, a look of deep curiosity flashing across his features.

"It is a pleasure, Chantal," Chauncey says, releasing her hand. He smiles warmly. "What do you do to keep yourself busy?"

"I am the Design Director at Lumina Jewelry," Chantal says, expecting the politician to immediately lose interest.

Instead, Chauncey leans forward. "Lumina. You are dealing with the global supply chain disruptions in the diamond market, then. How are you pivoting the brand?"

Chantal's eyes light up. The crushing anxiety of the night vanishes. She sits forward and begins to explain her strategy for ethical sourcing and rebranding.

She speaks with fierce intelligence and passion. She is completely in her element.

Chauncey listens intently, nodding, his eyes filled with genuine admiration. "That is brilliant. I have several contacts in Washington who would be very interested in your new line. I will introduce you."

Chantal beams. A real, dazzling smile breaks across her face. "Thank you, Senator. That would mean everything to me."

Beside her, the temperature drops below freezing.

Dell is staring at the smile on Chantal's face. A smile she has never, not once, given to him.

A dark, violent wave of jealousy crashes through his chest. His jaw clenches so tight his teeth grind together.

Chantal reaches for her champagne glass on the table.

Before her fingers can touch the crystal stem, Dell's large hand shoots out. He grabs her glass.

He lifts it to his mouth and downs the entire glass of champagne in one aggressive swallow, his eyes locked dead on Chauncey.

The conversation dies instantly. Jay raises an eyebrow, highly amused by the sudden tension.

Dell slams the empty glass down on the glass table. The sharp crack makes Chantal jump.

"Do not make promises to my wife, Senator," Dell says. His voice is dangerously low. "She doesn't need your contacts."

Chantal stares at him in absolute shock. Her face burns with embarrassment.

Chauncey blinks, surprised by the hostility, but he recovers smoothly. "Just offering a helping hand to a talented woman, Dell. No offense intended."

Chantal is furious. Under the table, out of sight, she lifts the sharp heel of her shoe and stomps down hard on Dell's foot.

Dell does not even flinch. His face remains a mask of stone.

Before Chantal can pull her foot back, Dell's hand drops beneath the table. His long fingers wrap around her bare ankle like a vice.

He squeezes. Hard.

Chantal gasps, her spine snapping straight. The physical warning shoots up her leg. She freezes, terrified to move.

Dell stands up abruptly, pulling her up with him by her arm.

"We are leaving," Dell announces.

He doesn't wait for a response. He turns and drags Chantal toward the door.

"I am so sorry, Senator!" Chantal manages to call out over her shoulder, stumbling in her high heels as Dell pulls her into the hallway.

The heavy doors shut behind them.

Dell does not let go of her arm. He marches her down the long corridor toward the elevator, his entire body radiating a furious, explosive energy.