His grip was iron. It wasn't the tentative hold of a lover; it was the shackle of a warden. Julian didn't pull her; he towed her.

Leo scrambled up from the wreckage of the bar cart, glass crunching under his boots. Hey! You can't just-

Julian's personal security detail materialized from the shadows, two large men stepping in front of Leo like a human wall. They didn't speak. They didn't have to. Leo stopped, looking at Victoria with helpless apology in his eyes.

Victoria didn't look back. She was too busy trying to keep her footing as Julian dragged her toward the private VIP lounge at the back of the room.

Julian! Elena's voice was shrill. Where are you going?

Julian didn't break stride. Go home, Elena.

But-

I said go home! he roared, not turning around.

He kicked the door of the private lounge open. It banged against the wall with a violence that made Victoria jump. He shoved her inside.

She stumbled, her hip checking the edge of a leather sofa. One of her damp heels slipped off, leaving her half-barefoot on the Persian rug.

Julian slammed the door and threw the deadbolt. The click echoed in the small, soundproofed room like a gunshot.

The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. The air conditioner hummed, but the room felt hot.

Julian turned to face her. His chest was heaving. He ripped his tie off and threw it on the floor.

You want a show? he asked, his voice low and dangerous. You want to parade your boy toys in front of my business partners?

Victoria kicked off her other shoe. She stood taller, despite the height difference. He was my guest. Unlike your... assistant.

Julian closed the distance between them in two strides. He grabbed her upper arms, his fingers digging into the wet trench coat.

Do not compare her to you, he spat. She is loyal. You are a leech.

Victoria laughed. It was a bitter, jagged sound. Loyal? She's a parrot, Julian. She repeats whatever she thinks you want to hear. She dresses like a ghost to keep you happy.

Julian froze. His hands tightened painfully. Don't you dare talk about Seraphina.

I didn't say her name, Victoria whispered. You did.

The truth hung there, vibrating between them.

Julian's eyes darkened. The gray turned to black. He pushed her backward. Victoria's knees hit the sofa, and she fell onto the cushions.

Before she could scramble up, Julian was over her. He planted his hands on either side of her head, caging her in. He leaned down, his face inches from hers.

You think you're so smart, he said. You think because you have my mother's ear, you own me?

I own half your assets if you file for divorce without cause, Victoria shot back. That's the prenup.

Money, Julian sneered. Always money with you.

He looked at her lips. His gaze dropped to her throat, then lower, to where the wet silk of her dress clung to her chest.

Victoria saw the shift. She saw the anger bleed into something else. Something darker. Something hungry.

She smelled him. Beneath the whiskey and the anger, there was the scent of him-sandalwood and rain. It made her stomach flip.

Julian lowered his head. His nose brushed against her neck. He inhaled sharply.

You smell like him, he growled. That cheap cologne.

I wouldn't have to seek company if my husband wasn't busy playing house with his secretary, Victoria said, her voice trembling.

Julian pulled back slightly. His eyes searched hers. You're jealous.

I'm disgusted, Victoria corrected.

The word snapped something inside him.

He crashed his mouth onto hers.

It wasn't a kiss. It was a collision. It was teeth and anger and frustration. He bit her lower lip, hard enough to taste copper.

Victoria gasped, and he used the opening to deepen the kiss. His tongue swept into her mouth, claiming it, branding it. His hand moved from the sofa to her hair, tangling in the wet strands, tilting her head back to give him better access.

For a second, Victoria froze. Her body betrayed her. Her pulse skyrocketed. She felt a jolt of electricity zip down her spine.

She raised her hands to push him away, but instead, her fingers curled into his shirt. She pulled him closer.

Julian groaned, a low sound in his throat. He pressed his hips against hers, the friction sending a shockwave through her.

Then he stopped.

He froze.

He pulled back as if he had been burned. He stared down at her, his lips red and swollen, his breathing ragged.

He looked at her, but he wasn't seeing her. His eyes were glazed, looking at something in the past. Or someone.

Seraphina.

He scrambled off her. He backed away until he hit the opposite wall. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a look of utter revulsion crossing his face.

Get up, he rasped.

Victoria lay there for a second, her chest heaving, her lips throbbing. She felt exposed. Raw.

Julian turned his back to her. He braced his hands against the wall, his head hanging low.

Cover yourself, he said. You look pathetic.

Victoria sat up. She pulled the edges of her trench coat together. Her hands were shaking so bad she couldn't button it.

We have to go, she said. Her voice sounded foreign to her ears. Eleanor is waiting.

Julian punched the wall. The drywall cracked.

Get in the car, he said without turning around. I'll be there in a minute.

Victoria grabbed her shoes. She walked to the door barefoot. She paused with her hand on the lock.

She looked at his back. The tension in his shoulders.

You can wipe your mouth all you want, Julian, she said softly. But you kissed me back.

She unlocked the door and walked out, leaving him alone with the ghosts.

The interior of the Maybach was silent as a tomb. The partition between the driver and the passenger cabin was raised, sealing them in a bubble of leather and tension.

Julian sat on the far right, staring out the window at the blurred lights of the highway. He was holding an ice pack from the car's mini-fridge against his knuckles. They were bruised and swelling from where he had punched the wall.

Victoria sat on the far left. She had kicked off her heels again. Her feet ached.

Her phone buzzed.

She looked at it. Eleanor. Again.

She pressed speakerphone. She didn't have the energy to hold it to her ear.

Are you en route? Eleanor's voice filled the cabin.

We are, Victoria said.

Good. The herbalist prepared the tonic. It's on the entry table. Make sure you drink it hot. And Victoria?

Yes?

Don't disappoint me. This month is crucial. The trust fund committee meets in six weeks. If there is no announcement by then, they will freeze the liquid assets again.

I understand, Victoria said.

She hung up.

She heard a sound from the other side of the seat. A dry, humorless chuckle.

Julian didn't look at her. You're efficient, I'll give you that. You take orders like a soldier.

It's a partnership, Julian. We both want the money released.

I don't need the money, he said. I have my own.

Victoria looked at him. That was true. Julian had made millions on his own in tech investments before he took over the family conglomerate. But the family trust held the controlling shares of Sterling Corp. Without an heir, his control was tenuous.

You need the shares, she said.

He turned to look at her then. His eyes were cold, dead things. Is that what you tell yourself when you spread your legs? That it's for the shares?

Victoria flinched. It was a microscopic movement, but he saw it.

Whatever helps you sleep at night, she said.

The car slowed. The massive iron gates of the Sterling Manor swung open. They drove up the long, winding driveway lined with ancient oaks that looked like grasping skeletal hands in the headlights.

The car stopped. The driver opened the door.

Julian got out first. He didn't wait for her. He walked up the stone steps two at a time.

Mrs. Jiang, the housekeeper, was waiting in the foyer. She held a silver tray with a ceramic bowl on it. The steam rising from it smelled of dirt and bitter roots.

Mr. Julian, Mrs. Sterling, she greeted them. Her eyes darted between their disheveled appearances.

Julian walked right past her. I'm going to my study.

Mrs. Jiang looked at Victoria. Madam? The tonic?

Victoria sighed. She picked up the bowl. It was warm. She brought it to her lips and drank it in one go. It tasted vile. Like licorice and old pennies. She gagged slightly but forced it down.

Thank you, Mrs. Jiang.

She handed the empty bowl back and walked up the grand staircase. Her legs felt heavy.

She went to the master bedroom. It was a cavernous room, decorated in shades of cream and gray. It was beautiful and utterly devoid of life.

Julian wasn't there.

She went into the bathroom. She stripped off her ruined clothes and stepped into the shower. She turned the water up as hot as she could stand it. She scrubbed her skin until it was pink, trying to wash off the smell of the club, the smell of Elena's perfume, the phantom sensation of Julian's hands.

She dried off and walked into the walk-in closet. She pushed aside her comfortable flannel pajamas and reached for the section of lingerie that Eleanor insisted she buy.

She chose a black lace slip. It was sheer, uncomfortable, and undeniably sexy.

She walked back into the bedroom.

Julian was there. He had changed into sweatpants, no shirt. He was standing by the window, pouring a glass of scotch.

He heard her enter and turned around.

His eyes swept over her body. For a second, she saw the heat flare again. The same heat from the club. But then he blinked, and it was gone, replaced by a wall of ice.

What are you doing? he asked.

Victoria walked to the bed. She pulled back the duvet. I'm doing my job, Julian. It's the fourteenth day of the cycle.

She sat on the edge of the bed.

Julian laughed. It was a harsh, barking sound. You think I'm going to touch you? After tonight?

You kissed me an hour ago, Victoria reminded him.

That was a mistake, he said. He took a sip of his drink. A moment of weakness. It won't happen again.

Victoria felt a lump form in her throat. She swallowed it down. Julian, please. Let's just get this over with. I'm tired.

You're tired? He walked toward the bed. He loomed over her. You think this is a chore?

Isn't it? she asked. For you?

He looked at her. He looked at the lace, at her bare shoulders, at the curve of her legs.

You're beautiful, Victoria, he said softly.

Her heart skipped a beat.

On the outside, he continued. But inside? You're hollow. You're just a vessel waiting to be filled so you can cash a check.

He threw the rest of his scotch into the fireplace. The flames roared up, blue and orange.

He turned and walked toward the door.

Where are you going? Victoria asked, her voice small.

Guest room, he said. Sleep with your checkbook. It'll keep you warmer than I will.

The door slammed.

Victoria sat alone in the middle of the king-sized bed. The lace itched. The room was silent.

She pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. She didn't cry. She had promised herself she wouldn't cry over him anymore.

She just stared at the empty space where her husband should have been, and wondered how much longer she could endure being the villain in his story.

The morning sun hit Victoria's face like an accusation. She woke up alone, stretched diagonally across the massive bed. The sheets on the other side were pristine, unwrinkled. A cold reminder of the night before.

Downstairs, the house was already buzzing. Victoria could hear the sharp click-clack of Eleanor's heels on the marble foyer.

She dressed quickly-a conservative navy sheath dress, pearls. The uniform of the repentant wife.

When she reached the breakfast room, Eleanor was inspecting the silverware.

Where is Julian? Eleanor asked without looking up.

He left early for the office, Victoria lied. She poured herself coffee, her hand steady.

Eleanor turned. Her eyes scanned Victoria's body, lingering on her abdomen as if she had X-ray vision. And? Was the night productive?

Victoria took a sip of coffee. It burned her tongue. He was... exhausted, Eleanor. The market volatility.

Eleanor slammed a silver spoon onto the table. Excuses! Men are never too exhausted for what they want. If he is tired, it is because you are not inspiring him.

Victoria set her cup down. I am doing my best.

Your best is not enough. Eleanor snapped her fingers. Mrs. Jiang!

The housekeeper appeared with a tiered bento box. It was lacquered black wood, tied with a gold silk ribbon.

Unagi, Eleanor said. Eel. It promotes stamina. You will take this to him for lunch. Sit with him. Ensure he eats it. Remind him of his home.

I have a meeting with the charity board at noon, Victoria tried.

Cancel it. Eleanor turned back to the silverware. Your priority is Sterling Corp's future, not saving whales.

Two hours later, Victoria stood in the lobby of the Sterling Tower. The glass and steel structure pierced the Manhattan sky like a needle.

She carried the bento box. It felt heavy, like a bomb she was transporting.

The receptionist, a young girl named Sarah who looked at Victoria with a mix of pity and awe, smiled. Mrs. Sterling! Julian-Mr. Sterling-is in a strategy meeting, but I can buzz you up.

Thank you, Sarah.

Victoria took the private executive elevator. It rose smoothly, fifty floors in seconds.

The doors opened to the executive suite. It was quiet here. Thick carpets absorbed sound. The walls were glass.

Victoria walked toward Julian's corner office. The blinds were partially drawn, slats of aluminum cutting the view into strips.

She reached for the handle, then stopped.

Through the gap in the blinds, she saw them.

Julian was sitting at his desk, leaning back in his chair. He was laughing.

It wasn't the cruel laugh from last night. It was a genuine laugh. His head was thrown back, his eyes crinkled at the corners. He looked five years younger.

Elena was sitting on the edge of his desk.

She was wearing a skirt that was definitely not regulation length. Her legs were crossed, swinging slightly. She held a tablet, reading something to him.

She stopped reading and said something. She reached out and brushed a piece of lint-or nothing-off his lapel. Her hand lingered.

Julian didn't swat her away. He smiled at her. A soft, indulgent smile.

Victoria felt like she had been punched in the gut.

She looked down at the bento box in her hand. The unagi for stamina. The pathetic attempt to buy his affection with food.

She felt ridiculous. She felt small.

Elena looked up. She saw movement through the blinds. Her eyes locked with Victoria's.

Elena didn't look away. She didn't jump off the desk. She smiled. A slow, triumphant smirk. She leaned closer to Julian, whispering something in his ear.

Julian turned his head, but Victoria had already moved.

She backed away from the door. Her breath was coming in short, sharp gasps.

She walked quickly down the corridor toward the service area. There was a large, industrial trash can there.

She didn't hesitate. She opened the bento box. The smell of grilled eel and sweet sauce wafted up.

She dumped it. The rice, the eel, the gold ribbon. All of it.

She slammed the lid of the trash can shut.

Mrs. Sterling?

Victoria spun around. Xavier, Julian's executive assistant, stood there holding a stack of files. He looked at the trash can, then at her empty hands.

Hello, Xavier, Victoria said. Her voice was brittle.

Did you... need something? Xavier asked. He glanced toward the office, knowing exactly who was in there.

No, Victoria said. I was just leaving.

She walked past him toward the elevator. She pressed the button.

The arrow lit up. Down.

Escape.

But as she waited, the anger returned. It wasn't the hot rage from the club. It was colder. Sharper.

Why should she run? She was the wife. She was the future mother of his heir. She was the one with the ring.

Elena was a squatter.

The elevator dinged. The doors opened.

Victoria didn't get in.

She turned around. She smoothed her dress. She adjusted her pearls.

Xavier watched her, confused.

Change of plans, Xavier, she said.

She walked back toward the office. She didn't walk softly this time. Her heels struck the floor with a rhythmic, martial beat.

She wasn't going to deliver lunch. She was going to deliver a message.