The private dining room at the Upper East Side club smelled of expensive perfume and old money.

Isla walked in exactly on time. The moment she crossed the threshold, the loud, piercing laughter of the socialites abruptly stopped.

Collette sat at the center of the table. She looked Isla up and down with absolute disgust.

Isla stood frozen near the door. She looked like an ugly duckling that had wandered into a swan enclosure. "Good afternoon," she whispered.

Jaylene pointed a manicured finger at the smallest chair in the darkest corner. "Sit there. Don't block the waiters."

Isla walked over and sat down. She kept her hands folded tightly in her lap. She pulled the trust fund documents from her bag and slid them across the table to Collette.

Collette ripped the folder open. Her eyes scanned the new asset-freezing clauses Curtiss had added. All the color drained from Collette's face.

Collette slammed the folder onto the table. The silverware rattled.

"You useless piece of trash!" Collette hissed. "You can't even control your own husband in bed to protect your family!"

Isla's eyes immediately filled with tears. Her bottom lip trembled. "I... I can't tell him what to do. I'm scared of him."

The other wealthy women at the table raised their napkins to hide their cruel smiles. They loved watching the fake Coffey wife get humiliated.

To change the subject and show off, Jaylene snapped her fingers. A waiter pushed a black velvet mannequin into the room.

Draped over the mannequin was a shimmering, silver starry-night gown.

"This," Jaylene announced proudly, "is the unreleased autumn haute couture from Verve."

The room erupted in gasps. The women crowded around, praising Jaylene's incredible connections and flawless taste.

Isla looked up. The moment her eyes locked onto the dress, her heart stopped.

It was the leaked design. The trash she had discarded.

Isla's trained eyes immediately caught the flaws. The stitching on the hem was jagged. The fabric lacked the true weight of Verve silk. It was a cheap, pathetic knockoff.

Jaylene strutted over to Isla. She sneered, looking down at Isla's gray sweater. "Don't stare too hard. People who wear rags will never touch Verve fabric in their lifetime."

Isla ducked her head. She forced a look of pure awe onto her face. "It's... it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

Collette leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. "There is a charity gala tomorrow night. You will make Curtiss introduce Jaylene to the London fashion executives."

Isla shook her head frantically. "Curtiss never takes me to those events. He won't listen to me."

Collette's voice dropped to a lethal whisper. "If you don't make it happen, I will stop paying the maintenance fees for your parents' graves."

Isla's breath hitched. Her fingernails dug so hard into her palms that the skin broke. A violent, murderous rage flared in her chest.

She forced the rage down, burying it deep. She looked up, letting a tear spill over her lashes. "Okay. I'll beg him."

When the lunch ended, Isla practically ran out of the room. The second she turned the corner into the empty hallway, she pulled out her phone. She snapped a high-resolution photo of the fake dress through the cracked door.

She sent the photo to Kristy with one text: Prepare the PR kill squad.

Just as she hit send, K. Jennings walked around the opposite corner, escorting a client.

Isla shoved her phone into her pocket. She aggressively wiped at her eyes, making sure they looked red and swollen. She hunched her shoulders, letting out a soft, pathetic sniffle.

K. Jennings stopped. He frowned, watching the boss's wife crying in the hallway of a private club. It was his job to report everything.

Isla kept her head down and hurried past him. As soon as she was behind him, the corners of her mouth curled up into a dark, calculating smile.

She knew Curtiss. He didn't love her, but his ego was massive. He would never allow anyone to publicly humiliate a woman who carried his last name.

Isla got into a yellow cab. She stared out the window, already planning Jaylene's execution at the gala.

Meanwhile, inside the top-floor office of Coffey Group, Curtiss listened to K. Jennings's phone report.

The gold-plated fountain pen in Curtiss's hand snapped completely in half. Ink bled across his fingers.

Curtiss threw the broken halves of the pen into the trash can. He stood up and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, staring down at the Manhattan skyline. His chest rose and fell with heavy, furious breaths.

"Repeat exactly what Collette said," Curtiss demanded.

K. Jennings swallowed hard. The air pressure in the office felt suffocating. "She threatened her parents' graves, sir."

Curtiss's eyes turned pitch black. "Cut off the credit lines to both of the Morales family's subsidiary banks. Now."

"Yes, sir."

"And," Curtiss turned around, his voice dangerously calm. "Contact Verve's PR department. Buy that unreleased dress. I don't care what it costs."

K. Jennings hesitated. "Sir, Verve's rules are absolute. They don't sell unreleased items to anyone outside their core VIP list."

Curtiss stepped forward. The sheer dominance radiating from him made K. Jennings take a step back.

"Use every resource Coffey Group has," Curtiss ordered. "Bury them in money if you have to. But that dress will be in my wife's hands by tonight."

That evening, Isla dragged her feet as she walked into the penthouse. She was exhausted, but she had to keep up the act.

She pushed the door open and froze.

Curtiss was sitting on the living room sofa. He held a glass of amber whiskey. He never came home this early.

Isla instantly dropped her gaze. She walked toward him, her steps small and hesitant.

Curtiss didn't say a word. His piercing eyes locked onto her face, studying the faint redness still lingering around her eyes.

"Did the Morales family touch you today?" Curtiss asked. His voice was blunt, leaving no room for lies.

Isla flinched. She shook her head quickly, but her eyes darted away.

She played her part perfectly. She stuttered out Collette's demand about the London executives, ending with a pathetic, "Please, Curtiss. Just this once. Help me."

Curtiss slammed his whiskey glass down on the glass coffee table. The loud crack made Isla jump backward.

He stood up. He closed the distance between them in two massive strides, stopping just inches away from her. His sheer height and the dark, overwhelming aura of his presence formed an invisible wall, suffocating her. He didn't raise his voice, nor did he pin her to the wall in a fit of unrestrained rage. Instead, he reached out, his cold, calloused fingers gripping her chin with a firm, inescapable pressure. He forced her to look up into his pitch-black eyes.

"My wife does not bow to anyone," Curtiss stated, his voice a chilling, absolute command that left no room for debate. "And you will never beg for those parasites again."

Isla looked up at him. For a second, her shock was genuine. She hadn't expected his anger to be this physical, this intense.

They were so close she could feel the heat radiating off his chest. Curtiss stared down at her lips. He smelled the faint scent of citrus on her skin. His anger suddenly warped into a strange, heavy pulse of desire in his gut.

The doorbell rang, shattering the dangerous tension.

Curtiss stepped back, clearing his throat. He adjusted his suit jacket.

The butler walked in, pushing a massive black velvet garment box. "Sir, the delivery for Mrs. Coffey."

"Open it," Curtiss ordered her.

Isla walked over. Her hands shook as she untied the silk ribbon. She lifted the lid.

Lying inside was the true, flawless, authentic Verve starry-night gown.

Isla's brain short-circuited. She knew exactly how much Curtiss had paid for this-Kristy had called her screaming about the insane wire transfer two hours ago.

She had to bite the inside of her cheek to stop herself from laughing.

Instead, Isla covered her mouth with both hands. She let a massive tear roll down her cheek. She looked at Curtiss with wide, disbelieving eyes.

"I... I can't believe it," she whispered, her voice breaking perfectly. "Thank you."

Curtiss looked at her tear-stained face. The tight knot of rage in his chest instantly dissolved, replaced by a deep, primal satisfaction.

"You will wear this tomorrow night," Curtiss commanded. "And you will stand next to Jaylene."

Isla nodded meekly. She took a step forward and rested her forehead against his chest, acting like a grateful, terrified sheep seeking shelter.

Curtiss went completely rigid. He wasn't used to being touched. But slowly, almost against his own will, he lifted his hand and stroked her hair.

Hidden against his chest, Isla's eyes were cold and sharp. The trap was set.

Isla stood in the center of the massive master closet. She stared at her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. She took a deep breath, letting her lungs expand.

She dropped her old sweater to the floor and carefully stepped into the Verve gown. The silk slid over her skin like water. Because she had designed it using her own exact measurements, it fit her body with terrifying perfection.

She reached behind her back to pull the zipper up. But because of the tight cut around the waist, her arm couldn't quite reach the mechanism.

"Are you ready?" Curtiss's impatient voice echoed from the hallway. "Do you need the maids?"

Isla panicked. She dropped a hair clip on the floor. "No! I'm almost done!" she called out, pulling desperately at the zipper.

The closet door swung open.

Curtiss walked in. He was wearing a tailored black tuxedo that made him look like a lethal weapon.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

Isla was facing the mirror, her back completely exposed to him. The dress dipped low, revealing the smooth, pale curve of her spine. Curtiss's breath caught in his throat. His lungs suddenly felt too small.

Isla gasped. She tried to cover her chest with her arms, freezing in place.

Curtiss's eyes darkened. He didn't turn around. He didn't leave. Instead, he walked slowly toward her.

He stopped right behind her. Isla could feel the heat of his body pressing into her back.

Curtiss reached out. His cold fingers brushed against her bare skin. A violent shiver ripped down Isla's spine.

He looked at her waist in the mirror. His brow furrowed slightly.

Curtiss pinched the metal zipper. He pulled it up slowly. The metallic rasping sound was deafening in the quiet closet. "Is Verve's custom service this fast?" Curtiss asked, his voice casual but laced with a dangerous, probing edge. "Or does your figure just happen to perfectly match their standard model size?"

Isla's breath hitched, her lungs freezing for a fraction of a second. She quickly forced a nervous, self-deprecating laugh, keeping her eyes downcast in the mirror. "I... I guess I'm just lucky. It's actually a little tight around the ribs, but I didn't want to complain."

When the zipper reached the top, he didn't let go. He rested both of his large hands heavily on her bare shoulders.

Isla looked up. Their eyes locked in the mirror. Curtiss's gaze was heavy, filled with a raw, predatory hunger that made Isla's stomach flip.

She quickly dropped her eyelashes, looking away, playing the shy, overwhelmed virgin.

Curtiss pulled his hands back. He took a step away, his face hardening back into a mask of ice. "It's acceptable," he muttered.

The styling team rushed into the room. Curtiss sat on the velvet sofa, scrolling through his tablet.

The lead stylist pinned Isla's hair up. She ran her hands over the bodice of the dress.

"My god," the stylist whispered. "The draping on this... it's like a stroke of genius, absolutely on par with Freya's level. It's a masterpiece."

Isla's heart slammed against her ribs. She shot a panicked look at Curtiss through the mirror.

Curtiss's finger stopped swiping on the tablet. He looked up. His eyes locked onto Isla's reflection. He was calculating something, his mind turning. But he stayed silent.

An hour later, Isla wore a ten-million-dollar diamond necklace. She looked like royalty. To hide it, she hunched her shoulders slightly, dulling her own shine.

They walked to the garage. Curtiss held out his arm. Isla took it.

The Maybach sped toward the Upper East Side. The air in the backseat was thick with unspoken tension.

"Stay close to me tonight," Curtiss said suddenly, staring out the window. "You don't need to smile at anyone."

Isla nodded obediently. Inside, she was laughing. Tonight, she wouldn't be smiling. She would be executing.

She turned her head to look out the window. For a split second, her reflection in the glass showed a woman with eyes as sharp as a guillotine blade.

Curtiss caught the reflection. He turned his head sharply, but Isla was already looking down at her lap, playing with her fingers.

He narrowed his eyes. The suspicion in his gut was growing into a physical ache.

The car slowed down. The red carpet of the Metropolitan Museum of Art awaited. The war was about to begin.