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.

The Maybach door opened. Curtiss stepped out first. The camera flashes exploded like a violent lightning storm.

He turned and offered his hand. Isla placed her trembling fingers into his palm. As she stepped out, she deliberately shrank back, squinting against the blinding lights.

Curtiss immediately pulled her against his side. He wrapped his arm tightly around her waist, using his broad chest to shield her from the cameras. It was a pure, aggressive display of ownership.

They walked into the grand ballroom. The loud chatter of the elite crowd died down for a fraction of a second. Every eye in the room locked onto Isla's dress.

Across the room, Jaylene was holding a glass of champagne, laughing with a group of heirs. She turned around.

The champagne glass slipped from Jaylene's hand and shattered on the marble floor. All the blood drained from her face.

Jaylene looked down at her own dress, then back at Isla's. Next to the authentic Verve masterpiece, Jaylene's dress looked like a cheap Halloween costume.

Collette stood nearby, her face twisting in pure fury. She thought Isla had manipulated Curtiss into buying the dress just to humiliate them.

Isla clung to Curtiss's arm. She put a hand over her mouth and gasped softly. "Oh no," she whispered, just loud enough for people to hear. "We're wearing the same dress."

Curtiss looked at Jaylene. A cruel, mocking smirk touched the corner of his mouth.

A group of senior fashion editors swarmed them. They ignored Jaylene entirely, fawning over the flawless stitching on Isla's gown.

One of the editors, a notorious critic known for destroying careers, turned to look at Jaylene.

"Good lord," the critic said loudly, adjusting his glasses. "Who let that garbage into the room? Look at the hemline. It's a pathetic counterfeit. An insult to haute couture."

The surrounding socialites erupted into muffled laughter. They pointed at Jaylene, their eyes full of vicious mockery.

Jaylene's face burned bright red. Tears of absolute humiliation welled in her eyes. She lost her mind.

She lunged forward, pointing a shaking finger right at Isla's face. "You manipulative bitch! You did this on purpose!"

Isla let out a tiny shriek. She hid completely behind Curtiss's back, grabbing handfuls of his suit jacket, shaking violently.

Curtiss's patience snapped. He reached out and grabbed Jaylene's pointing finger, twisting her wrist down hard.

Jaylene screamed in pain.

"If you ever speak to my wife like that again," Curtiss said, his voice dropping to a demonic whisper, "I will erase the Morales name from Wall Street by sunrise."

Collette rushed forward, grabbing Jaylene and pulling her back. "Mr. Coffey, please, she didn't mean it!" Collette begged, looking terrified.

Curtiss didn't even blink at her. He wrapped his arm around Isla and walked straight toward the VIP lounge, leaving Jaylene crying in the center of the room as a public laughingstock.

Isla walked beside him. Just before they entered the hallway, Isla peeked out from under Curtiss's arm. She looked back at Jaylene.

Isla's eyes were dead, cold, and dripping with absolute arrogance.

Jaylene saw the look. She stopped crying. Pure terror washed over her face as she realized the weak cousin she had bullied for years was a monster in disguise.

"She... she's a monster! Did you see her eyes?!" Jaylene suddenly shrieked, grabbing Collette's arm and pointing wildly at the empty hallway where Isla had just been. "She did this! She set me up!"

But Collette merely slapped Jaylene's hand away, looking at her daughter with utter disgust and embarrassment. "Stop making a scene! You've humiliated us enough tonight. Are you hallucinating now?" The surrounding guests shook their heads, whispering about Jaylene's pathetic, hysterical breakdown. Isla's flawless performance had completely cemented Jaylene's status as a delusional, jealous wreck. No one would ever believe a word she said.

Inside the quiet VIP lounge, Curtiss let go of Isla. He looked down at her.

"Did you enjoy watching her burn?" Curtiss asked, testing her.

Isla immediately forced tears into her eyes. "I feel awful," she cried softly. "I shouldn't have worn it."

Curtiss sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration at her endless weakness.

The heavy door of the VIP lounge suddenly pushed open.

A man in a silver suit walked in. He had a reckless, untamed energy.

Isla looked up. Her breath completely stopped. The room spun.

Curtiss saw the color vanish from Isla's face. He followed her gaze. His eyes locked onto the stranger, and his blood turned to ice.