The PR directors ushered the guests toward the main dining hall. The room smelled of expensive perfume and roasted truffles.

Aubrey walked toward the head table with Sloane by her side. Her steps were perfectly measured, but her spine was stiff as a board.

She found her name card on the right side of the long table. Dominick's name card sat diagonally across from hers.

Dominick guided Veronica to her seat. He pulled the heavy chair out for her with smooth, practiced ease.

The socialites at the neighboring tables immediately started whispering behind their hands. Portia Vaughn caught Aubrey's eye and let out a cold, mocking smirk.

Aubrey sat down. She kept her eyes fixed straight ahead, pretending the stares didn't feel like needles pricking her skin.

Sloane reached under the table and squeezed Aubrey's cold hand.

"I just got promoted to editorial director," Sloane whispered, desperately trying to change the subject.

Aubrey raised her glass. "Congratulations, Sloane," she said, forcing a genuine smile onto her face.

But a media executive sitting across from them instantly dragged the conversation back to the elephant in the room.

"Dominick!" a Vanity Fair editor called out loudly. "What brings you back to New York so suddenly?"

Dominick looked up. His face was a blank mask. "Annual evaluations for the Carrillo Group."

Veronica leaned in, her shoulder brushing his. "He's really here to support my new charity initiative," she giggled.

Aubrey pressed her knife into her truffle steak. The metal blade scraped against the porcelain plate with a sharp, high-pitched screech.

Dominick's eyes snapped to her hands. He caught the sound instantly. His gaze dragged up to her face.

Aubrey looked right back at him. Her eyes were entirely dead, filled with nothing but pure mockery.

Dominick's brow furrowed. A muscle twitched in his jaw. He clearly didn't like the coldness radiating from her.

A waiter stepped forward to pour Dominick more wine. Dominick lifted his left hand to move his glass.

The platinum Patek Philippe watch caught the light of the crystal chandeliers. It gleamed with a cold, hard shine.

Aubrey stared at the watch. The three days of lies dug into her pride like a rusted blade.

Veronica suddenly leaned closer to Dominick. She whispered something directly into his ear.

Dominick didn't pull away. He nodded slightly, his posture relaxed and intimate.

Camera flashes erupted from the press pit nearby. They had just captured the perfect scandalous shot.

Bile rose in the back of Aubrey's throat. She dropped her knife and fork and grabbed her water glass, gripping it with both hands to hide her shaking.

Sloane kicked Aubrey's shin under the table. It was a silent demand to fight back.

Aubrey took a deep breath. The air filled her lungs. She turned to a Wall Street investor sitting to her left.

She pitched her voice perfectly-loud enough for the table, loud enough for Dominick. "The recent tech acquisitions have been an aesthetic disaster."

She dissected the exact user interface failures and brand positioning flaws in the Carrillo Group's latest Asia-Pacific tech merger. She used precise, brutal design critiques to point out how the outdated visual identity was actively tanking the merger's market valuation.

Dominick's hand froze around his wine glass. His dark eyes narrowed into dangerous slits.

He finally spoke. His voice cut across the table, heavy and demanding. "Aubrey Middleton. When did you suddenly develop an interest in Wall Street?"

The lights in the dining hall dimmed as a renowned auctioneer from Sotheby's took the stage to host the charity bidding.

Aubrey looked across the table at Dominick. "I read Bloomberg every morning," she said smoothly, brushing off his question.

Dominick stared at her for a long second. He didn't push it, but his eyes tracked her every movement.

The auctioneer presented the next item. It was a vintage Bvlgari emerald necklace, donated by Veronica.

"Starting bid at one hundred thousand dollars," the auctioneer announced. A few paddles went up in the back.

Veronica turned her head and looked at Dominick. Her eyes were wide, practically begging him to bid.

Aubrey watched them. She picked up her water glass to hide the bitter twist of her lips.

Dominick's face remained completely expressionless. He raised his paddle. "One million."

The entire room went dead silent. Then, a wave of shocked gasps and frantic whispers flooded the hall.

A million dollars for a necklace worth barely three hundred thousand. It was a massive, public declaration of support for the actress.

Portia Vaughn leaned past two chairs just to look at Aubrey. Her eyes were filled with fake pity and real cruelty.

Aubrey's fingernails dug so hard into her palms that the skin nearly broke. She kept the smile glued to her face.

The gavel slammed down. "Sold!" Veronica gasped, covering her mouth with her hands. She looked at Dominick with teary eyes and mouthed a thank you.

Dominick gave a single, curt nod. But his eyes immediately slid diagonally across the table, landing on Aubrey.

Aubrey didn't give him a single second of eye contact. She looked down at her phone, typing a fast reply to Sloane's angry text.

The dinner finally ended. Guests began filtering out toward the valet waiting area.

Aubrey pulled her velvet shawl tightly over her shoulders. She just wanted to call her own driver and escape the suffocating air.

She walked down the side corridor of the museum. A large, solid figure stepped out of the shadows, blocking her path.

Dominick stood there. He held an unlit cigar between his fingers. He smelled of expensive cologne and raw power.

"Let your driver go," he ordered. His voice left no room for argument. "You're riding back with me."

Aubrey let out a harsh laugh. "Why? Is Veronica's van not big enough to fit your ego?"

Dominick took a step forward. His dress shoes clicked heavily against the marble floor.

"There are paparazzi swarming the exits," he said, looking down at her. His voice was ice. "Do you want tomorrow's New York Post headline to be about the Carrillo marriage collapsing?"

Aubrey ground her teeth together. She knew the rules of her family's trust fund. She couldn't tank his stock prices.

She glared at him, her chest heaving. She stepped around him and walked aggressively toward the exit.

They pushed through the glass doors together. A blinding wall of camera flashes assaulted them instantly.

Dominick's large hand clamped down on her waist. He pulled her flush against his side, playing the role of the fiercely protective husband.

The heat of his palm burned right through the velvet of her dress. Her entire body went rigid.

The bodyguard pulled open the door to the stretch Lincoln. Aubrey practically dove into the backseat to get away from his touch.

Dominick climbed in right behind her. The heavy door slammed shut, instantly cutting off the screaming reporters.

The driver pressed a button. The thick, black soundproof divider slowly rolled up, sealing the backseat into an absolute vacuum.

The confined space was immediately flooded with Dominick's scent. It was a heavy mix of cold cedar and custom tobacco.

Aubrey slid across the leather seat until her hip hit the door. She needed maximum physical distance from him.

Dominick reached up and yanked his tie loose. He unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. He looked exhausted and dangerous.

"A million dollars for outdated emeralds," Aubrey said, her voice dripping with venom. "The Carrillo Group's cash flow must be incredibly healthy."

Dominick turned his head. The passing streetlights cast dark shadows over the sharp angles of his face.

"It's a tax-deductible charity expense, Aubrey. You don't need to use your pathetic financial knowledge to audit my ledgers," he fired back coldly.

The insult hit her right in the chest. It was the exact sore spot she hated most-being treated like a brainless trophy. Her eyes burned.

"Is that right?" she snapped. "Was grabbing my waist for the cameras part of your tax avoidance strategy too?"

Dominick lunged forward. He planted his arm on the leather seat right behind her head, trapping her in the corner.

"That was to stop you from running to those gossiping housewives tomorrow and crying about your neglectful husband. I protect my stock prices."

Aubrey's heart hammered frantically against her ribs, but she tilted her chin up and glared right back into his eyes.

The Lincoln took a sudden, sharp turn. Aubrey lost her balance. She pitched forward and slammed hard into Dominick's chest.

Dominick's arm instinctively wrapped around her. He pulled her tight against his body. His muscles were like solid rock.

Aubrey shoved her hands against his chest, pushing him away like he was diseased. "Don't touch me!"

Dominick's eyes darkened instantly. He dropped his arm, slid back to his side of the car, and aggressively smoothed down his suit jacket.

For the next ten minutes, the car was dead silent. Only the neon lights of Manhattan blurred past the tinted windows.

The Lincoln finally rolled into the private underground garage of their Fifth Avenue building.

The bodyguard opened the door. Aubrey didn't wait a single second. She grabbed her dress and practically ran toward the private elevator.

Dominick shoved his hands into his pockets and followed her, his long strides easily keeping pace.

The elevator shot up to the penthouse. The doors slid open to reveal the cold, minimalist black-and-white decor.

They owned two floors. They lived entirely separate lives.

Aubrey walked into the foyer and aggressively kicked off her Jimmy Choo heels. They clattered against the marble.

Instead of walking up the stairs to her floor, she spun around. She planted her bare feet on the floor and blocked his path.

Dominick took off his suit jacket and tossed it onto the sofa. He raised an eyebrow at her.

"The show is over, Dominick. Now, answer my question," Aubrey demanded. Her voice shook with pure rage.

"What tantrum are you throwing now?" Dominick pinched the bridge of his nose. He looked incredibly annoyed.

"When exactly did you get back to New York?" She stared a hole straight through him. She dropped the bomb.

Dominick was reaching for a whiskey decanter. His hand completely froze in mid-air for half a second. He hadn't expected that.

Outside the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, the New York sky ripped open. Thunder cracked, and torrential rain began to smash against the glass.