Julian’s grip dug into my shoulder. "Who is this new advisor, Serena? And why did you really come home early?"
I didn't flinch. I turned my head, staring blankly at his hand until he realized his mistake.
He loosened his fingers, feigning a gentle stroke over my collarbone.
"Are you interrogating me in my own house, Julian?" I asked.
"I am just worried about you." His voice dripped with fake concern. "You seem on edge. You walk in, start talking about trust funds, and now you are acting completely cold."
"I am exhausted." I swatted his hand away. "Running a company across three time zones does that to a person."
"So who is the advisor?"
"A consultant Marcus recommended. I want to double-check the tax liabilities before my birthday."
Julian’s jaw unclenched. The mention of taxes bored him. He only cared about the bottom line, not the work required to maintain it.
"I need a drink," I announced, turning my back to him. "Actually, I need to go back to the city. I left a crucial file at the office."
"Now?" Annoyance leaked into his tone. "It is our anniversary."
"You already celebrated."
He froze. "What?"
"We had champagne on Sunday, remember?" I forced a tight smile over my shoulder. "Do not wait up."
I walked out the front door, leaving him standing on the staircase.
My driver, Tom, was waiting by the gates.
"Back to the city, Tom," I instructed, climbing into the backseat.
"Everything alright, Mrs. Vance?" he asked, glancing in the rearview mirror.
"Everything is perfect," I lied.
The drive to Manhattan took an hour. I spent the entire time staring out the window, watching the streetlights blur into streaks of yellow. My phone buzzed in my purse. Three missed calls from Julian. Two texts from Elena asking if I wanted her to pack Leo's lunch for tomorrow.
I powered the phone off and tossed it onto the leather seat. The silence in the car felt heavy, suffocating. I rolled down the window, letting the cold night air bite at my cheeks. I needed to wash the stench of that house off my skin.
Two hours later, the heavy bass of an exclusive, hidden Manhattan speakeasy thumped against my ribs.
I sat at the far corner of the mahogany bar, swirling amber liquid in a heavy crystal glass.
I had shed my conservative work clothes for a skin-tight black dress I kept hidden in my office closet. The fabric clung to my curves, and the back dipped dangerously low, exposing my spine to the dim, smoky lighting. My red-bottom stilettos dangled off the edge of the brass footrail.
"Another double." I slid my empty glass forward.
The bartender poured the whiskey. I downed it in one burning swallow.
Julian and Elena. My money. My son. The betrayal clawed at my throat. I needed to numb it. I needed to do something reckless, something that would burn this perfect, fake life to the ground.
"Make it three," I demanded, tapping my manicured nail against the wood.
The bartender frowned. "Are you sure, miss?"
"I am paying you to pour, not to judge."
He filled the glass again. The burn of the alcohol did nothing to quiet the roaring in my ears.
A man stepped up to the counter, invading my peripheral vision.
He didn't just walk into the space; he commanded it. The ambient chatter around us seemed to die down the second he arrived.
I shifted my gaze.
He stood over six-foot-two, his broad shoulders blocking out the neon sign behind him. He wore a crisp black dress shirt, but the top three buttons hung open. Smooth, tanned skin stretched over hard chest muscles. A sharp collarbone peeked through the dark fabric.
"Macallan. Neat."
His voice rumbled low and rough, slicing straight through the loud music. It was a sound that demanded absolute obedience.
I studied his profile. A sharp, unforgiving jawline covered in dark stubble. Dangerous, storm-grey eyes that scanned the room with complete authority.
Dominic Blackwood.
I recognized him immediately from the Forbes covers. A ruthless venture capitalist. A man who ruined empires for sport and bought out his enemies just to fire them.
Perfect. A monster to fight my monsters.
I picked up my fresh drink and slid off the stool.
I walked right into his personal space, stopping mere inches from his chest.
He glanced down. His grey eyes locked onto mine, cold and calculating. He didn't step back. He didn't even flinch.
"You are in my way," Dominic stated.
"It is a big bar." I traced the rim of my glass with my index finger. "Walk around me."
A muscle ticked in his cheek. He leaned forward, catching the scent of my perfume.
"I do not walk around people. I go through them."
I let out a sharp laugh. It sounded foreign to my own ears. "I would love to see you try."
Dominic raised an eyebrow. He took his glass from the bartender and took a slow sip, never breaking eye contact.
"You are drunk."
"I am high-functioning," I countered, stepping even closer. My Louboutins brushed against his polished leather loafers. "And I am bored. Are you boring, Mr. Blackwood?"
His gaze dropped to my mouth, then dragged down my neck, lingering on the exposed skin of my chest.
"People usually run the other way when they see me."
"I am not most people."
"No." His voice dropped an octave. "You are Serena Vance. A married woman."
My stomach twisted. He knew exactly who I was. Of course he did. In our world, everyone knew everyone's net worth.
I forced a wicked, wild smile onto my face.
"My husband is currently occupied," I whispered, tilting my head back to meet his stare. "He likes to play house with the help. So, I am playing by my own rules."
Dominic’s eyes flared with a lethal, possessive spark. He set his glass down on the counter with a sharp click and wrapped a large, heavy hand around my wrist.
"Then let's see how well you play," he rumbled, dragging me toward the private elevator at the back of the club.
