"Turn around," Adelia commanded.
Chris turned toward the three-way mirror in the private fitting room of the Beverly Hills boutique. The midnight-blue suit fit him like a second skin. It hid the scars, but it emphasized the width of his shoulders, the taper of his waist.
The tailor, a nervous Italian man, was still trembling slightly. He had seen the map of scars on Chris's back when he measured him-bullet wounds, knife slashes, burns.
"Where did you get those?" Adelia asked quietly, standing behind him. She reached out to straighten his collar, her fingers lingering on the fabric.
"A souvenir from a boating accident the Olsons arranged a few years ago," Chris said, his voice flat. "They weren't as thorough as they thought." He buttoned his cuffs.
"Tonight is the Washington Foundation Gala," Adelia said, watching his reflection. "Elizabeth and Greg will be there. It's their 'official' debut."
Chris met her eyes in the mirror. "Good. I'm going to make her regret every breath she takes in that room."
Adelia shivered. "You're wicked."
"I'm just getting started."
They arrived at the gala an hour later. The flashbulbs were blinding as the Bentley pulled up. Adelia stepped out first, wearing a gold dress that looked like liquid metal. She was stunning.
Then Chris stepped out.
The crowd went silent for a heartbeat. He looked like a dark prince. He offered his arm to Adelia, and she took it, beaming with a predatory triumph.
They walked into the ballroom. The air was thick with perfume and gossip.
Elizabeth was standing near the champagne fountain, laughing at something Greg said. Her laugh sounded forced, too high-pitched. Greg was holding a glass of wine, his hand shaking slightly.
Then, the room shifted. Heads turned. Conversations died.
Elizabeth looked toward the entrance. She saw them.
Chris was guiding Adelia through the crowd, his hand resting comfortably on the small of her back. He looked... magnificent. He looked nothing like the husband she had divorced 48 hours ago.
"Elizabeth, dear!" Adelia's voice cut through the silence. She dragged Chris over.
"Adelia. Chris," Elizabeth said. Her voice was brittle. She clutched her clutch bag so hard her knuckles were white. "I didn't think you'd have the nerve to show up."
Chris looked at her. His gaze was bored. He looked at her dress-a pale blue chiffon-and then dismissed it.
"I'm just here to see the entertainment," Chris said, his eyes sliding to Greg.
Greg puffed out his chest. "This is a private event, Chris. You don't belong here."
Chris laughed. "I own the building, Greg. Or rather, Adelia's holding company has owned a controlling stake for months. We just finalized the transfer of management rights this morning."
A ripple of whispers went through the nearby guests. Elizabeth felt the blood drain from her face.
"You're lying," she whispered.
"Check the deed," Chris said. He turned to Adelia. "I'm bored. Let's dance."
He didn't wait for a response. He led Adelia to the dance floor.
The band began to play a slow, sultry jazz number. Chris pulled Adelia close. His movements were fluid, dominant. He spun her, dipped her, his face inches from hers.
Elizabeth watched, unable to look away. Chris had never danced with her. He had always claimed he had two left feet. He had always been too tired, too sick.
Now, he moved like water.
Greg tried to touch her arm. "Liz, don't look at them."
She shook him off. "Don't touch me, Greg."
She watched Chris whisper something in Adelia's ear, and Adelia threw her head back and laughed. It looked intimate. It looked real.
Elizabeth felt a tear prick the corner of her eye. She wiped it away furiously. Hate. She had to hate him. But all she felt was a gaping, hollow loss.
