Clara sat at her vanity. Her makeup artist stepped back, admiring the deep red lipstick. A stylist carefully clasped a massive, flawless emerald necklace around Clara's throat.
A knock sounded at the door.
Chadwick walked in. He was wearing a sharp Tom Ford tuxedo. He looked exhausted, but handsome.
The stylist quickly packed up and left the room.
Chadwick walked up behind Clara. He looked at her reflection in the mirror.
He placed his hands gently on her bare shoulders.
"You look breathtaking," Chadwick said softly.
Clara didn't move. She stared at his hands in the mirror.
"I'm sorry, Clara," Chadwick said. His voice was thick with fake remorse. "I was out of line in Orlando. I'm moving Dorcas and Autumn out tomorrow. I bought them a small house in Long Island. They won't be in our space anymore."
Clara felt absolutely nothing.
She knew he was only doing this because the board members were starting to ask questions about their icy public appearances.
"We'll see," Clara said flatly. She stood up, letting his hands fall from her shoulders.
Thirty minutes later, their Rolls-Royce pulled up to the Met.
The second the door opened, Chadwick grabbed her hand. He smiled brightly, playing the perfect, devoted husband for the sea of flashing cameras.
Once inside the massive, echoing hall, Chadwick was immediately swarmed by investors.
Clara pulled her hand free. She grabbed a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and walked away.
She found a quiet, dimly lit terrace overlooking Central Park.
She leaned against the stone balustrade and let out a long, heavy sigh.
"Sighing will dull the shine of those emeralds, Ms. Best."
The voice came from the shadows. It was deep, rough, and commanded absolute authority.
Clara spun around.
He had called her by her maiden name. Not Mrs. Brewer.
A man stepped out of the darkness.
He was incredibly tall. He wore a black tuxedo, but he had discarded the bowtie. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone.
Clara's breath caught in her throat.
It was Erasmo Chase. The heir to the largest financial dynasty in New York. A man who rarely showed his face in public.
His eyes were dark, predatory, and locked entirely on her.
A strange, violent jolt of familiarity hit Clara's chest. She felt like she had seen those eyes before, a long time ago.
Erasmo stepped closer. He completely ignored the unspoken rules of high-society personal space.
He stopped inches from her. He held out a fresh glass of dry martini.
As Clara reached for it, Erasmo's fingers brushed deliberately against hers.
A hot shock of electricity shot up Clara's arm.
Erasmo tilted his head, a slow, dangerous smile touching his lips.
Before Clara could ask him why he was looking at her like he wanted to devour her, a loud shout echoed from the ballroom inside.
