The moment the divorce papers were signed, I was finally free from three years of a loveless marriage. To celebrate, I drank myself into oblivion under the hazy lights of an exclusive club. Fueled by liquid courage, I stumbled into a private suite, pointed a trembling finger at the man radiating a lethal combination of restraint and danger, and rasped, “I want you.” He didn’t refuse. That night was a storm of tangled limbs and desperate heat, and he branded his mark on my very soul.
A month later, I stared at two pink lines on a pregnancy test. I fled to Florida, burying the truth and raising my beautiful twin daughters with a new fiancé who played the perfect father.
Five years later, I returned to New York, a queen ready to claim her corporate throne. But when I strode into the boardroom, I froze. The man with the power to veto my entire future, Ryan, was sitting at the head of the table. A knowing smirk played on his lips, coiling around me like a viper.
I tried to avoid his intense gaze, but unexpectedly, at a glittering gala, he caged me between the wall and the unyielding heat of his body. His breath was a scorch against the sensitive skin of my neck as his voice, a low, rough murmur full of raw possession, vibrated through me. “You sounded so exquisite that night… and now you’re telling me those children are his? Do you really think I’d believe that?”
