The ballroom shimmered with gold lights and quiet laughter, champagne flutes clinking over soft jazz. It was the kind of event Adam Ravenstrong typically dominated—sharp suit, sharper eyes, a man untouchable and in control.
But tonight, Adam stood with one hand in his pocket, the other absently running across the edge of his whiskey glass, eyes following one woman in particular as she walked across the floor.
His wife.
Still radiant from the afterglow of the ride over, she wore the same midnight-blue gown like a declaration of war. She smiled graciously when people greeted her and answered politely when Nolan's wife gushed over her "grace and elegance," but Adam knew better.
He could still feel her lips on his. Her moans in his ear. Her body trembling beneath his tongue.
And now she was standing beside Beatrice.
The sight made something dangerous curl low in his gut.
