Chapter 2

I sat in that bedroom until dawn broke through the windows. Then I changed into a fresh dress and did my makeup—something sharp and flawless.

Good. Now I looked like myself again.

I went somewhere interesting.

Midtown Manhattan. The elite private club Julian frequented most. He had a reserved booth here; the membership roster read like a who's who of Wall Street and Washington. This was where he closed deals, nursed his scotch, and played the role of the perfect gentleman.

I pushed through the door to the VIP floor. The manager hurried over, his face arranged in a professional smile. "Mrs. Castellano, how may I help you?"

"Get me ten male models." I settled into Julian's private booth, crossed my legs. "The best-looking ones you have. Best bodies. Put it on my husband's tab."

The smile froze on the manager's face.

"Now," I added.

Ten minutes later, ten tall, chiseled men stood in a line before me.

Blonds with blue eyes. Dark brunettes with tousled curls. And one with close-cropped black hair and bone structure so sharp he could have stepped out of a Renaissance sculpture.

Mm. Very easy on the eyes.

I rose from the sofa, my heels clicking across the floor as I approached them.

"Not bad." I pulled a stack of bills from my clutch, folded one slowly, and walked up to the tallest of the lot.

He had half a head on Julian, with pale gray eyes.

I slipped the bill between his parted lips, my fingertip brushing his lower lip as I drew my hand back. "Hold that for me."

He blinked, stunned for a beat, then clamped down on it with his teeth.

"Good boy." I patted his cheek and moved on to the next.

The brunette had a pair of gorgeous green eyes. I slid out another bill, hooked a finger under the top button of his shirt, popped it open, and tucked the note inside his collar, trailing my finger slowly down from there. His Adam's apple bobbed visibly.

"This one I like," I said, glancing back at the manager with a smile. "Much better-looking than Julian. Better build, too. My husband's passable with clothes on, but underneath? Nothing to write home about."

The manager went a shade paler and couldn't seem to find the words.

Then I settled back into the center of the booth, a model flanking me on each side. Green-Eyes was on my right. I picked up a glass of champagne and tipped it to his lips.

"Good?"

The tips of his ears went scarlet.

I laughed out loud.

If Julian knew what I'd turned his private booth into, he'd probably blow a blood vessel.

The next second, the door was kicked open.

Julian stood in the doorway. A vein pulsed at his temple, and those eyes—usually so polished and polite—were shot through with red, churning with a fury I had never seen before.

His gaze swept across each model's face, one by one, before landing on me. He crossed the room in three long strides. The models scattered, pressing themselves against the walls.

He bent down, gripped my chin between his fingers, and forced my face up to meet his eyes.

"Vivian." The word ground out from between clenched teeth. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

I leaned in close, my lips nearly brushing his ear, and whispered:

"Weren't you the one who suggested we try an open marriage?"

"So what business is it of yours what I do with other men?"

His pupils contracted sharply.

The hand gripping my chin jerked away, and then—

Crack.

The slap landed hard across my face.

Dead silence in the booth. Ten models cowered in the corner, too terrified to breathe.

I lifted my gaze to Julian.

His chest was still heaving, his eyes boiling over with possessiveness and rage. Guilt? Not a trace.

He could cheat, but I couldn't so much as touch another man.

That was Julian Castellano's logic.

I let out a cold laugh and slapped him back with everything I had.

A vivid red mark bloomed across Julian's cheek. He stood there, frozen, for several long seconds.

Disbelief flickered through his eyes. Then he turned toward the huddle of men in the corner and roared: "Get the hell out!"

They fled.

"Listen to me carefully, Vivian." He towered over me, glaring down. "You belong to me. Only me."

Before I could respond, he straightened his collar, turned on his heel, and walked out.

I stayed on the sofa. Standing in the doorway was the leading lady from last night's video—Sienna Voss.

A Twitter personality with half a million followers. My husband's new flame.

I let out a cold laugh and pulled out my phone to call my lawyer.

"Draw up the divorce papers. I want out—immediately, right now—from Julian Castellano."

I hung up and called a car back to the villa I shared with Julian.

Our marital home. The place we'd lived for four full years.

I walked straight down to the wine cellar.

His pride and joy. Bordeaux, Burgundy, Napa Valley—rare vintages, some worth the price of a sports car per bottle. He used to wrap his arm around me as we wandered between the racks, telling me the story behind each one with genuine excitement—what the weather was like that year, how eccentric the winemaker had been—and he'd say that someday we'd open them one by one, drinking our way through until we were old and couldn't walk anymore.

I started at the top shelf. One by one, I pulled the bottles down and twisted them open.

Wine gushed out—red, white, amber—flooding over the tips of my shoes.

The air turned thick with the smell of it, so strong it stung.

Then I reached into my pocket and pulled out a lighter.

The flame flickered once.

I let go and tossed it into the mouth of the cellar.

A wave of heat hit my face and I stepped back.

I stood there and watched it burn.

I had lived in this villa for four years.

The lemon tree I'd planted in the backyard with my own hands. The vacation photos hanging on the staircase landing. The bottle in the cellar he said we wouldn't open until I turned sixty.

Now all of it was ash.

Just like my marriage to Julian Castellano.

The flames climbed higher, crackling and snapping.

I turned away, walked back through the living room, and grabbed the suitcase I'd already packed.

It was over.