PART ONE
The crystal chandelier of the Pierre Hotel ballroom didn’t sparkle half as much as the tears threatening to spill from Meline’s eyes. One moment she was the devoted wife standing by her husband’s side. The next she was drenched in vintage champagne, the cold liquid soaking through her maternity gown as the room fell into a suffocating silence.
Her husband, Parker, didn’t offer a napkin. He didn’t offer an apology. He just laughed, a cruel, sharp sound that signaled the end of her patience.
He thought she was a nobody, an orphan with nowhere to go. He had no idea that the three black SUVs currently screeching to a halt outside the hotel on Fifth Avenue contained some of the most dangerous, wealthy men in the United States, and they were here for her. Hours earlier, rain lashed against the floor‑to‑ceiling windows of the penthouse overlooking Central Park, but the storm outside was nothing compared to the atmosphere inside the Mitchell residence.
Meline stood before the full‑length mirror in the master bedroom, her hand resting protectively over the heavy swell of her eight‑month pregnancy. The navy blue silk of her gown stretched tight across her stomach. It was a beautiful dress, custom‑made, but she felt less like a woman and more like an inconvenient piece of furniture that had suddenly become too bulky for the room’s aesthetic.
“Are you ready yet, or do I have to drag you to the car?”
The voice came from the doorway. Parker Mitchell stood there adjusting his cufflinks. He was a handsome man in the way a shark is handsome—sleek, sharp, and predatory.
His tuxedo was cut from Italian wool, tailored to perfection, hiding the rot that festered in his soul. “I’m ready, Parker,” Meline said softly, turning to face him. She flinched instinctively as his eyes raked over her.
There was no affection in his gaze, only a critical, cold assessment. “You look huge,” he muttered, walking past her to grab his watch from the dresser. “Try to stand behind me tonight.
I’m trying to close a deal with the guys from Goldman, and I don’t need you waddling around distracting them. It’s embarrassing.”
Meline swallowed the lump in her throat. “It’s our child, Parker.
I’m pregnant, not diseased.”
“Same difference to my social life,” he snapped. He sprayed a cloud of expensive cologne, the scent choking the air between them. “Look, just don’t speak unless spoken to.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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