Chapter 1: The Gala
The chandeliers of the Plaza Hotel scattered light like diamonds across five hundred faces that mattered.
Jordan Blackwell stood among them, feeling something he hadn’t experienced in fifteen years.
Absolute, paralyzing shock.
She was descending the imperial staircase.
Martina Hayes. His Martina, though he’d never dared claim her aloud, moved with a grace that made the marble steps seem designed exclusively for her arrival.
The crimson silk gown clung to her curves like liquid fire.
The fabric caught the light with every step. The high slit revealed legs he’d seen a thousand times beneath conservative pencil skirts. But never like this. Never with this devastating confidence.
Her natural hair was styled in an elegant updo that showcased the long line of her neck.
Diamonds adorned her throat. Fifty thousand dollars’ worth, at least. They caught the light and threw it back in brilliant defiance.
But it wasn’t the dress that stopped Jordan’s heart.
It wasn’t even the diamonds.
It was the hand resting possessively on her lower back.
The hand that belonged to Marcus Ashford.
“Jordan, darling, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Vivian Cartwright’s voice cut through his paralysis. Her perfectly manicured hand touched his arm with the casual intimacy of someone who’d shared his bed three times and his secrets never.
“Who is that absolutely stunning creature with Marcus? I’ve never seen her at these events.”
Jordan’s jaw tightened.
His fingers gripped his whiskey glass with enough force to leave fingerprints on the crystal.
“That’s my secretary.”
Vivian’s perfectly painted eyebrows rose with the kind of delight wealthy women reserve for exceptionally good gossip.
“Your secretary? Darling, I think you need to reconsider your office dress code. She looks like she should be running her own empire, not answering your phone calls.”
She should, Jordan thought with sudden, brutal clarity.
She absolutely should.
