“It seems Sean has frozen all of her accounts due to some alarming, unexplained irregularities,” Rosália confided quietly. She cast her dark eyes downward, playing the role of the reluctant gossip to perfection. “She has been quietly soliciting extra private sessions, aggressively pressuring some of the younger wives for upfront cash packages. And, well...”
Rosália let the sentence hang for a fraction of a second, allowing the suspense to pull the snare completely tight.
“...given her history of finding wealthy, older men to fund her lifestyle,” Rosália murmured softly, “I would simply advise all of you to be incredibly careful about letting a woman with that kind of moral flexibility into your private home gyms. Especially while your husbands are present.”
The reaction was instantaneous, silent, and completely lethal.
Melanie’s perfectly drawn eyebrows shot up into her hairline. A cold, ruthless understanding hardened her features. The other women exchanged sharp, horrified glances. In the elite, intensely paranoid world of wealthy wives, the absolute worst sin a young, attractive personal trainer could commit was the mere implication of being a desperate homewrecker looking for her next paycheck.
“Cancel my Tuesday morning session with her,” Melanie immediately snapped, not even turning her head to look at her assistant, who was standing discreetly against the silk-paneled wall. “Permanently. Tell her security will not let her past the gate.”
“Mine as well,” the woman to her left echoed, her manicured nails tapping aggressively against her phone screen. “I won’t have that kind of liability sweating in my house.”
Rosália picked up her silver fork, slicing into a piece of the buttery sea bass. She kept her face an absolute mask of polite, mournful sympathy, but internally, a dark, wicked rush of pure euphoria washed over her. By the time the dessert course—a delicate raspberry mille-feuille—was served, Katherine’s entirehigh-net-worth client list had been completely, irrevocably eradicated.
The social guillotine had fallen without a single drop of blood being spilled on Rosália’s white silk blouse.
Forty-eight hours later, theAura Wellness Galawas in full swing.
It was the most photographed, fiercely exclusive charity event of the season, a glittering spectacle held at the city’s modern art museum. It was exactly the kind of highly publicized, high-society event Katherine desperately needed to attend to salvage her dying brand and beg for new sponsors.
And she wasn’t getting anywhere near the door.
Rosália stood on the VIP balcony overlooking the long, sprawling red carpet. The cool night air bit pleasantly at her bare shoulders, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from the man standing right beside her.
She wore a breathtaking, floor-length gown of midnight blue velvet. It clung perfectly to the swell of her hips before falling to the floor, a daring slit running up her thigh to expose a pair of silver, sparkling stilettos. Her dark hair was swept over one shoulder, exposing the elegant line of her neck.
Beside her, Sean looked like a dark, modern god of war. He wore a tailored black tuxedo that highlighted the imposing,broad expanse of his shoulders. He stood incredibly close to her side—much closer than polite society dictated. The physical proximity was driving her out of her mind. Every time he shifted his weight, his arm brushed against hers, sending a violent, electric spark straight through her velvet dress and into her skin.
The chemistry radiating between them was a heavy, palpable force, drawing the curious, whispering eyes of everyone in the VIP lounge.
“I detest these events,” Sean murmured, his deep voice a low, dark rumble right next to her ear. The warm breath ghosted over her skin, making her shiver.
“Tell yourself that the show we’re about to get will more than make up for it,” Rosália whispered back, tilting her head slightly toward him, her lips curving into a secret smile.
Sean smirked.
“That, and presenting the museum director with a ridiculously oversized novelty check for two million dollars to maintain my philanthropic tax status,” he replied dryly, his dark gaze dropping to her lips. “The second the photographers capture the handshake, we are out of here. I’m taking you to dinner, as promised.”
The raw, possessive promise in his tone made Rosália’s breath hitch.
But before Rosália could reply, her attention was violently hijacked by the relentless, frantic vibration coming from the silver clutch in her hand.
David had been spiraling into a black hole of absolute paranoia for two days. His career was actively collapsing, hismanaging partners were icing him out of his own firm, and his absolute loss of control was manifesting in a desperate, suffocating need to track his wife’s every single movement.
Rosália finally snapped the clutch open, pulling out the phone. The screen was blindingly bright against the dark night, displaying a relentless barrage of frantic texts.
David [7:15 PM]:The house is empty. Where are you?
David [7:42 PM]:Why did the Vanguard joint account get billed for a five-thousand-dollar dress?
David [8:05 PM]:Rose, answer me. The gallery said you left at three.
David [8:22 PM]:Are you at the Aura Gala? Are you with him?
David [8:30 PM]:I am your husband. Answer your fucking phone.
Sean glanced down at the glowing screen, taking a slow, measured sip of his Laurent-Perrier champagne. “He is completely unraveling.”
