The Most Explosive Novel Since Fifty Shades of Grey

by BY LENA   Jan 17, 2023

In Ana Huang’s #1 Bestseller in Erotic Romance, King Of Wrath, an unexpected alliance is born between the arrogant billionaire, Dante Russo, and the ambitious jewelry heiress, Vivian Lau. Pushed into an arranged marriage by blackmail and societal ambitions, their relationship is a battleground of control, duty, and a desire they never anticipated. As the icy walls of their union melt, they grapple with the most dangerous possibility of all: falling in love. This steamy narrative explores the power play in high society, where trust is a rarity, and love — an unexpected treasure.

EPISODE 1

Vivian

“I can’t believe he’s here. He never comes to these things unless it’s hosted by a friend…”

“Did you see he bumped Arno Reinhart down a spot on the Forbes Billionaires list? Poor Arnie nearly had a meltdown in the middle of Jean-Georges when he found out…”

The whispers started halfway through the Frederick Wildlife Trust’s annual fundraiser for endangered animals.

This year, the small, sand-colored piping plover was the alleged star of the show, but none of the gala’s two hundred guests were discussing the bird’s welfare over their Veuve Clicquot and caviar cannoli.

“I heard his family’s villa in Lake Como is undergoing a one-hundred-million dollar renovation. The place is centuries old, so I suppose it’s time…”

Each whisper grew in intensity, accompanied by furtive glances and the occasional dreamy sigh.

I didn’t turn to see who had the normally cool-as-ice members of Manhattan high society in such a tizzy. I didn’t really care. I was too focused on a certain department store heiress as she tottered toward the swag table in sky-high heels. She quickly glanced around before swiping one of the personalized gift bags and dropping it in her purse.

The minute she walked off, I spoke into my earpiece. “Shannon, Code Pink at the swag table. Find out whose bag she took and replace it.”

Tonight’s bags each contained over eight thousand dollars’ worth of swag, but it was easier to fold the cost into the event budget than confront the Denman’s heiress.

My assistant groaned over the line. “Tilly Denman again? Doesn’t she have enough money to buy everything on that table and have millions left over?”

“Yes, but it’s not about the money for her. It’s the adrenaline rush,” I said. “Go. I’ll order bread pudding from Magnolia Bakery tomorrow to make up for the strenuous task of replacing the gift bag. And for God’s sake, find out where Penelope is. She’s supposed to be manning the gift station.”

“Ha ha,” Shannon said, obviously picking up on my sarcasm. “Fine. I’ll check on the gift bags and Penelope, but I expect a big tub of bread pudding tomorrow.”

I laughed and shook my head as the line cut off.

While she took care of the gift bag situation, I circled the room and kept an eye out for other fires, large or small.

When I first went into business, it felt weird working events I would otherwise be invited to as a guest. But I’d gotten used to it over the years, and the income allowed me a small degree of independence from my parents.

It wasn’t part of my trust fund, nor was it my inheritance. It was money I’d earned, fair and square, as a luxury event planner in Manhattan.

I loved the challenge of creating beautiful events from scratch, and wealthy people loved beautiful things. It was a win-win.

I was double-checking the sound setup for the keynote speech later that night when Shannon rushed toward me. “Vivian! You didn’t tell me he was here!” she hissed.

“Who?”

“Dante Russo.”

All thoughts of swag bags and sound checks flew out of my head.

I jerked my gaze to Shannon’s, taking in her bright eyes and flushed cheeks.

“Dante Russo?” My heart thudded for no apparent reason. “But he didn’t RSVP yes.”

“Well, the rules of RSVPs don’t apply to him.” She practically vibrated with excitement. “I can’t believe he showed up. People will be talking about this for weeks.”

The earlier whispers suddenly made sense.

Dante Russo, the enigmatic CEO of the luxury goods conglomerate the Russo Group, rarely attended public events that weren’t hosted by himself, one of his close friends, or one of his important business associates. The Frederick Wildlife Trust didn’t fall under any of those categories.

He was also one of the wealthiest and, therefore, most watched men in New York.

Shannon was right. People would be buzzing about his attendance for weeks, if not months.

“Good,” I said, trying to rein in my sudden runaway heartbeat. “Maybe it’ll bring more awareness to the piping plover issue.”

She rolled her eyes. “Vivian, no one cares”—she stopped, looked around, and lowered her voice— “no one actually cares about the piping plovers. I mean, I’m sad they’re endangered, but let’s be honest. The people are here for the scene only.”

Once again, she was right. Still, no matter their reason for attending, the guests were raising money for a good cause, and the events kept my business running.

“The real topic of the night,” Shannon said, “is how good Dante looks. I’ve never seen a man fill out a tuxedo so well.”

“You have a boyfriend, Shan.”

“So? We’re allowed to appreciate other people’s beauty.”

“Yes, well, I think you’ve appreciated enough. We’re here to work, not ogle the guests.” I gently pushed her toward the dessert table. “Can you bring out more Viennese tartlets? We’re running low.”

“Buzzkill,” she grumbled, but she did as I said.

I tried to refocus on the sound setup, but I couldn’t resist scanning the room for the surprise guest of the night. My gaze skimmed past the DJ and the 3D piping plover display and rested on the crowd by the entrance.

It was so thick I couldn’t see beyond the outer edges, but I’d bet my entire bank account Dante was the center of their attention.

My suspicions were confirmed when the crowd shifted briefly to reveal a glimpse of dark hair and broad shoulders.

A rush of awareness ran the length of my spine.

Dante and I belonged to tangential social circles, but we’d never officially met. From what I’d heard of his reputation, I was happy keeping it that way.

Still, his presence was magnetic, and I felt the pull of it all the way across the room.

An insistent buzz against my hip washed away the tingles coating my skin and drew my attention away from Dante’s fan club. My stomach sank when I fished my personal cell out of my purse and saw who was calling.

I shouldn’t take personal calls in the middle of a work event, but one simply didn’t ignore a summons from Francis Lau.

I double-checked to make sure there were no emergencies requiring my immediate attention before I slipped into the nearest restroom.

“Hello, Father.” The formal greeting rolled off my tongue easily after almost twenty years of practice.

I used to call him Dad, but after Lau Jewels took off and we moved out of our cramped two-bedroom into a Beacon Hill mansion, he insisted on being called Father instead. Apparently, it sounded more “sophisticated” and “upper class.”

“Where are you?” His deep voice rumbled over the line. “Why is it so echoey?”

“I’m at work. I snuck into a bathroom to take your call.” I leaned my hip against the counter and felt compelled to add, “It’s a fundraiser for the endangered piping plover.”

I smiled at his heavy sigh. My father had little patience for the obscure causes people used as an excuse to party, though he attended the events donated anyway. It was the proper thing to do.

“Every day, I learn about a new endangered animal,” he grumbled. “Your mother is on a fundraising committee for some fish or other, like we don’t eat seafood every week.”

My mother, formerly an aesthetician, was now a professional socialite and charity committee member.

“Since you’re at work, I’ll keep this short,” my father said. “We’d like you to join us for dinner on Friday night. We have important news.”

Despite his wording, it wasn’t a request.

My smile faded. “This Friday night?” It was Tuesday, and I lived in New York while my parents lived in Boston.

It was a last-minute request even by their standards.

“Yes.” My father didn’t elaborate. “Dinner is at seven sharp. Don’t be late.”

He hung up.

My phone stayed frozen on my ear for an extra beat before I removed it. It slipped against my clammy palm and almost clattered to the floor before I shoved it back into my purse.

It was funny how one sentence could send me into an anxiety spiral.

We have important news.

Did something happen with the company? Was someone sick or dying? Were my parents selling their house and moving to New York like they’d once threatened to do?

My mind raced through with a thousand questions and possibilities.

I didn’t have an answer, but I knew one thing.

An emergency summons to the Lau manor never boded well.

EPISODE 2

My parents’ living room looked like something out of an Architectural Digest spread. Tufted settees sat at right angles to carved wood tables; porcelain tea sets jostled for space next to priceless tchotchkes. Even the air smelled cold and impersonal, like generically expensive freshener.

Some people had homes; my parents had a showpiece.

“Your skin looks dull.” My mother examined me with a critical eye. “Have you been keeping up with your monthly facials?”

She sat across from me, her own skin glowing with pearlescent luminosity.

“Yes, Mother.” My cheeks ached from the forced politeness of my smile.

I’d stepped foot in my childhood home ten minutes ago, and I’d already been criticized for my hair (too messy), my nails (too long), and now, my complexion.

Just another night at the Lau manor.

“Good. Remember, you can’t let yourself go,” my mother said. “You’re not married yet.”

I held back a sigh. Here we go again.

Despite my thriving career in Manhattan, where the event planning market was more cutthroat than a designer sample sale, my parents were fixated on my lack of a boyfriend and, therefore, lack of marital prospects.

They tolerated my work because it was no longer fashionable for heiresses to do nothing, but they were salivating for a son-in-law, one who could increase their foothold in the circles of the old money elite.

We were rich, but we would never be old money. Not in this generation.

“I’m still young,” I said patiently. “I have plenty of time to meet someone.”

I was only twenty-eight, but my parents acted like I would shrivel into the Crypt Keeper the second midnight struck on my thirtieth birthday.

“You’re almost thirty,” my mother countered. “You’re not getting any younger, and you have to start thinking about marriage and kids. The longer you wait, the smaller the dating pool becomes.”

“I am thinking about it.” Thinking about the year of freedom I have left before I’m forced to marry a banker with a numeral after his last name. “As for getting younger, that’s what Botox and plastic surgery is for.”

If my sister were here, she would’ve laughed. Since she wasn’t, my joke fell flatter than a poorly baked soufflé.

My mother’s lips thinned.

Beside her, my father’s thick, gray-tipped brows formed a stern V over the bridge of his nose.

Sixty years old, spry, and fit, Francis Lau looked every inch the self-made CEO. He’d expanded Lau Jewels from a small, family-run shop to a multinational behemoth over three decades, and a silent stare from him was enough to make me shrink back against the couch cushions.

“Every time we bring up marriage, you make a joke.” His tone seeped with disapproval. “Marriage is not a joke, Vivian. It’s an important matter for our family. Look at your sister. Thanks to her, we’re now connected to the royal family of Eldorra.”

I bit my tongue so hard the taste of copper filled my mouth.

My sister had married an Eldorran earl who was a second cousin twice removed from the queen. Our “connection” to the small European kingdom’s royal family was a stretch, but in my father’s eyes, an aristocratic title was an aristocratic title.

“I know it’s not a joke,” I said, reaching for my tea. I needed something to do with my hands. “But it’s also not something I need to think about right now. I’m dating. Exploring my prospects. There are plenty of single men in New York. I just have to find the right one.”

I left out the caveat: there were plenty of single men in New York, but the pool of single, straight, non-douchey, non-flaky, non-disturbingly eccentric men was much smaller.

My last date tried to rope me into a seance to contact his dead mother so she could “meet me and give her approval.” Needless to say, I never saw him again.

But my parents didn’t need to know that. As far as they were concerned, I was dating handsome trust fund scions left and right.

“We’ve given you plenty of time to find a proper match these past two years.” My father sounded unimpressed by my spiel. “You haven’t had a single serious boyfriend since your last…relationship. It’s clear you don’t feel the same urgency we do, which is why I took matters into my own hands.”

My tea froze halfway to my lips. “Meaning?”

I thought the important news he’d alluded to had to do with my sister or the company. But what if…

My blood iced.

No. It can’t be.

“Meaning I’ve secured a suitable match for you.” My father dropped the bombshell with little to no warning or visible emotion. “It took quite a bit of work on my end, but the arrangement has been finalized.”

I’ve secured a suitable match for you.

The fragments from his declaration blasted through my chest and nearly cleaved my outward composure in half.

My teacup clattered back onto its plate, earning me a frown from my mother.

For once, I was too busy processing to worry about her disapproval.

Arranged marriages were common practice in our world of big business and power plays, where marriages weren’t love matches; they were alliances. My parents married my sister off for a title, and I’d known my turn was coming. I just hadn’t expected it to come so…so soon.

A bitter cocktail of shock, dread, and horror sluiced down my throat.

I was expected to enter a lifetime contract after “quite a bit of work” on my father’s end.

Just what every woman wants to hear.

“We’ve let you drag your feet too long, and this match will be enormously beneficial for us,” my father continued. “I’m sure you’ll agree once you meet him at dinner.”

The cocktail turned into poison and ate away at my insides.

“Dinner? As in, tonight’s dinner?” My voice sounded distant and strange, as if I was hearing it in a bad dream. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

Being ambushed with news of an arranged marriage match was bad enough. Meeting my future fiancé with zero preparation was a hundred times worse.

No wonder my mother was being even more critical than normal. She was expecting her future son-in-law as a guest.

My stomach lurched, and the possibility of expelling its contents all over my mother’s prized Persian rug inched closer to reality.

Everything was happening too fast. The dinner summons, the news of my engagement, the impending meeting—my mind whirled from trying to keep up.

“He didn’t confirm until today due to…scheduling complications.” My father smoothed a hand over his shirt. “You’ll have to meet him eventually. It doesn’t matter whether it’s tonight, a week, or a month from now.”

Actually, it does matter. There’s a difference between being mentally prepared to meet my fiancé and having him thrown in my face with no warning.

My retort simmered on low, destined never to reach a full boil.

Talking back was strictly verboten in the Lau household. I was beholden to its rules even as an adult, and disobedience was always met with swift punishment and sharp words.

“We want to move things along as quickly as possible,” my mother jumped in. “It takes time to plan a proper wedding, and your fiancé is, er, particular about the details.”

Funny how she was already calling him my fiancé when I hadn’t met the man yet.

“Mode de Vie named him one of the world’s most eligible bachelors under forty last year. Rich, handsome, powerful. Honestly, your father outdid himself.” My mother patted my father’s arm, her face glowing.

I hadn’t seen her this animated since she scored a seat on the Boston Society Wine Auction’s planning committee last year.

“That’s…great.” My smile wobbled from the effort of keeping itself intact.

At least my match probably had all his teeth. I wouldn’t have put it past my parents to marry me off to some decrepit billionaire on his deathbed.

Money and status came first; everything else came a distant second.

I took a deep breath and willed my mind not to spiral down that particular path.

Get it together, Viv.

As upset as I was at my parents for springing this on me, I could freak out later, after I got through the evening. It wasn’t like I could say no to the match. If I did, my parents would disown me.

Plus, my future husband—my stomach lurched again—would be here any minute, and I couldn’t make a scene.

I wiped a palm against my thigh. My head felt dizzy, but I clung to the mask I always wore at home. Cool. Calm. Respectable.

“So.” I swallowed my bile and forced a light tone. “Does Mr. Perfect have a name, or is he known only by his net worth?”

I didn’t remember everyone who’d been on Mode de Vie’s list, but the people I did remember didn’t inspire much confidence. If he—

“Net worth by strangers. Name by select friends and family.”

My spine stiffened at the deep, unexpected voice behind me. It was so close I could feel the rumble of words against my back. They slid over me like sun-warmed honey—rich and sensual, with a faint Italian accent that made every nerve ending tingle with pleasure.

Heat slipped beneath my skin.

“Ah, there you are.” My father rose, a strangely triumphant gleam in his eyes. “Thank you for coming at such short notice.”

“How could I pass up the opportunity to meet your lovely daughter?”

A hint of mockery tainted the word lovely and instantly washed away any budding attraction I had to a voice, of all things.

Ice doused the heat in my veins.

So much for Mr. Perfect.

I’d learned to trust my gut when it came to people, and my gut told me the owner of the voice was as thrilled about the dinner as I was.

“Vivian, say hello to our guest.” If my mother beamed any harder, her face would split in half.

I half-expected her to prop her cheek on her hand and sigh dreamily like a schoolgirl with a crush.

I pushed the disturbing image out of my mind before I lifted my chin.

Stood.

Turned.

And all the air whooshed out of my lungs.

Thick black hair. Olive skin. A slightly crooked nose that enhanced rather than detracted from his ruggedly masculine charm.

My future husband was devastation poured into a suit. Not handsome by conventional means, but so powerful and compelling his presence swallowed every molecule of oxygen in the room like a black hole consuming a newborn star.

There were generically good-looking men, and there was him.

And, unlike his voice, his face was eminently recognizable.

My heart sank beneath the weight of my shock.

Impossible. There was no way he was my arranged fiancé. This had to be a joke.

“Vivian.” My mother disguised her rebuke as my name.

Right. Dinner. Fiancée. Meeting.

I shook myself out of my stupor and summoned a strained but polite smile. “Vivian Lau. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

I held out my hand.

A beat passed before he took it. Warm strength engulfed my palm and sent a jolt of electricity up my arm.

“So I gathered from the multiple times your mother said your name.” The laziness of his drawl played off the observation as a joke; the hardness of his eyes told me it was anything but. “Dante Russo. The pleasure is all mine.”

There was the mockery again, subtle but cutting.

Dante Russo.

CEO of the Russo Group, Fortune 500 legend, and the man who’d created such a buzz at the Frederick Wildlife Trust gala three nights ago. He wasn’t just an eligible bachelor; he was the bachelor. The elusive billionaire every woman wanted and no one could get.

He was thirty-six years old, famously married to his work, and up until now, showed no intention of giving up his bachelor lifestyle.

Why, then, would Dante Russo of all people agree to an arranged marriage?

“I would introduce myself by my net worth,” he said. “But it would be impolite to categorize you as a stranger given the purpose of tonight’s dinner.”

His smile didn’t contain an ounce of warmth.

My cheeks heated at the reminder he’d overheard my joke. It hadn’t been malicious, but discussing other people’s money was considered uncouth even though everyone secretly did it.

“That’s very considerate of you.” My cool reply masked my embarrassment. “Don’t worry, Mr. Russo. If I wanted to know your net worth, I could Google it. I’m sure the information is as readily available as the tales of your legendary charm.”

A glint sparked in his eyes, but he didn’t take my bait.

Instead, our gazes held for a charged moment before he slid his palm out of mine and swept a clinical, detached gaze over my body.

My hand tingled with warmth, but everywhere else, coolness touched my skin like the indifference of a god faced with a mortal.

I stiffened again beneath Dante’s scrutiny, suddenly hyperaware of my Cecelia Lau-approved tweed skirt suit, pearl studs, and low-heeled pumps. I’d even swapped out my favorite red lipstick in favor of the neutral color she preferred.

This was my standard uniform for visiting my parents, and judging by the way Dante’s lips thinned, he was less than impressed.

A mix of unease and irritation twisted my stomach when those dark, unforgiving eyes found mine again.

We’d exchanged only a handful of words, yet I already knew two things with gut certainty.

One, Dante was going to be my fiancé.

Two, we might kill each other before we ever made it to the altar.

EPISODE 3

Dante

“The wedding will take place in six months,” Francis said. “That’s enough time to plan a proper celebration without dragging things out too long. However, public announcements should go out right away.”

He smiled, showing no hint of the snake coiled beneath his genial tone and expression.

We’d adjourned to the dining room soon after my arrival, and the conversation had immediately veered into wedding planning territory.

Distaste curled through me. Of course he’d want the world to know his daughter was getting hitched to a Russo as soon as possible.

Men like Francis would do anything to increase their social standing, including finding the balls to blackmail me in my office two weeks ago, right on the heels of my grandfather’s death.

Fury reignited in my chest. If I had my way, he wouldn’t have left New York with his bones intact. Unfortunately, my hands were tied, metaphorically speaking, and until I found a way to untie them, I had to play nice.

For the most part.

“No, it won’t.” I wrapped my fingers around the stem of my wineglass and imagined it was Francis’s neck I was strangling instead. “No one will believe I’m marrying someone with such short notice unless something was wrong.”

For example, your daughter is pregnant, and this is a shotgun wedding. The insinuation had everyone shifting in their seats while I kept my face blank and my voice bored.

Restraint didn’t come naturally to me. If I didn’t like someone, I made damn sure they knew it, but extraordinary circumstances called for extraordinary measures.

Francis’s mouth thinned. “Then what would you suggest?”

“A year is a more reasonable timeframe.”

Never was better, but sadly, it wasn’t an option. A year would do. It was short enough that Francis would agree to it and long enough for me to find and destroy the blackmail evidence. Hopefully.

“Announcements should also go out later,” I said. “A month gives us time to craft a proper story, considering your daughter and I have never so much as been seen in public together before.”

“We don’t need a month to come up with a story,” he snapped.

Although arranged marriages were common in high society, the involved parties went to great lengths to conceal the true reason behind the nuptials. Acknowledging one’s family joined with another simply for status reasons was considered vulgar.

“Two weeks,” he said. “We’ll announce the weekend Vivian moves into your house.”

My jaw tensed. Beside me, Vivian stiffened, clearly caught off guard by the revelation she’d have to move in before the wedding.

It was one of Francis’s stipulations for keeping his mouth shut, and I was already dreading it. I hated people invading my personal space.

“I’m sure your family would like the announcements to go out sooner rather than later as well,” Francis continued, placing a soft emphasis on the word family. “Don’t you agree?”

I held his stare until he shifted and looked away.

“Two weeks it is.”

The announcement date didn’t matter. I’d simply wanted to make the planning as difficult for him as possible.

What mattered was the wedding date.

One year.

One year to destroy the photos and break the engagement. It would be a huge scandal, but my reputation could take the hit. The Laus’ couldn’t.

For the first time that night, I smiled.

Francis shifted again and cleared his throat. “Excellent. We’ll work together to draft—”

“I’ll draft it. Next.”

I ignored his glare and took another sip of merlot.

The conversation devolved into a mind-numbing rundown of guest invites, flowers, and a million other things I didn’t give a sh*t about.

Restless anger churned beneath my skin as I tuned Francis and his wife out.

Instead of working on the Santeri deal or relaxing at the Valhalla Club, I was stuck entertaining their bullsh*t on a Friday night.

Beside me, Vivian ate quietly, appearing lost in thought.

After several minutes of strained silence, she finally spoke. “How was your flight?”

“Fine.”

“I appreciate you taking the time to fly in when we could’ve met in New York. I know you must be busy.”

I cut a piece of veal and brought it to my mouth.

Vivian’s stare burned a hole in my cheek while I chewed leisurely.

“I also heard the more zeroes one has in their bank account, the fewer words they’re capable of speaking.” Her deceptively pleasant voice could’ve sliced through butter. “You’re proving the rumor correct.”

“I thought a society heiress like yourself would know better than to discuss money in polite company.”

“The keyword is polite.”

A ghost of a smile flickered over my mouth.

Under normal circumstances, I might’ve liked Vivian.

She was beautiful and surprisingly witty, with intelligent brown eyes and the type of naturally refined bone structure no amount of money could buy. But with her pearls and Chanel tweed, she looked like a carbon copy of her mother and every other uptight heiress who only cared about their social status.

Plus, she was Francis’s daughter. It wasn’t her fault she was born to the bastard, but I didn’t give a damn. No degree of beauty could erase that stain on her record.

“It’s not polite to speak to a guest that way,” I mocked softly. I reached for the salt. My sleeve grazed her arm, and she visibly tensed. “What would your parents say?”

I’d already clocked Vivian’s hangups less than an hour into our acquaintance. Perfectionism, non-confrontation, a desperate need for her parents’ approval.

Boring, boring, boring.

Her eyes narrowed. “They’d say guests should adhere to social niceties as much as the host, including making an effort to hold a polite conversation.”

“Yeah? Do social niceties include dressing like you stepped out of a Fifth Avenue Stepford Wives factory?” I flicked a gaze over her suit and pearls.

I didn’t give a sh*t if people like Cecelia wore such an outfit, but Vivian looked as out of place in the dowdy clothing as a diamond in a burlap sack. It pissed me off for no good reason.

“No, but they certainly don’t include ruining a nice dinner with discourtesy,” Vivian said coolly. “You should buy a nice set of manners to match your suit, Mr. Russo. As a luxury goods CEO, you know better than anyone how one ugly accessory can ruin an outfit.”

Another smile, still faint but more concrete.

Not so boring after all.

However, the embers of my amusement hissed into a smoky death when her mother inserted herself into our conversation.

“Dante, is it true all Russos get married at the family estate in Lake Como? I hear renovations will be finished by next summer before the wedding.”

My smile vanished as my muscles tightened at the reminder.

I turned away from Vivian to face Cecelia’s eager expression.

“Yes,” I said, my tone clipped. “All Russo weddings have taken place at Villa Serafina since the eighteenth century.”

My many-times great grandfather had built the villa and named it after his wife. My family could trace its roots to Sicily, but they later migrated to Venice and built a fortune trading luxury textiles. By the time the Venice trading boom ended, they’d diversified enough to hold onto their riches, which they used to acquire property throughout Europe.

Now, centuries later, my modern relatives were scattered across the world—New York, Rome, Switzerland, Paris—but Villa Serafina remained the most beloved of all the family estates. I would rather drown myself in the Mediterranean than tarnish it with a farce of a wedding.

My anger came roaring back.

“Wonderful!” Cecelia beamed. “Oh, I’m so thrilled you’ll be part of the family soon. You and Vivian are a perfect match. You know, she speaks six languages, plays the piano and violin, and—”

“Excuse me.” I pushed my chair back, cutting Cecelia off mid-sentence. The legs scraped against the floor with a satisfyingly harsh screech. “Nature calls.”

Silence thudded in the wake of my shocking rudeness.

I didn’t wait for anyone to speak before I walked out and left a fuming Francis, flustered Cecelia, and red-faced Vivian in the dining room.

My anger remained a restless burn beneath my skin, but it cooled with each step farther away from them.

In the past, I’d exacted retribution on those who crossed me immediately. F*** revenge being a dish best served cold; my motto has always been strike fast, strike hard, and strike true.

The world moved too quickly for me not to move along with it. I took care of the problem harshly enough to ensure there wouldn’t be any future problems, and I moved on.

Resolving the Lau situation, on the other hand, required patience. It was a virtue I wasn’t familiar with, and it stretched tight over me like an ill-fitting suit.

The echo of my footsteps faded as marble floors gave way to carpet. I’d visited enough mansions with similar layouts to guess where the restroom was, but I bypassed it in favor of the solid mahogany door at the end of the hall.

A twist of the knob revealed an office styled after an English library. Wood paneling, overstuffed leather furniture, forest green accents.

Francis’s inner sanctum.

At least it wasn’t overly festooned with gold like the rest of the house. My eyes were starting to bleed from the eyesore.

I left the door open and walked to the desk, my pace unhurried. If Francis had a problem with me snooping through his office, he was welcome to confront me.

He wasn’t stupid enough to leave the photos lying around behind an unlocked door when he knew I’d be here tonight. Even if the photos were here, he’d have backups stashed elsewhere.

I settled into his chair, plucked a Cuban cigar from the box in his drawer, and lit it while I examined the room. My anger gave way to calculation.

The dark computer screen tempted me, but I left the hacking to Christian, who was already tracking down digital copies of the photos.

I moved on to a framed picture of Francis and his family in the Hamptons. Research told me they had a summer house in Bridgehampton, and I’d bet my newly acquired Renoir he kept at least one set of evidence there.

Where else…

“What are you doing?”

The smoke from my cigar obscured Vivian’s face, but her disapproval came through loud and clear.

That was fast. I’d expected at least five more minutes before her parents forced her to come after me.

“Enjoying a smoke break.” I took another lazy drag.

I didn’t touch cigarettes, but I indulged in the occasional Cohiba. At least Francis had good taste in tobacco.

“In my father’s office?”

“Obviously.” Dark satisfaction filled my chest when the smoke dissolved to reveal Vivian’s frown.

Finally. Some visible emotion.

I’d started to think I was stuck with a robot for the remainder of our ridiculous engagement.

She crossed the room, plucked the cigar from my hand, and dropped it in the half-empty glass of water on the desk without taking her eyes off mine.

“I understand you’re probably used to doing whatever you want, but it’s exceedingly rude to sneak off during a dinner party and smoke in your host’s office.” Tension lined her elegant features. “Please rejoin us in the dining room. Your food is getting cold.”

“That’s my problem, not yours.” I leaned back. “Why don’t you join me for a break? I promise it’ll be more enjoyable than your mother’s hand wringing over floral arrangements.”

“Based on our interactions so far, I doubt it,” she snapped.

I watched, amused, as she took a deep breath and released it in one long, controlled exhale.

“I don’t understand why you’re here,” Vivian said, her voice calmer. You’re clearly unhappy about the arrangement, you don’t need the money or connection with my family, and you can have any woman you want.”

“Can I?” I drawled. “What if I want you?”

Her fingers curled into loose fists. “You don’t.”

“You give yourself too little credit.” I rose and circled the desk until I stood close enough to see the pulse fluttering in her neck. How much faster would it beat if I wrapped her hair around my fist and pulled her head back? If I kissed her until her mouth bruised and hiked up her skirt until she begged me to f*** her?

Heat ran to my groin.

I wasn’t interested in actually f***ing her, but she was so prim and proper she begged for corruption.

The silence was deafening as I lifted my hand and grazed my thumb over her bottom lip. Vivian’s breathing shallowed, but she didn’t move away.

She stared at me, eyes full of defiance as I took my time exploring the lush curve of her mouth. It was full, soft, and disturbingly tempting compared to the stiff formality of the rest of her appearance.

“You’re a beautiful woman,” I said lazily. “Perhaps I saw you at an event and was so enamored I asked your father for your hand in marriage.”

“Somehow, I doubt that’s what happened.” Her breath drifted over my skin. “What kind of deal did you make with my father?”

The reminder of the deal killed the sensuality of the moment as quickly as it came.

My thumb paused on the center of her bottom lip before I dropped my hand with a silent curse. My skin tingled with heat from the memory of her softness.

I hated Francis for the blackmail, but I loathed Vivian for being his pawn. So what the f*** was I doing, toying with her in his office?

“You should ask your dear father that question.” My smile cut across my face, cruel and devoid of humor as I regathered my composure. “The details don’t matter. Just know that if I had any other choice, I damn well wouldn’t be getting married. But business is business, and you…” I shrugged. “You’re simply part of the deal.”

Vivian didn’t know about her father’s manipulation. Francis had warned me not to tell her, not that I would’ve, anyway. The fewer people who knew about the blackmail, the better.

He’d uncovered one of my few weak spots, and I’d be damned if I broadcast it to the world.

Vivian’s eyes glowed with anger. “You’re an asshole.”

“Yes, I am. Better get used to it, mia cara, because I’m also your future husband. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” I straightened my jacket with deliberate care. “I have to return to dinner. As you said earlier, my food’s getting cold.”

I brushed past her, reveling in the delicious taste of her indignation.

One day, she’d get her unspoken wish and wake up to a broken engagement.

Until then, I’d bide my time and play along because Francis’s ultimatum had been clear.

Marry Vivian, or my brother dies.

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