Beneath the linen tablecloth, his fingers abruptly clamped around my wrist.

The pressure was immediate and agonizing—a vise grip of cold, calculated malice. He squeezed until the delicate bones in my hand ground together, sending a sharp spike of pain up my arm.

“Good girl,” he murmured, releasing me just as a photographer strolled past.

I didn’t flinch. I’d long ago mastered the art of detaching my mind from my body.

Across the room, seated at a prime table just behind the immediate family, was Vanessa Cross.

She tilted her champagne-colored fascinator, caught my eye, and offered a slow, venomous smirk.

She was his “executive consultant.”

His mistress.

His favorite blunt-force weapon.