Chapter 4

The woman staring back at Ivory from the salon mirror was a revelation.

Flame-red hair cascaded over her shoulders, threaded with golden streaks that caught the light like liquid sunshine. The crimson dress hugged every curve—a far cry from the muted tones Gadreel had always preferred. Freshly manicured nails gleamed, matching the ruby-red stilettos that added inches to her height.

For the first time in years, she didn't recognize herself—and that was precisely the point.

How could I have wasted so much time? The thought slipped in unbidden. All those years spent shrinking herself to fit Gadreel's cold indifference, praying for scraps of affection that never came.

"Well?" Emma's reflection appeared behind her, eyebrows raised. "What's the verdict?"

Ivory turned, a genuine smile breaking through. "I feel... like myself again."

Emma's grin was wicked. "Perfect. Because we're about to baptize this new you in champagne and bad decisions." She held up two tickets to Opal Heights, the most exclusive club in London. "Time to celebrate your freedom from that ice-cold bastard."

Ivory hesitated. Partying felt frivolous after the emotional earthquake of the divorce papers. But one glance at her purse—bulging with receipts totaling more than some people's monthly rent—stiffened her resolve.

Why shouldn't I?

Gadreel would've blown twice this amount on Evangeline's designer tears. At least Ivory's money had bought something tangible—a rebirth.

"Alright," she said, squaring her shoulders. "Let's go."

Emma whooped, dragging her toward the door. "I've got the perfect place. Killer cocktails, killer music..." A devilish wink. "...and even deadlier men."

"Men?" Ivory's steps faltered.

"Uh-huh." Emma shoved her into the waiting town car. "You've been starved of attention for years. Tonight, we remedy that." Her eyes gleamed with mischief. "How many do you want? Five? Ten?"

"Emma—"

"Ten it is!" Emma declared, ignoring her protest. "Trust me, by midnight, you'll be writing me thank-you notes in lipstick on some hottie's abs."

The car pulled away from the curb. Ivory watched her old life shrink in the rearview mirror—the dutiful wife, the invisible shadow.

For the first time since walking out, something fluttered in her chest. Not quite happiness. Not yet.

But the thrilling, terrifying possibility of it.

~•~

The VIP lounge of Opal Heights thrummed with bass-heavy music and the clink of crystal glasses, but Gadreel might as well have been sitting in a vacuum. His fingers tightened around the tumbler of aged whiskey—his third in an hour—as he glared at his silent phone.

Across the low-lit table, Asher Thorne leaned forward, his designer shoes scraping against the plush carpet.

"Wait—let me get this straight. Ivory filed for divorce?" His incredulous laugh cut through the haze of cigar smoke. "The same woman who nursed you through a coma?"

Gadreel's knuckles whitened around his glass.

Daniel Carmichael smirked, swirling his drink. "Relax, it's a bluff. That woman's been obsessed with you since prep school. She'll come crawling back by dawn." He raised his glass in a mocking toast. "I'll bet my trust fund on it."

Laughter rippled through their circle of old-money heirs and venture capitalists. The sound grated against Gadreel's nerves like sandpaper.

Mickey Van Holt tipped back his bourbon with a sneer. "Face it, Reel—your wife's a stage-five clinger. Remember how she—"

"Enough."

The single word, razor-sharp and frigid, silenced the room. Gadreel didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. The dangerous glint in his steel-blue eyes sent a visible shudder through the group.

Asher opened his mouth to defuse the tension, then thought better of it.

Gadreel turned back to his phone. 23:47. No calls. No texts. Not even a fucking email.

Ezekiel should've located her by now. The fact that he hadn't meant one of two things: his usually competent secretary was failing spectacularly, or—

His thumb hovered over Ivory's contact. The call connected, then—

"The number you have dialed has been blocked—"

The world narrowed to that robotic female voice.

Blocked.

She'd actually blocked him.

Gadreel's expression didn't change. His breathing remained even. But the way his phone shattered against the onyx tabletop sent glass shards skittering across the surface like diamonds.

Every man at the table flinched.

Slowly, deliberately, Gadreel rose from his chair. The suppressed violence in his movements—the way his shoulders tensed beneath the tailored black shirt—made even Asher shrink back.

"Reel—"

Gadreel turned to the bar table, taking another bottle of whiskey. His fingers drummed a lethal rhythm against his shattered phone screen, the fractures mirroring the cracks in his self-control.

Suddenly, the murmurs rippling through the VIP section.

"Whoa, who is she?"

"Damn, she's really hot!"

"She's a beauty!"

"Is she famous? Her beauty can rival that of a celebrity."

"Christ, Reel—look at that," Asher hissed, gesturing toward the club's entrance like a teenager spotting his first centerfold. "If that's not a walking sin, I don't know what is."

Gadreel barely glanced up—until a flash of crimson hair seared his peripheral vision.

No.

His glass hit the table with a clink that sounded suspiciously like a warning shot.

There, haloed in the club's neon lights, stood Ivory.

His Ivory.

Except she wasn't his anymore. Not the way her blood-red dress clung to curves he'd never bothered to notice. Not the way her laugh—when was the last time he'd heard her laugh?—carried over the bassline as ten ridiculously sculpted men vied for her attention.

Asher wolf-whistled. "That's your type right there. Classy but—"

"She's my wife."

The words dropped like a guillotine.

Asher's drink slipped from his fingers. "You're joking."

Gadreel's phone chose that moment to vibrate with Ezekiel's report:

[Sir, located Madam at Opal Heights. Per your card records, she's purchased:]

• Designer wardrobe: £28,750

• Salon services: £3,200

• Ten (10) premium male escorts: £50,000

The glass in Gadreel's hand shattered.

Around them, the club's elite recoiled as whiskey and blood dripped onto the table. He barely felt the cuts. Not when white-hot fury scorched through his veins.

Fifty thousand pounds. On men.

His money. His wife.

The crowd parted before him like the Red Sea before Moses. Ivory didn't notice his approach—too busy tilting her head back as some bronzed Adonis whispered in her ear.

Gadreel's hand closed around her wrist like a manacle.

The gasp she let out when she spun around—lips parted, golden eyes wide—shouldn't have sent electricity straight to his groin.

But it did.

And that enraged him most of all.