Chapter 1

Felicity's POV

I opened the study door.

Saskia Fuller was arched back against the arm of my husband's reading chair, her pale neck stretched high, like an offering to the ceiling. She wore a collar around her neck.

A black velvet band with a small silver ring at the front, catching the light, blinking like an eye.

Michael Johnson had his hand up her skirt, his lips pressed against her collarbone.

Neither of them flinched when the door clicked shut behind me.

Saskia opened her eyes first. She looked at me without a trace of guilt, then gave a small smile and leaned her lips close to my husband's ear.

"Michael," she murmured, "your wife is here."

Saskia slid off his lap and smoothed her skirt in one practiced motion, like she'd done it a hundred times in this house before.

As she passed me, she said softly, "Felicity, you really should knock."

The door closed behind her.

The room held only me and Michael, and the sickening cloud of her perfume.

"Sit down." Michael pointed to the chair across from him, as if none of it had anything to do with him.

I kept my fists clenched and stayed where I was. "Why did you call me here? Just to watch you fuck your mistress?"

He raised his hand, and his assistant, Aiden, stepped out from a corner I hadn't noticed, carrying a tray.

On the tray sat a collar, identical to the one Saskia had just walked out wearing.

"A photographer caught Saskia getting into my car last night." Michael held his phone out to me.

A long-lens shot, slightly grainy. Saskia climbing into the back of his Bentley, her face buried against his shoulder.

Only the collar was sharp and clear.

"In two hours, you walk into the charity gala with me wearing this, and the story changes. Otherwise the photos go live at midnight."

"Why should I be the one humiliated? I won't do this." My throat went dry. My fists tightened.

I shoved his phone away and turned toward the door, but his voice came from behind me, cold and flat.

"Your brother goes into surgery at nine-thirty. Dr. Gilbert Harvey is a personal friend of mine. Without my say-so, he won't show up to operate."

I stopped dead. My jaw locked.

Michael had the city's best surgeon on speed dial. That was why I couldn't get free of him.

In moments like this, I had no right to refuse.

I turned back slowly, walked up to Michael, and stared at him with pure hatred as he fastened the humiliating collar around my neck.

"Good girl," Michael said.

I swallowed the nausea. "Don't ever call me that again."

An hour later, the gala began.

I walked in on his arm, wearing around my neck the kind of collar that belonged on a whore. I felt every eye in the room drop to my throat.

Matthew goes under anesthesia at nine-thirty, I counted silently. Surgery starts then.

As the gala's host, Michael took the stage and gave his speech, every inch the perfect elite.

When the applause peaked, a man in the third row stood up. He had a press badge. His voice cut through the room like a blade.

"Mr. Johnson, can you comment on a photo that appeared online tonight?"

The image hit the twelve-foot screens on both sides of the ballroom. The same photo Michael had shown me.

The room went dead silent. I could almost hear the ice settling in someone's glass.

Michael turned to me on the stage and extended his hand. His eyes said: now.

He had built a little stage, written me a small part. All I had to do was walk forward, turn around, and show the whole room the collar.

I stepped up to the microphone and slowly lifted the hair from my neck with both hands, the way a woman does when she wants a man to kiss her there.

The ballroom held its breath.

A woman in the back let out a short, sharp laugh. Then the camera flashes came, one, then a dozen.

I stood in the spotlight and felt the worst humiliation of my life.

Michael pulled me back to his side and said softly into the microphone, "My wife and I have our own private jokes. I'd ask the press to respect that."

Laughter followed, the relieved kind, the ugly kind, with a thread of excitement running through it. They'd been handed a better story than an affair, and they were grateful for it.

I kept smiling for the cameras, holding onto the image of Matthew on the operating table. That was the only thing that kept the smile on my face.

The private lounge at the back of the ballroom. Michael locked the door.

He stood with his back to me and poured himself a whiskey.

"You looked fine out there, but you don't wear the collar as well as she does."

Before he could stop himself, I laughed.

"Of course Saskia wears it better. She wears it because she wants to. I wear it because you held my brother over my head. That's the difference between a woman and a dog."

He crossed the distance between us in three steps, wrapped his hand around my throat, and pressed the collar hard into my skin.

"You don't get to say her name. You have no idea what Saskia means to me."

His grip tightened.

I didn't move. I looked past his shoulder at the clock on the wall. Nine-thirty had passed.

Matthew was already in surgery. There was nothing left to hold me. At least not tonight.

I drove my heel down hard onto the top of his foot. He sucked in a sharp breath, and his hand dropped.

I stepped back and slapped him across the face with everything I had. My palm burned.

He turned his head back slowly. A thin line of blood showed at the corner of his lip.

"That's my payment," I said, shaking out my hand. "For the collar."

His face darkened. He moved toward me again, jaw tight, but I didn't step back.

"There are security cameras in this lounge," I said, keeping my voice level.

"If you touch me again, or interfere with my brother's medical care, the footage goes to my divorce lawyer by morning. Are we clear?"

He stared at me. Whatever mask he wore had slipped completely. Like it had never occurred to him that I would push back.

Then his phone rang. I saw Saskia's name on the screen.

"We're not done, Felicity."

He said it low, then swiped to answer. The moment he brought the phone to his ear, his face changed.

"Saskia, what's wrong?"

He said her name in a voice that was low and warm. Then opened the door and walked out.

After Michael left, I ran to the bathroom as fast as I could.

I twisted my neck, pushed my hair aside, and clawed at the collar until the clasp gave, and it dropped into the sink.

I braced both hands on the counter and made myself look at the woman in the mirror.

Six years ago, I was a gifted architect with everything ahead of me.

Now my throat was bruised and scratched raw. I had stood in front of a room full of people wearing a collar with one meaning, and Michael had used it to take something from me.

I had lost myself loving him.

I picked up the collar and threw it in the trash. Then I took out my phone, opened the contact I had saved three weeks ago and never called, and dialed.

It picked up almost immediately. 

I heard my own voice, steady and sure: "Mr. Carter, I accept your proposal. But I have one condition—"