My Husband's Twisted Secret Life

t seemed to have materialized out of the storm itself, pulled to a stop on the shoulder of the road. The engine was a low, power

t somehow repelling the rain, his polished shoes barely making a sound on the wet asphalt. As he drew closer, the faint light caught the sharp planes of his face. It was him. J

n dress, the mud-caked legs, the wild, rain-plastered hair. He didn't show a

ing," he stated. It

words. The cold was seeping into my bones, a deep, ag

oice as clipped and devoid of em

rading one monster for another. What did I really know abo

other option is to wait for your husband to find you. I assu

he scent of rich leather and something clean, like expensive cologne, filled the air. The door closed with a heavy, satisfying thud, shutting out t

onto the road. We drove in silence for several minutes, the city light

ispered, the words tasting like poison. "They'

ht ahead, his profile stark and unyielding. "Mark Sterling

ould ask, he spoke again. "I will provide you with protection.

lian Thorne didn't do anythin

eed a wife. My arrangement to secure the final vote for the board merger at Thorne Industries fell through this evening. The vote is in three days.

umbfounded. "You w

expression unreadable. "It is

wasn't a police car, and it didn't look like the security Mark employed. The men inside were shadows, but their posture was alert, professional. Menacing. Th

oblem. But what choice did I have? Go with him, or be dragged to a padded cell by Mark and his unknown, menacin

the word barely au

before being instantly suppressed. He reached into the seat pocket i

reement. My lawy

s scanned the pages, my mind struggling to keep up. It was all standard, ruthless billionaire stuff-separat

for any reason whatsoever, I would be in breach of contract. The penalty was not just the forfeiture of Julian Thorne's protection. It

y war. He was stripping me of the very thing my family had tried

at the clause, my finger trembli

em, and you cannot be used as a pawn against me. You either cut them out o

eneath my fingers. He was right. There was no going back. They had

oing?" I asked,

our cou

ook it, its screen lit up with a news alert, pushed from a f

AKDOWN. Clara Sterling Committed by

econd. The public campaign to discredit me, to paint me as a hysterical, broken woman, had already begun. My own mother and father

not just locking me away; they were assassinating my character,

ate hope. His expression was as unreadable as

firm, cutting through my despair. "I