The Cage Of Their Perfect Lie

son

cold and fury. "Follow that car," I said, the words a

ad probably seen it all, just no

; it was a grittier, louder neighborhood, filled with dive bars and tattoo parlors, the air thick with the smell of cheap beer

his Bentley and into the raucous bar without a second's hesitation. This was not his world. This

ulling my drenched jacket tighter around me. I

nd the crowd was a sweaty, writhing mass. I scanned the room, m

I sa

hair was backed against a wall by three thuggish-looking men. She was

ntrolled movement I was used to. It was a blur of primal fury. He launched himself at the

eet fighter. He didn't throw clean punches; he was brutal, efficient, aiming for joints and weak spots. There was a dark, terrif

didn't spare them a glance. He immediately turned to the woman, his entire posture

with a relief that was painful to hear.

cried, her voice a mixture of anger an

hat was so tight, so desperate, it looked like he was trying to merge their bodies into one. It wa

en resistance. Then, she did something that made my blood run col

didn't let go. He just held her tighter, his eyes

own at her, and the expression on his face destroyed me. It was a look I had craved, a look I had begged for

gh for him to protect his real love, this girl from the wrong side of the tracks

o of them, locked in their own private, painful world. I was an outsider, a complete and utter fool. Every kind word, every gentle touc

ly led her out of the bar and into his car, drivi

iend, Chloe. "I need you to find out everything you can about a woman n

as standing in the middle of our cold, empty living room. A

against the cold leather of the

ir love story read like a tragic romance novel. The brilliant, wealthy heir falling for the poor, beautiful artist. He

ily had found out. They had threatened Kennedy, her life, her family. Grayson, to protect her, had made a deal. H

y would leave

wasn't for me. It was to keep me content, to keep the facade of our marriage intact so t

t was freezing my soul. I was a prop. A well-cared-for, beautifully

hing more than a cheap inconvenience, a mi

e, the fierce independence I had always clung to, felt like a joke. I had let

m

e story. I would not be the price he p

't come home

stilettos that made me feel powerful, and painted my lips a defiant, blood-r

burn their worl

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