The next evening, Adrian took her to another gala. Cameras flashed as they entered, his hand firm on her waist. She hated how natural it looked, how convincing they seemed.
But the moment they were alone, the mask slipped.
Adrian cornered her near the balcony, the city lights framing them like a painting. His voice dropped low. "Keep playing the perfect wife, and I'll give you everything you desire. Fight me…" His fingers brushed down her arm, sending sparks she despised. "…and I'll make sure your revenge destroys only you."
Amaya met his gaze, fire in her eyes. "You underestimate me."
"And you," he murmured, leaning closer, "underestimate what it means to be in my arms."
Their lips hovered a breath apart. The tension was unbearable—hate, desire, danger. And just as she thought he might actually kiss her, a sharp voice interrupted.
"Adrian Cole," a man sneered, stepping out of the shadows. "We need to talk about your bride."
Amaya froze. Who was he—and what secret did he hold?