The Discarded Strategist's Cold-Blooded Revenge

m Italian leather sofa in the mas

. She scrolled through the PR itinerary for the Farrell Group's up

stinct, low growl of an Aston Martin eng

gine s

her laptop, setting it o

or. She smoothed her hands down the sides of her silk nig

doors to the be

g a rush of cold Califo

ed toward him, automatically reaching out to take his hau

settled into her han

able. A heavy blend of san

ainst the wool lapels. Her

ted, medical-grade skinca

. He leaned in and pressed a dry,

lifting a hand to rub

a nightmare," Axel muttered, his voice thick with

rming in her throat. She forced

he climate-controlled walk-in closet, care

the bedroom, Axel was stan

h a frustrated sigh and tossed i

buttoning his crisp white dress shirt, p

ers, dropping to the floor and expo

et, her eyes naturally falli

acted so fast it

eemed to vanish. Her

is left shoulder blade, were th

inflamed, the edges sli

fingernails. The downward angle and the sheer force of the cuts

ightly. He caught her s

ond, raw panic flashed

towel from the bench and wrapping it tigh

sauna at the club," Axel said. His voice

been on the cover of Time magazine, praised for ha

y turned over. Acid

am. She didn't

les in her face to stretch i

d, her voice sounding like it belonged

ing and walking i

sound of the rain showerhead tu

r hit the tiles, Ay

attress, her hands gripping the shee

rted to the

e sat face down on

e reached out and picked it up. The

d typed in the four-digit pass

side to side. P

her stomach, hitting her wit

ode that had been the same for three

throom masked the sound of Ay

arriage shattered into a mill

ed awake until 3 AM, drafting flawless PR press rel

ly erupted in her chest, ins

ing played

e nightstand, making sure it was in the e

her legs no

ahogany writing desk and

blank white stick

he phone number of a top-tier divorce