Divorcing My Cold And Possessive Tycoon

actly one ye

lence with a note of absolute finality. Claire Salinas sat frozen before the vanity mirror,

stale cigar smoke that clung to his rumpled tuxedo like a stain. He clamped his hands onto her shoulders. Hi

reath fogged the mirror beside her face. "You get a Pierce heir in your belly wi

hed her shoulders forward, ripping herself free from

re," she said, her voice l

you don't spread your legs and do your job, I'll cut off every last medical payment for your mother's old nanny first thing tomorrow morning." He leaned closer, his words laced with poison. "Ro

Mama. Rosa. The two women who had given her the only love she'd ever known-one suspended in a silent coma, the other the aging nanny who refused to leave her b

tang of blood as she forced the scalding tears back down her throat. Then

ld, steady flame sparked to life. I

skin against hers making her stomach churn. He turned and strode out of the suite, a

trying to drag her to the floor. She forced her spine straight, squared her shoulders, and walked out of the suite with a graceful composure

ick carpet swallowed her footsteps, but her heart pounded agains

ed with a shuddering breath that burned like acid. On the other side of the wood, the orche

era flashes and the collective, appraising stares

passed the glittering crowd and locked onto the towerin

lness that seemed to suck the warmth from the cavernous room. His eyes were utterly dead-dark, unblinking, and entirely void of human warmt

ily as she walked toward him, her steps steady

nd. Houston kept his hands rigidly at his sides. He looked deliberately away, leaving her marooned

n higher, she gathered her heavy gown and mounted the step alone, her movements eco

st began

tely toward the private dressing corridor to shed the monstrous gown for

IP balcony. His fingers tore at his black bowtie as he pulled out a silver lighter and lit a cigarette,

lcony, voices rose. The architectural curve of the buildin

ble railing, his cigarette burni

. "The ink is dry. That little bitch is going to spread her legs

to use every cheap trick in bed to get pregnant. Once there's a squalling kid, the trust fun

t into the glass ashtray until the paper tore and the

of gasoline. Hands holding him down. A man's voice laughing about a payday. The absolute, soul-shattering terror of being nothing more than a tool to b

hing bone-white. For a long, suspended moment, the world warped into

contractual obligation. She was a parasi

and strode off the balcony, his long legs eating the distance with predatory intent. He was heading straight for the bridal suite-not to