Not enough to be dramatic.
Enough to be real.
The bedroom glowed with the cold beauty of money.
Dark marble walls.
Modern chandelier.
Floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the Connecticut city lights at 2:00 a.m.
Silk sheets twisted across the bed.
Harrison’s white shirt discarded near the fireplace.
Chloe Bennett standing beside the bed in my pale-gold silk robe.
My robe.
Her hands clutched it closed over a mustard lace nightdress I had never seen before and would never forget.
Harrison stood between us with his white shirt open, black dress trousers half-buckled, chest rising with the anger of a man who had expected betrayal to remain private and was offended by the inconvenience of discovery.