prelude

Whenever my billionaire husband spends the night with his private secretary, he sends me a rare colored diamond.

Two years into our marriage, my safe is already home to ninety-six priceless loose diamonds.

This also means that this man has hurt me ninety-six times.

When the ninety-seventh pink diamond was placed in my hand, his secretary immediately sent me a provocative video.

"So what if Lucas gives you diamonds? I possess his soul and his nights. You may be a famous oil painter, but you can't even get your own husband to look at you, can you?"

I did not argue with her on this point. Instead, I elegantly sent her an abstract painting of mine that had failed to sell at a Sotheby's auction.

When my husband learned of my magnanimous gesture, as a reward, he allowed me to accompany him to a charity gala at a penthouse in Manhattan.

During the Texas Hold'em game at the dinner, his secretary lost three rounds in a row and was ordered to drink champagne from the shoe of a notorious arms dealer.

She smashed the glass on the spot, pressing a sharp shard against her wrist, crying and swearing, "Lucas, I would rather die than suffer such humiliation!"

My usually cold and ruthless husband suddenly panicked; he begged me to accept the punishment on his secretary's behalf.

"It's just one drink. I promise, once this is over, I'll take you on a vacation to Paris."

Everyone was waiting to see me make a fool of myself, but I simply nodded calmly in agreement, without a hint of a fuss.

He didn't know that this was the ninety-seventh time he had hurt me.

I had long since lost the desire to be his canary in a gilded cage. I was simply waiting—waiting to repay the life-debt I owed from years ago—and then, we would have nothing to do with each other.