Chapter 5 5

The afternoon sun hit the glass storefront of Gemma's mother's art gallery in downtown Manhattan.

Gemma had barely reached the front door when two massive bodyguards stepped into her path.

A silver Porsche slammed on its brakes against the curb. Joseph practically fell out of the driver's seat, sweating through his expensive shirt.

He marched up to Gemma and grabbed her wrist with a bruising grip.

"Get in the car," Joseph demanded, his breathing heavy.

Gemma ripped her arm away, her skin crawling at his touch. "The divorce agreement is signed, Joseph."

"I haven't filed it yet," Joseph sneered, stepping closer. "You are still Mrs. Roberson."

He lowered his voice, his tone turning vicious. "If you don't come to the Hamptons and play the perfect wife tonight, I will pull the financial guarantee on this gallery tomorrow. Your mother's legacy will be bankrupt by noon."

Gemma stared at the beautiful paintings displayed in the window. Her fingernails dug so hard into her palms that she almost drew blood.

She swallowed the bile rising in her throat.

"Fine," Gemma said, her voice dead. "But the minute this dinner is over, you file the papers."

Joseph smirked and shoved her roughly toward the backseat of the Porsche.

Two hours later, the car pulled through the massive iron gates of the Roberson estate in the Hamptons.

Security guards patrolled the manicured lawns with Dobermans.

Before Gemma could open her door, Joseph grabbed a heavy diamond necklace from a velvet box and forced it around her neck.

The cold stones covered the red marks left by the stranger.

"Smile," Joseph ordered, instantly shifting his face into the mask of a loving husband.

Gemma linked her arm through his. She walked into the grand ballroom, her face a perfect, emotionless mask.

For thirty minutes, she endured the fake smiles and hollow conversations of the elite.

Suffocating, she excused herself to the restroom and slipped down a quiet hallway.

She pushed open the glass doors leading to the back garden, desperate for the cold ocean air.

In the shadows near the stone fountain, the red cherry of a cigarette glowed in the dark.

Gemma wasn't paying attention. She stepped forward, her heel catching on the uneven stone, and stumbled directly into a solid, hard chest.

A large, warm hand immediately shot out, gripping her elbow to steady her.

A heavy, intoxicating scent of bergamot and cedarwood washed over her face.

Gemma's body went completely rigid. Her breath caught in her throat.

She snapped her head up.

The dim garden lights illuminated sharp jawlines, deep, dark eyes, and a mocking smirk.

Jakob Fuentes.

Gemma gasped, stumbling backward. "Tyrant?" she blurted out, using his old college nickname.

Jakob dropped his cigarette and crushed it beneath his expensive leather shoe. He took a slow, deliberate step toward her.

He looked down at her. His eyes swept over her conservative dress, a flicker of something akin to deep frustration in their depths. It was the uniform of the pathetic, submissive woman she was pretending to be, and he absolutely hated it.

"Playing the good little housewife?" Jakob's voice was a low, cruel rumble. "It makes me sick to look at you."

Gemma forced her spine straight, ignoring the strange panic fluttering in her chest. "My life is none of your business, Jakob."

Jakob didn't stop moving until he was inches away from her.

He reached out. His long index finger hooked under the heavy diamond necklace around her throat.

His warm skin intentionally brushed against her sensitive collarbone.

Gemma's stomach did a violent flip.

He leaned down, his lips hovering just above her ear.

"Is it?" Jakob whispered, his voice dark and heavy. "Because I have a feeling you aren't nearly as innocent as you pretend to be."