The Fixer's Secret: Taming My Husband

The rain in Manhattan didn't just fall. It assaulted the pavement, rebounding in dirty, gray sheets that soaked the hem of Victoria's trench coat within seconds. She stood under the awning of The Obsidian, a private club that smelled of old money and exclusion even from the outside. Water dripped from the end of her nose. Her Manolo Blahniks were ruined. The suede was already darkening, turning a tragic shade of charcoal that would never dry back to its original dove gray.

Her phone buzzed against her thigh, a violent, demanding vibration that made her stomach clench. She didn't need to look at the screen to know who it was. The pattern was as predictable as the tides.

She slid the phone out of her pocket. Eleanor Sterling.

Victoria pressed the green button and held the device to her ear, staring blankly at the doorman who was pretending not to see her shivering.

You are late, Eleanor's voice sliced through the static of the rain. It was a voice that sounded like tearing silk. Sharp, expensive, and capable of leaving a mark.

I am outside, Victoria said. Her voice was steady. It took every ounce of her years of practiced discipline to keep the tremor out of it.

Get him out of there. Tonight is the night. My astrologer and the fertility specialist both agree. The window is closing, Victoria. Do not come back to the manor without my son.

The line went dead.

Victoria lowered the phone. She took a breath that tasted of exhaust fumes and ozone. For a second, just a split second, her mask slipped. Her eyes, usually wide and accommodating, narrowed into slits of cold, hard calculation. She looked less like a wife and more like a predator assessing a trap. But then she blinked, and the mask was back. She smoothed the lapels of her wet coat and walked toward the heavy brass doors.

The security guard stepped forward. He was a wall of muscle in a suit that cost more than most people's cars. He held up a hand, palm out.

Members only, miss.

I am Mrs. Sterling, Victoria said.

The guard didn't even check his list. He offered her a smile that was more of a sneer. Mr. Sterling is already inside. He has a guest. A Miss Elena Vance. I believe the guest list is capped for his table.

The implication hung in the humid air between them. The wife was the intruder. The assistant was the guest.

Victoria didn't argue. She didn't raise her voice or demand to see a manager. She simply reached into her purse and pulled out a black titanium card. The Centurion. It was heavy in her hand, cold to the touch.

She didn't hand it to him. She held it up, allowing the matte black surface to catch the ambient light. It wasn't a key, but in this city, credit was the only key that mattered.

"Check the account holder status, Ben," she said, reading his nametag with a polite, terrifying calmness. "I believe the Centurion concierge service guarantees immediate access to partner venues regardless of capacity limits. Or should I call the concierge directly and have them explain the policy to your supervisor?"

The guard hesitated. He looked at the card, then at her face. The rain was dripping off her chin, but her expression held the absolute, unshakeable confidence of someone who could buy the building. The color drained from his face.

"That won't be necessary, Mrs. Sterling," he mumbled, stepping aside and pressing the release button under his podium.

The heavy doors clicked unlocked.

Victoria offered him a tight, gracious nod.

"Thank you, Ben."

The elevator ride to the penthouse floor was silent. Victoria watched her reflection in the polished brass walls. She looked like a drowned rat. Her hair was plastered to her skull. Her mascara was likely smudged. But she practiced her smile. It was a specific smile. The one she used for charity galas and board meetings where she wasn't allowed to speak. It was the smile of a woman who knew her place was decorative.

The elevator dinged.

The doors slid open, and the sound hit her first. The clinking of crystal glasses. The low, guttural laughter of men who owned skyscrapers. The smell of Cuban cigars and aged scotch.

Victoria stepped onto the plush carpet. The room was dimly lit, illuminated mostly by the green glow of the poker tables and the amber light of the bar. She walked toward the main table in the center of the room.

The conversation died. It didn't taper off politely. It was severed.

Julian Sterling sat at the head of the table. He had discarded his jacket hours ago. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms that were tense with muscle. He held a tumbler of whiskey in one hand and a fan of cards in the other.

He looked up.

His eyes were the color of a stormy sea, dark and turbulent. When they landed on her, the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. There was no welcome in his gaze. There was only a profound, exhausting irritation.

Next to him sat Elena.

She was wearing a dress made of silver silk that looked like liquid moonlight. It was backless, sleeveless, and likely cost more than Victoria's first car. She was leaning into Julian, her hand resting casually on his bicep. She was peeling a grape.

Victoria watched as Elena lifted the grape to Julian's lips.

Julian didn't pull away. He didn't eat it, but he didn't stop her. He just kept staring at Victoria, challenging her.

Someone at the table whistled. A low, mocking sound.

Victoria felt the heat rise up her neck. It wasn't embarrassment. It was rage. A hot, molten rage that she had been swallowing for three years. She forced it down, packing it into the box in her chest where she kept all the insults.

She walked forward. Her wet heels made a squishing sound on the marble border of the floor before she hit the carpet.

Elena gasped dramatically. She pulled her hand back, dropping the grape onto the green felt of the table.

Oh! Victoria! Elena's voice was breathless, sugary. I didn't see you there. Julian was just winning a hand. We were celebrating.

Victoria stopped directly behind Elena's chair. She could smell Elena's perfume. It was gardenias. Sickeningly sweet.

She placed a hand on the back of Elena's chair.

Who let you in? Julian's voice was a low rumble. Get out.

Victoria ignored him. She bent down, bringing her face close to Elena's ear. Elena stiffened.

Victoria's hand slid from the chair down to Elena's bare arm. Her fingers wrapped around Elena's elbow.

She squeezed.

It wasn't a fight move. It was a clumsy, overly tight grip that accidentally-on-purpose pressed directly onto the ulnar nerve-the funny bone. A sharp, electric shock of numbness shot down Elena's arm.

Elena yelped, her hand jerking spasmodically and knocking her champagne flute over. The crystal shattered, and wine soaked the green felt.

"Oh, dear," Victoria said, her voice dripping with faux concern as she released the arm. "You seem jumpy, Elena. Too much caffeine?"

She leaned in closer, her wet hair brushing Elena's cheek.

An assistant should know her place, Elena, Victoria whispered. Her voice was so low only the two of them could hear it. It was devoid of the warmth she usually faked. It was the voice of the woman who knew exactly how to dismantle a reputation without leaving a fingerprint. Do not sit in my seat again.

She straightened up. She smoothed her wet coat and looked at her husband.

Your mother called, she said. Her voice was loud enough for the table to hear now. She wants you home, Sterling.

Julian threw his cards onto the table. They scattered across the felt. A pair of Kings and a pair of Aces. A winning hand.

He stood up.

He was tall. Looming. He cast a shadow over her that felt physical. He reached out and grabbed her chin, his fingers digging into her jaw. He tilted her head back, forcing her to look at him.

You think bringing Eleanor into this gives you power? he hissed. You think you can walk in here, dripping wet, and order me around like a dog?

I am fulfilling the contract, Julian, Victoria said. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird, but she kept her eyes locked on his.

Contract, he sneered. He released her face with a shove that made her stumble back a step.

He sat back down. He picked up his glass and drained it.

Deal the next hand, he said to the dealer. And get security to clear the room of trash.

The dealer hesitated, looking at Victoria.

Julian slammed the glass down. I said deal!

Victoria stood there. The laughter around the table started up again, nervous at first, then louder. They were laughing at her. The wet wife. The unwanted burden. The walking incubator.

She felt the water from her coat dripping onto her ankles. She felt the eyes of every man in the room stripping her of her dignity.

But she didn't leave.

She reached into her pocket and touched her phone. She felt the cold metal casing.

You want to play games, Julian? she thought.

She turned her back to the table, but she didn't walk toward the exit. She walked toward the bar.

Victoria stood by the mahogany bar, her back to the poker table. She could feel Julian's gaze on her shoulder blades. It felt like a laser burn. She ordered a sparkling water, her hands trembling slightly as she accepted the glass.

She took a sip and surveyed the room. In the corner, near the humidor, stood a group of young men. They were Hosts. Beautiful, paid companions that the club kept on retainer for the bored wives or the lonely widows who frequented the afternoon tea sessions.

Victoria pulled out her phone. She typed a message to Zoe.

Plan B. Now.

Three dots appeared instantly. Then a reply. He is outside. Green tie.

Victoria waited. Two minutes. Three.

The elevator doors opened. Zoe walked in, looking like a chaotic storm of red hair and designer silk. Trailing behind her was a man who looked like he had been sculpted out of caramel and sin.

Leo.

He was tall, with eyes the color of amber and a smile that could melt glaciers. He spotted Victoria and immediately corrected his course.

Victoria! Zoe shouted, waving frantically. What a coincidence!

The poker table quieted down again. Julian didn't turn around, but his shoulders stiffened.

Victoria turned, putting on her best surprise face. Zoe! And... Leo?

Leo reached her in three strides. He took her hand and kissed the knuckles. Mrs. Sterling. You look... damp.

I got caught in the storm, Victoria said, laughing. It was a light, tinkling sound that felt foreign in her throat.

Leo frowned. He took off his velvet blazer without asking and draped it over her shoulders. It was warm and smelled of expensive cologne.

Better? he asked.

Much, Victoria said. She leaned into him, letting the jacket envelope her. Why don't you join me?

She led him not to a quiet corner, but to the railing that separated the bar area from the poker pit. She hopped up onto a high stool, and Leo stood between her knees, leaning against the railing.

From this angle, Julian had a direct line of sight to them.

Victoria signaled the bartender. Champagne. Two glasses.

Leo leaned in close. Is that him? he whispered.

Just smile, Leo, Victoria murmured, reaching up to adjust his tie. Laugh at everything I say.

Leo grinned. Got it.

Victoria reached out and ran her finger down Leo's lapel. I love this fabric, she said, her voice pitched just loud enough to carry. It's so refined. Unlike some of the cheap polyester you see these days.

At the table, Julian's hand froze over his chips.

Elena, sensing the shift in atmospheric pressure, tried to intervene. Julian, baby, it's your bet. You have a pair of Queens showing.

Julian ignored her. He was staring at Victoria's hand on Leo's chest.

Victoria leaned forward, whispering a joke into Leo's ear. It was a terrible joke about a lawyer and a shark, but Leo threw his head back and laughed. It was a rich, baritone sound that filled the room.

Julian shoved a stack of chips into the center. Raise. Fifty thousand.

The other players exchanged looks. The pot was already huge.

Victoria took a sip of champagne. She looked over the rim of the glass at Julian. He was looking at her, not his cards.

You know, Leo, she said, twirling a lock of hair. I've always thought intelligence is the sexiest trait in a man. Someone who knows when to fold.

Julian's jaw clenched so hard a muscle feathered in his cheek.

All in, Julian said.

The dealer paused. Sir, the bet is-

I said all in. Julian pushed his entire stack forward. Two million dollars in plastic discs.

It was suicide. Everyone at the table knew it. He hadn't even looked at his river card.

Elena gasped. Julian, no!

Call, said the man across from him, a shark named Sebastian who had been waiting for Julian to tilt all night.

Sebastian flipped his cards. A Full House. The unbeatable hand in this round.

Julian looked down at his own cards. He held the Ace-King of spades. He had the nut flush draw. He had missed. He had been staring at Victoria's hand on Leo's chest instead of calculating the odds.

It wasn't stupidity; it was distraction. It was a two-million-dollar lapse in judgment caused by the woman he claimed to hate.

The dealer cleared his throat. The house wins. Mr. Sterling loses.

Two million dollars. Gone in a second of testosterone-fueled recklessness.

Elena looked like she was going to be sick. Julian, that was... that was the trust fund dividend for the quarter.

Victoria clapped. A slow, sarcastic applause.

Bravo, she said. She raised her glass. To bad investments.

Julian stood up. The chair scraped against the floor with a screech that set everyone's teeth on edge.

He walked toward them. He moved with the predatory grace of a panther that had decided to stop stalking and start killing.

Leo stopped laughing. He straightened up, instinctively trying to shield Victoria.

Mr. Sterling, Leo began. I think-

Move, Julian said.

He didn't wait for Leo to move. He shoved him. It wasn't a playful shove. It was a blow to the chest that sent Leo stumbling backward into a service cart filled with crystal decanters.

The crash was deafening. Glass shattered. Amber liquid sprayed across the white carpet.

The room went dead silent.

Julian didn't look at the mess. He didn't look at the bouncers who were starting to move toward them. He only looked at Victoria.

He stepped into her personal space. He was so close she could see the flecks of gold in his gray eyes. She could smell the whiskey on his breath, mixed with the metallic tang of pure adrenaline.

Are you done? he asked. His voice was terrifyingly calm.

Victoria looked up at him. Her heart was racing so fast she thought she might pass out, but she didn't flinch. She held his gaze.

I don't know, Julian. Are you coming home?

Julian stared at her mouth. For a second, she thought he was going to hit her.

Instead, he reached out and grabbed her wrist.

His grip was iron. It wasn't the tentative hold of a lover; it was the shackle of a warden. Julian didn't pull her; he towed her.

Leo scrambled up from the wreckage of the bar cart, glass crunching under his boots. Hey! You can't just-

Julian's personal security detail materialized from the shadows, two large men stepping in front of Leo like a human wall. They didn't speak. They didn't have to. Leo stopped, looking at Victoria with helpless apology in his eyes.

Victoria didn't look back. She was too busy trying to keep her footing as Julian dragged her toward the private VIP lounge at the back of the room.

Julian! Elena's voice was shrill. Where are you going?

Julian didn't break stride. Go home, Elena.

But-

I said go home! he roared, not turning around.

He kicked the door of the private lounge open. It banged against the wall with a violence that made Victoria jump. He shoved her inside.

She stumbled, her hip checking the edge of a leather sofa. One of her damp heels slipped off, leaving her half-barefoot on the Persian rug.

Julian slammed the door and threw the deadbolt. The click echoed in the small, soundproofed room like a gunshot.

The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. The air conditioner hummed, but the room felt hot.

Julian turned to face her. His chest was heaving. He ripped his tie off and threw it on the floor.

You want a show? he asked, his voice low and dangerous. You want to parade your boy toys in front of my business partners?

Victoria kicked off her other shoe. She stood taller, despite the height difference. He was my guest. Unlike your... assistant.

Julian closed the distance between them in two strides. He grabbed her upper arms, his fingers digging into the wet trench coat.

Do not compare her to you, he spat. She is loyal. You are a leech.

Victoria laughed. It was a bitter, jagged sound. Loyal? She's a parrot, Julian. She repeats whatever she thinks you want to hear. She dresses like a ghost to keep you happy.

Julian froze. His hands tightened painfully. Don't you dare talk about Seraphina.

I didn't say her name, Victoria whispered. You did.

The truth hung there, vibrating between them.

Julian's eyes darkened. The gray turned to black. He pushed her backward. Victoria's knees hit the sofa, and she fell onto the cushions.

Before she could scramble up, Julian was over her. He planted his hands on either side of her head, caging her in. He leaned down, his face inches from hers.

You think you're so smart, he said. You think because you have my mother's ear, you own me?

I own half your assets if you file for divorce without cause, Victoria shot back. That's the prenup.

Money, Julian sneered. Always money with you.

He looked at her lips. His gaze dropped to her throat, then lower, to where the wet silk of her dress clung to her chest.

Victoria saw the shift. She saw the anger bleed into something else. Something darker. Something hungry.

She smelled him. Beneath the whiskey and the anger, there was the scent of him-sandalwood and rain. It made her stomach flip.

Julian lowered his head. His nose brushed against her neck. He inhaled sharply.

You smell like him, he growled. That cheap cologne.

I wouldn't have to seek company if my husband wasn't busy playing house with his secretary, Victoria said, her voice trembling.

Julian pulled back slightly. His eyes searched hers. You're jealous.

I'm disgusted, Victoria corrected.

The word snapped something inside him.

He crashed his mouth onto hers.

It wasn't a kiss. It was a collision. It was teeth and anger and frustration. He bit her lower lip, hard enough to taste copper.

Victoria gasped, and he used the opening to deepen the kiss. His tongue swept into her mouth, claiming it, branding it. His hand moved from the sofa to her hair, tangling in the wet strands, tilting her head back to give him better access.

For a second, Victoria froze. Her body betrayed her. Her pulse skyrocketed. She felt a jolt of electricity zip down her spine.

She raised her hands to push him away, but instead, her fingers curled into his shirt. She pulled him closer.

Julian groaned, a low sound in his throat. He pressed his hips against hers, the friction sending a shockwave through her.

Then he stopped.

He froze.

He pulled back as if he had been burned. He stared down at her, his lips red and swollen, his breathing ragged.

He looked at her, but he wasn't seeing her. His eyes were glazed, looking at something in the past. Or someone.

Seraphina.

He scrambled off her. He backed away until he hit the opposite wall. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a look of utter revulsion crossing his face.

Get up, he rasped.

Victoria lay there for a second, her chest heaving, her lips throbbing. She felt exposed. Raw.

Julian turned his back to her. He braced his hands against the wall, his head hanging low.

Cover yourself, he said. You look pathetic.

Victoria sat up. She pulled the edges of her trench coat together. Her hands were shaking so bad she couldn't button it.

We have to go, she said. Her voice sounded foreign to her ears. Eleanor is waiting.

Julian punched the wall. The drywall cracked.

Get in the car, he said without turning around. I'll be there in a minute.

Victoria grabbed her shoes. She walked to the door barefoot. She paused with her hand on the lock.

She looked at his back. The tension in his shoulders.

You can wipe your mouth all you want, Julian, she said softly. But you kissed me back.

She unlocked the door and walked out, leaving him alone with the ghosts.