Victoria lingered by the champagne tower, laughing too loud at some hedge-fund prince’s attempt at wit, but her eyes kept finding them across the room. She’d planted her seed of doubt and was waiting to watch it bloom into something that would tear them apart from the inside.
He pulled Isobel closer, lowering his head until his breath warmed her ear. “She’s lying, darlin’. Whatever she told you—it’s bullshit wrapped in designer perfume.”
Isobel maintained her smile—the kind you wear when half of Manhattan society is watching your every move—and murmured, “We’re not doing this here, Ryder.”
The words hit him harder than any eight-second ride that ended with him kissing arena dirt.
The band slipped into something that dripped with want and whiskey promises, and he guided her through the
