Withered White Roses

My husband,Damian Blackwood,the King of Wall Street,treats me like ice.

But today,he sent me a text.

“Go to the pharmacy.Get the usual.”

When I got back to our penthouse on Fifth Avenue,his so-called“best friend,”the socialite Chloe,was sitting in our bedroom,slowly pulling a pair of torn stockings back onto her legs.

Seeing me,she feigned surprise.“Oh,Aurora,you're back so soon?”

She shook the empty box in her hand.“Damian texted the wrong person.Don't take it personally.”

Damian sat on the edge of the bed,a cigar between his fingers,smoke swirling around him.