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.