BRENDA'S POV
Arman Cross. My neighbor. My husband always called him “that young CEO with too much money and too much ego.” But my husband never saw the way Arman looked in rolled-up sleeves, tie loose, hair just messy enough to look dangerous. He didn’t know the kind of hunger that man carried in his eyes.
I, Brenda, was the perfect wife of a rich businessman. Diamonds, silk gowns, charity dinners. Everyone saw a polished woman who had it all. But no one saw the ache inside me, the hunger that had gone untouched for too long.
When Arman invited me over, the excuse was harmless. “Come see the new wine cellar,” he said, his grin slow, confident, dangerous. I told myself it was neighborly. Polite.
The moment I stepped into his house, I knew it wasn’t.
The air smelled of leather and aged
