Three years ago, I'd walked into the Prescott Group carrying a unicorn mug and a heart full of vengeance, pretending to be Blair Davis while planning Sterling Prescott's destruction.
Now I was Blair Prescott, mother of his child, co-ruler of our combined empire, and married to a man who thought anniversary surprises should involve enough flowers to supply a small wedding.
The penthouse had been transformed into something between a fairy tale and a fever dream. Pink roses covered every surface—not the elegant arrangements Eleanor usually favored, but an overwhelming explosion of color that made our normally sophisticated living space look like someone had detonated a romance novel. And the unicorns...
"Jesus Christ, Sterling," I said, standing in our foyer staring at what appeared to be
