There was no doubt in my mind that Eva White’s father was a man of staggering wealth, a titan of industry whose bank accounts likely held more zeros than I could count on both hands. I didn’t need a background check or a private investigator to confirm that; I only needed to know the predatory nature of Emma Hopkins. My ex-wife was a woman driven by a singular, cold-blooded ambition. She would never have tethered herself to a man unless he possessed the kind of power and financial influence that could buy a seat at the highest tables in the city. To her, a man was merely a vehicle for her own social elevation, a means to trade her fading youth for a lifetime of security and status.
As we huddled together in the stifling darkness of the walk-in closet, the tension between us became a physi
