Stella’s anger, left to fester overnight, had morphed into something far more sinister than a mere hissy fit. It was a hot, throbbing wound that had been pulsing beneath her skin, a raging inferno that was now a cold, calculated fury, sharp and precise, and ready to draw blood.
She had spent hours pacing the confines of her ridiculously large penthouse, each step a silent declaration of war, her mind replaying that oh-so-humiliating image of Samson with another woman. That tawdry, vulgar stripper. It was a complete and utter affront, a scandalous insult she could not, and would not, let slide. She needed to make Samson pay—to make him grovel for this betrayal. And that stripper?
Oh, she needed to suffer, to beg for mercy, to feel the full force of Stella's rage. Stella was not about to
