LITMIR.BIZ

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      Swallowing a sigh, she started up the stairs of the pillared mansion that wouldn’t be out of place in the French countryside. Sitting on acres of meticulously landscaped grounds, the structure screamed decadence and obscene wealth. And though only a couple of hours’ travel separated it from her tiny South Deering apartment, those minutes and miles might as well be years and states.

      I can do this. I have no choice but to do this.

      Quietly dragging in another deep breath, she paused as the tall, wide stained-glass doors opened to reveal an imposing gentleman dressed in black formal wear. His tuxedo might fit him perfectly, but Isobel didn’t mistake him for who, or what, he was: security.

      Security to protect the rarefied elite of Chicago high society and keep the riffraff out of the Du Sable City Gala.

      Nerves tumbled and jostled inside her stomach like exes battling it out. Because she was a member of the riffraff who would be booted out on her common ass if she were discovered.

      Fixing a polite but aloof mask on her face, she placed the expected invitation into the guard’s outstretched hand as if it were a Golden Ticket. As he inspected the thick ivory paper with its gold engraved wording, she held her breath and resisted the urge to swipe her damp palms down the floor-length black gown she’d found at a consignment shop. Once upon a time, that invitation would’ve been authentic. But that had been when she’d been married to Gage Wells, golden child of the Wells family, one of Chicago’s oldest and wealthiest lineages. When she’d believed Gage had been her handsome prince, the man who loved her as much as she’d adored him. Before she’d realized her prince was worse than a frog—he was a snake with a forked tongue.

      She briefly closed her eyes. The present needed all of her focus. And with Gage dead these past two years and her exiled from the social circle she’d never belonged in, the present required that she resort to deception. Her brother’s highly illegal skills were usually employed for forged IDs such as driver’s licenses, birth certificates and passports for the city’s more criminal element, not counterfeit invites to Chicago’s balls. But he’d come through, and as the security guard scanned the invitation and waved a hand in front of him, she whispered a thanks to her brother.

      The music that had sounded subdued outside seemed to fill the space here. Whimsical notes of flutes and powerful, bright chords of violins reverberated off the white marble walls. Gold tiles graced the floor, ebbing out in the shape of a flowering lotus, and a huge crystal-and-gold chandelier suspended from the glass ceiling seemed to be a delicate waterfall over that bloom. Two sets of staircases with gilded, intricate railings curved away from the walls and ascended to the next level of the home.

      And she was stalling. Ogling her surroundings only delayed the inevitable.

      And the inevitable awaited her down the hall, where music and chatter and laughter drifted. All too soon, she approached the wide entrance to the ballroom, and the glass doors opened wide in invitation.

      But instead of feeling welcomed, nausea roiled and shuddered in her belly.

      You can still turn around and leave. It’s not too late.

      The tiny whisper inside her head offered a lifeline she desperately wanted to grasp.

      But then an image of her son wavered across her mind’s eye, invoking an overwhelming swell of love. The thought of Aiden never failed to grasp her heart and squeeze it. He was a gift—her gift. And she would do anything—suffer anything—for him.

      Including seeking out her dead husband’s family and throwing her pride at the feet of the people who despised her. She’d committed the cardinal sins of being poor and falling for their golden child.

      Well, she’d paid for that transgression. In spades.

      Over the last couple of years, she’d reached out to her husband’s family through email and old-fashioned snail mail, sending them pictures of Aiden, offering updates. But every email bounced back, and every letter was returned to the sender. They hadn’t wanted anything to do with her or with the beautiful boy they considered her bastard.

      She wanted nothing more than to forget their existence, just as they’d wiped hers out of their minds. But to keep a roof over Aiden’s head, to ensure he didn’t have to shiver in the increasingly chilly October nights or go to sleep hungry as she debated which overdue bill to pay, she would risk the wrath and derision of the Wells family.

      The mental picture of her baby when she’d left him tonight—safe and happy with her mom—extinguished her flare of panic. Because it wouldn’t do to enter these doors scared. The guests in this home would sense that weakness. And like sharks with bloody chum, they would circle and attack. Devour.

      Inhaling yet another deep breath, she moved forward. Armored herself with pride. Ready to do battle.

      Because she could never forget. This was indeed a battle.

      One she couldn’t afford to lose.

      * * *

      Hell no. It can’t be.

      Darius King tightened his fingers on the champagne flute in his hand, the fragile stem in danger of snapping.

      Shock and disbelief blasted him like the frigid winds of a Chicago winter storm, freezing him in place. Motionless, he stared at the petite brunette across the ballroom as she smiled at a waiter and accepted her own glass of wine. Though he’d only met her a couple of times, he recognized that smile. Remembered the shyness in it. Remembered the lush, sensual curve of the mouth that belied that hint of coy innocence.

      Isobel fucking Hughes.

      Not Wells. He refused to honor her with the last name she’d schemed and lied to win, then defiled for the two years she’d been married to his best friend. She didn’t deserve to wear that name. Never had.

      Rage roared through him, incinerating the astonishment that had paralyzed him. Only fury remained. Fury at her gall. Fury at the bold audacity it required to walk into this mansion as if she belonged here. As if she hadn’t destroyed a man and dragged his grieving, ravaged family to the very brink of destruction.

      “Oh, my God.” Beside him, Gabriella Wells gasped, her fingers curling around his biceps and digging deep. “Is that...”

      “Yes,” Darius growled, unable to soften his tone for Gage’s sister, whom he cared for as if she were his own sibling. “It’s her.”

      “What is she doing here?” Gabriella snarled, the same anger that had gripped him darkening her lovely features. “How did she even manage to get in?”

      “I have no idea.”

      But he’d find out. And asses would be kicked when he did. The security here was supposed to be tighter than that of the goddamn royal family’s, considering the people in attendance: politicians, philanthropists, celebrities, the country’s wealthiest business people. Yet evidence that the security team wasn’t worth shit stood in this very room, sipping champagne.

      “How could she dare show her face here? Hell, in Chicago?” Gabriella snapped. “I thought we were rid of her when she left for California. No doubt whatever sucker she attached herself to finally got tired of her and kicked the gold-digging bitch out. And she’s probably here to suck Dad and Mother dry. I swear to God...” She didn’t finish the thought, but charged forward, her intentions clear.

      “No.” He encircled her arm, his hold gentle but firm. Gabriella halted, shooting him a let-me-go-now-dammit glance over her shoulder. Fire lit the emerald gaze that reminded him so much of Gage’s. At twenty-four, she was six years younger than her older brother, and had adored him. And though she’d been in college, studying abroad for most of her brother’s marriage, tales of her sister-in-law had reached her all the way in England, and Gabriella despised the woman who’d hurt Gage so badly.

      Darius shook his head in reply to her unspoken demand of freedom. “No,” he repeated. “We’re not causing a scene. And running over there

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