The Fixer's Secret: Taming My Husband

The rain in Manhattan didn't just fall. It assaulted the pavement, rebounding in dirty, gray sheets that soaked the hem of Victoria's trench coat within seconds. She stood under the awning of The Obsidian, a private club that smelled of old money and exclusion even from the outside. Water dripped from the end of her nose. Her Manolo Blahniks were ruined. The suede was already darkening, turning a tragic shade of charcoal that would never dry back to its original dove gray.

Her phone buzzed against her thigh, a violent, demanding vibration that made her stomach clench. She didn't need to look at the screen to know who it was. The pattern was as predictable as the tides.

She slid the phone out of her pocket. Eleanor Sterling.

Victoria pressed the green button and held the device to her ear, staring blankly at the doorman who was pretending not to see her shivering.

You are late, Eleanor's voice sliced through the static of the rain. It was a voice that sounded like tearing silk. Sharp, expensive, and capable of leaving a mark.

I am outside, Victoria said. Her voice was steady. It took every ounce of her years of practiced discipline to keep the tremor out of it.

Get him out of there. Tonight is the night. My astrologer and the fertility specialist both agree. The window is closing, Victoria. Do not come back to the manor without my son.

The line went dead.

Victoria lowered the phone. She took a breath that tasted of exhaust fumes and ozone. For a second, just a split second, her mask slipped. Her eyes, usually wide and accommodating, narrowed into slits of cold, hard calculation. She looked less like a wife and more like a predator assessing a trap. But then she blinked, and the mask was back. She smoothed the lapels of her wet coat and walked toward the heavy brass doors.

The security guard stepped forward. He was a wall of muscle in a suit that cost more than most people's cars. He held up a hand, palm out.

Members only, miss.

I am Mrs. Sterling, Victoria said.

The guard didn't even check his list. He offered her a smile that was more of a sneer. Mr. Sterling is already inside. He has a guest. A Miss Elena Vance. I believe the guest list is capped for his table.

The implication hung in the humid air between them. The wife was the intruder. The assistant was the guest.

Victoria didn't argue. She didn't raise her voice or demand to see a manager. She simply reached into her purse and pulled out a black titanium card. The Centurion. It was heavy in her hand, cold to the touch.

She didn't hand it to him. She held it up, allowing the matte black surface to catch the ambient light. It wasn't a key, but in this city, credit was the only key that mattered.

"Check the account holder status, Ben," she said, reading