“I want the Presidential Suite. And I don’t want any interruptions.”
My husband, Ryan Bennett, dropped his black credit card onto the marble reception desk like he could buy everyone’s silence with a single swipe.
Standing beside him was Ashley Parker.
Twenty-seven years old.
A tight red dress she wasn’t quite comfortable wearing.
Sky-high heels that made every step look like a gamble.
She stared around the lobby in awe, taking in the crystal chandeliers, white orchid arrangements, and polished marble floors as if she’d stepped into another world.
Ryan loved moments like this.
Not because he was in love.
Because he was arrogant.
He enjoyed feeling powerful.
