The Masked Surgeon: My Husband's Ultimate Regret

stone townhouse on the Upper East Side. Wrought-iron gates sw

ere, their posture rigid, their eyes constantly scanning. They were Julian's perso

a look of pure ice, a silent promise of retribution, before sweeping up the marble

yes," he intoned, his

nd old money. She tossed her bag onto an antique console table, the sound echoing in the silence. A bone-deep exhaustion wash

er hand trailing along the polished wood of the bani

, when the sharp, jarring buzz of

ng. She looked down from her vantage point, th

ugh the peephole, and hesitated. After a

wned the place, her face a mask of righteous indignation. Trailing elegantly behind her was Carme

the butler said, trying in vain to block their

Tiffany snapped. "This is a Hayes pro

r voice as smooth and sweet as honey. "Don't be rude to the staff." She removed her sunglasses,

a fresh wave of nausea. The woman was a wa

ast the butler and into the main living room. Her

precision, on the leather briefcase Julian had left on the coffee table. The

igning an interest in a large oil painting on th

ray magazine. Her fingers, light as a feather, pinched the edge of

er anger. The flap was loose, and the first

ffany asked, her

the bold, black title at the top of the page: MAR

pure, unadulterated joy. She snatched the document from Carmella'

eyes scanning for the signature. "It's signe

uldn't quite suppress the triumphant smirk that played on her lips. "Oh, Julian," she whispered,

ed, grabbing Carmella's hand

que celebration. She saw their greedy hands on her life, on her future. Her

rned away by a cold, clear stream of pure rage. Her eyes, n

ood of each step, barely making a sound, yet the slow, deliberate, menacing rhyth