Too Late, Ex-Husband: My Tycoon Protector

harsh, white glare in the di

e swiped, the anonymous text message ope

lcony, the city lights of Miami blurring b

her heart, squeezing

contorted in a passion she hadn't seen in years, but on Arianna's collarbone.

he forcing it down, her knuckles white as she gripped the

apartment's electronic lock was

s head sn

, strode into the room. Sarah's fa

id of any sympathy. "The car is waiting downsta

ng through the shock of the photo. "A ta

g to get a butterfly tattoo on your collarbone, exactly like Arianna's. Then, at the press conf

miliation. To have his mistress's mark carved into her own skin to save his reputation... She stood

l edge and gaining a cruel, personal one. "Dr. Albright at Mount Sinai called our office this morning

Her b

d been holding ramrod straight, slumped. The fight drained out

he hospital's board of directors for a reason. One phone call, Courtney. That's a

. Courtney's jaw clenched so tight she fe

draped over a chair. She followed Sarah out of the

ney's exposed skin as she stepped out of the car. She pulled the trench coat tighter a

buzz of his tattoo gun filling the small space. He looked up as they entered, his eyes

f Arianna's tattoo glowing on the screen. "Here," she commanded, pointing a

eliberately, she unbuttoned her silk blouse, then her trench coat, letting it

made her flinch, a prelude to the pain to come. She closed her

ng her skin. It was a clean, electric agony that shot through her nerves. She gripped the le

l, replaced by a profound, soul-deep disgust. Five years of marriage. Five years of trying, of hoping,

" Jax

blood and ink, then pushed a h

rfly, an exact replica of the one that had

ickly pulled up her blouse, covering the mark,

stared out the window at the gridlocked Manhattan t

he backstage area of a press conference. Jordan was there, standing in front of a f

There was no apology in his eyes, n

"Just smile, look supportive, and don't say a word unless y

expression so empty it seemed to unnerve him. He frowned,

rtain, a PR director's voice boomed, intro

ghts hit her like

ced by the doting, concerned husband. He took her hand, his touch making her skin cr

man named Ben Carter known for his s

woman with a very distinct butterfly tattoo on her c

e moment. The reason for the pain, the hu

and squeezed her hand, turning to her wit

sed her free hand and, with a deliberate slowness that drew ever

ttoo was stark against her pale skin, in

phone. Her voice was stea

hat photo," she

ave of flashes and shouted

the sea of reporters, her eyes unfocused, seeing nothing. In the

rriage, this life, a