Selena was drowning in humiliation.

Zavier had rendered her utterly disposable. Even under the title of Mrs. Larson, she was nothing more than his plaything, an amusement for his whims. She could never earn his respect—she never had. To him, she was no better than a cheap whore.

The sobs that punctuated the cavernous, hundred-square-foot media room clashed against its cold, engineered silence. Clutching a fruit knife she'd grabbed during her struggle, Selena ...