ELLA

The night city is a smear of neon and brake lights, but inside this bulletproof Maybach, it might as well be a cage.

My cage.

And this stupid corset is morphing my organs into Jell-O, or worse. My dearest husband is vibrating next to me, looking no less than a wounded, vengeful fighter with his knuckles split and bleeding on the leather seat.

The silence is so thick I could slice it with my manicure.

I cross my legs, the slit of my red gala gown riding dangerously high, and let the ...