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I stood in the shadows of the grand ballroom, a glass of untouched champagne growing warm in my hand. The Manhattan charity gala sparkled around me—crystal chandeliers catching light, diamonds glittering on throats and wrists, the soft murmur of the city's elite discussing their latest acquisitions. For ten years, I had been one of those acquisitions, though few would say it so bluntly. Across the room, Alexander commanded attention as always. Tall, imposing, impeccably dressed in a custom Tom Ford tuxedo that I had selected for him last month. His dark hair showed the first distinguished touches of silver at the temples. I knew every line of his face, every gesture of his hands. I had spent a decade studying him, anticipating his needs, becoming the perfect companion. Then she appeared at the top of the grand staircase. Charlotte Winters.