Chapter 1

On our anniversary, my husband, Michael Quinn, told me he had to fly to London for an urgent merger deal.

So, I went to the city's top art gallery alone, hoping to buy that Modigliani painting I'd been eyeing for ages.

I figured it'd be a nice anniversary gift to myself.

But just as I sat down in the VIP lounge and took a sip of coffee,

I ran into Michael, who was supposed to be in London,

and his new assistant, Vivian Lane, who always looked down on me.

Vivian had her eye on the painting I'd reserved. She sashayed over to me, hips swaying.

Right in front of a few familiar collectors and the gallery manager, she slipped a crumpled thirty-dollar bill flippantly into the folds of my Hermès scarf.

Vivian asked, "Mrs. Quinn, is this your first time seeing a Modigliani? Are you even capable of appreciating a real masterpiece like this?"

Her voice was sickly sweet, dripping with open contempt.

Vivian said, "Take this as compensation for the trouble. Over there, they've got some replicas—much more suitable for beginners like you. Feel free to spend as much time as you want with those."

When I sat there, calm and unmoved, not even sparing the money a glance,

Vivian let out a derisive laugh, slipped her arm through Michael's, and leaned in close, practically clinging to him.

Vivian said, "Mike, your wife is so stubborn. She just won't listen, doesn't know a thing about art, but still reserved the painting first. She's just trying to defy you."

Michael didn't look the least bit guilty about being caught.

Michael said coldly, "Rachel White, go tell the gallery you're canceling your reservation. Leave. Now."

I shot him a look but didn't move a muscle.

I was determined to win that painting today.

Vivian's eyes swept over the crowd, finally landing on me, brimming with malice.

Vivian challenged, "Mrs. Quinn, not giving in? Then how about we settle this at the auction?"

The gallery manager's eyes lit up, practically gleaming with excitement as he looked at me.

I raised an eyebrow. "If you want to play games, I'm in."

Vivian's face lit up with glee.

Vivian said, "Let's add a wager. Whoever fails to win the painting must crawl out of the gallery. Mrs. Quinn, dust would ruin that Chanel couture, wouldn't it?"

A few stifled snickers rippled through the crowd.

Some of the ladies exchanged glances, clearly looking forward to the show.

Michael just stared at me, his gaze icy and silent.

They thought I'd just give in.

I held back a cold smirk at the corner of my lips.

I said, "Crawling on hands and knees? That's too tame. If we're going to play, let's make it worth it."

The air in the VIP lounge went dead silent.

Michael, Vivian, a few collectors, and the gallery manager—dozens of eyes locked onto me.

Before she became Michael's assistant, Vivian was said to be a jewelry appraiser at some auction house.

She'd managed to climb her way up to Michael by using her looks and her knack for reading people.

When I not only accepted the challenge but upped the ante, everyone thought I'd gone off the deep end.

"Has Mrs. Quinn snapped? Why is she going head-to-head with Ms. Lane in front of everyone? What's she even after?"

"Ms. Lane really pushed her buttons. Anyone would be mad, but she should know better than to take it this far..."

"Everyone knows Mrs. Quinn is a trophy wife who understands nothing about her husband's business and only shops. Ms. Lane is his trusted right-hand woman. How can Mrs. Quinn compete with her?"

"Why can't she just play the perfect trophy wife? Mr. Quinn is so successful—it's normal for a man like him to have a few women on the side. Why does she have to stir up drama?"

"Mr. Quinn really drew the short straw with her. She's useless and just brings him trouble."

The whispers snaked into my ears, and Michael's face turned stormy, clear annoyance written all over it.

Michael snapped, "Rachel, stop making a scene!"

He frowned, his tone like he was scolding a child who didn't know any better.

Michael went on, "Viv is young and gets a little carried away sometimes. Why are you even letting her get to you? I brought some important investors here today—don't make a scene. Go home, now."

I shifted into a more comfortable position, leaning back against the velvet chair, my gaze calm and unruffled as I looked at him.

"I reserved this painting a week ago. The gallery serves whoever books first, and I may buy it if the price suits me.

"There's no reason I should yield it to you. Your assistant challenged me, and agreeing to play was already generous. Please don't push your luck," I said.

Michael looked furious at my attitude. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a cold, threatening whisper.

Michael said, "Rachel, have I been too soft on you? Don't forget—I'm the one paying your bills. You really think you're somebody? When I tell you to leave, you leave."

I narrowed my eyes, letting my gaze linger on how he and Vivian were practically glued together.

I said, "Michael, the wager is set. Now, you just have to choose: her or me."

Michael shot me a look full of contempt, his tone getting nastier by the second.

"Who do you think you are? All you ever do is shop, sip lattes, and splurge on designer bags. Everything you eat, everything you use—it's all paid for by me.

"Don't try to act all high and mighty in front of me. If you're just a trophy wife, then play the part. Go home. I won't hold today's stunt against you.

"But if you insist on causing trouble, then you better be ready to crawl out of here on your hands and knees," Michael said.

He'd made his choice.

My voice turned cold. "I'm winning that painting today, no matter what," I said.

Michael's fury was about to boil over; he was just about to speak.