Her Assistant Can Have Her

Summary

At our engagement party—an event three years in the making—I stood in the center of a gilded ballroom and let my fiancée’s personal aide humiliate me in front of New York’s entire social elite.

“Mr. Beaumont, your sincerity is still lacking,” Dominic said, his voice carrying across the silent room with practiced condescension. “I think Madeline needs another three years to be sure of you.”

He pulled a document from his breast pocket, sliding it across the linen tablecloth. It was a supplemental prenuptial agreement, just like the ones he’d forced on me before.