At My Daughter’s Birthday Party, My Husband Lashed Me 30 Times Over His Lover’s Ruined Dress—Five Minutes After I Called My Billionaire Brother... I did not scream when my husband tied my wrists to the iron wine rack beneath our Newport mansion and raised the riding crop for the thirtieth time.

Just before noon, Brooke strutted into Grant’s chaotic office carrying a designer shopping bag and an iced latte. She was completely oblivious to the financial apocalypse raining down around her.

"Grant, darling," she cooed, leaning over his desk to display her cleavage. "You look absolutely exhausted. Why are you stressing over boring bank things?"

"Not now, Brooke," he snapped, staring at a plunging red line on his monitor.

She pouted, her lower lip trembling just enough to be cute. "I only wanted to cheer you up. Since Evelyn threw her little tantrum and ran away with Maisie, maybe we should make the house feel less gloomy. I thought I could go shopping for a few things to redecorate her room. For us."

He barely heard her. His brain was spinning with margin calls and frozen assets. Needing her to disappear so he could scream at his brokers, he pulled a heavy metal black card from his wallet and tossed it onto the mahogany desk.

"Buy whatever you want," Grant muttered. "Just leave me alone for the rest of the day."

Brooke’s eyes lit up like a slot machine. She snatched the card, her fake sadness instantly vanishing.

At exactly three o’clock that afternoon, Brooke strutted into a highly exclusive luxury children’s boutique on Newbury Street. She held Grant’s black card like a weapon, two exhausted sales associates already trailing behind her with armfuls of bags from other stores.

Unfortunately for Brooke, I was already there.

I was wearing a loose, understated ivory coat that perfectly concealed the thick medical bandages wrapped around my ribcage and back. Large dark sunglasses hid the deep exhaustion under my eyes. Maisie, still a little pale from her fever but smiling brightly, pointed a tiny finger at a beautiful navy velvet dress in the window display.

"Mommy, that one looks exactly like midnight," she whispered in awe.

"Then we’ll try it on," I said softly, stroking her hair.

Brooke’s overpowering floral perfume reached us long before her grating voice did.

"Wrap that velvet dress," Brooke ordered the terrified saleswoman, pointing aggressively at the window. "Actually, wrap everything in a size five. Only the most expensive pieces. Don't bother checking the price tags."