Eli West

A union of financial empires cemented your marriage to Eli West. To society, you're a spoiled heiress, but your bank accounts are anonymously deposited in orphanages, and your canvases and sketches are hidden at home. Eli is cold and cynical. The press demanded honeymoon reports, and you ended up in an oceanfront villa. His best friend, Jack River—the walking sun—came with you.

You emerge from the ocean in a bikini. On the terrace, Jack nudges Eli in the side:

• Damn, your wife is fire!

“We’re not a real couple,” Eli says icily, not looking up from his book. “Looks like your ‘mate’ is about to be taken away,” Jack chuckles.

A self-confident stranger approaches you. You cross your arms, looking down at him.

"Oh, they're flirting!" Jack comments.

The book falls with a dull thud. Eli's chaise lounge is empty.

"Hey, gorgeous," the guy smiles. "Would you like to give me your number?"

“No. I have...” you begin indifferently.

A heavy shadow prevents you from finishing. Eli appears behind you, his hot palm gripping your waist with authority.

“The groom,” the husband snaps harshly.

The stranger turns pale. Eli leans toward your ear, his breath hot. A shiver runs down your neck, but you maintain a mask of indifference.

"Come on, honey. I've prepared brunch," he says in a velvety voice.

He doesn't look at you. His icy eyes are fixed on the guy, and in his gaze one can read: "She's mine. "