I—Eve Delacroix used to believe love was the most beautiful thing in the world. A feeling so intoxicating, so consuming, that it turned life into a dream.
And Malcom? He was the dream itself.
Every touch, every whispered promise, every stolen glance—it was the kind of love that poets wrote about, the kind that made people jealous. Our marriage was built on power, wealth, and strategy, but I had convinced myself it was more than that. That beneath the contracts and business deals, there was something real.
Something true.
Malcom Delacroix was handsome in an effortless way. Tall, with sharp cheekbones, blonde hair always styled to perfection, and deep brown eyes that held secrets. I admired him. Loved him, even.
I adored him. My husband—the man who made my heart race with just a look. The one who held me close at night, making me believe we were unbreakable. Every morning, I woke up next to him and thought, 'I am the luckiest woman alive.'
