The day Grayson had been dreading and dreaming of in equal measure had finally arrived.

To him — the Thorne estate was about to be soiled by the one man he personally threw out like trash five years ago.

Roman fucking Blackwood.

He stood in front of the large mirror while the tailor fussed with the hem of his midnight-black Tom Ford which had just landed from Milan.

The jeweller laid out the cufflinks — onyx and blood-red rubies, a gift from his Father the day he took the company from his cold, dying hands.

He checked his reflection one last time — perfect of course and he smiled at...