I shouldn’t have come looking for him.

But the dinner had ended early, the New York night felt restless, and some soft, naive part of me still believed the man who put a ring on my finger might want me for more than the shipping routes my father was desperate to secure. So I rode the private elevator up to the VIP level of the club, stepped out into the red-and-gold haze, and found my fiancé with two half-naked women draped over him like expensive coats he planned to wear once and discard.

Rocco Volkov sat sprawled on the black leather banquette like the world owed him its throat. Shirt...