Victoria Langley hadn't slept.
Not because of that damned half-brother, or her father's disappointed gaze, or whatever excuse she would've given her sisters or her entourage.
No. She hadn't slept because every time she closed her eyes, she saw Charlotte Evans—victorious, radiant—in *her* boardroom.
And even that damned fat woman—stark naked, happy, triumphant—lying in that soft, large bed, in ALEXANDER'S arms!
It didn't matter that Charlotte's success had nothing to do with her.
It didn't matter that Charlotte never gloated.
It didn't even matter that Victoria had a six-figure wardrobe, three personal trainers, and a PR team on speed dial.
Because deep down—below the Botox, beneath the expensive prada dress—Victoria Langley had never healed from one fundamental wound: Charlotte Evans had always been everything she tried to be, without even trying.
