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My ex-boyfriend, Jason Bell, still hasn't let go of me, even though I've been married to Cedric Mosley for two years now.
He sends blood-red dancing heels to me and threatens to destroy my current "peaceful life".
Terrified and trembling, I'm about to call the cops when a hand in latex gloves rests on my shoulder.
"Don't be afraid."
My forensic doctor husband, having just returned from an autopsy, carries a faint scent of formaldehyde with him.
He takes off his glasses. With the same hands he uses to handle scalpels, he slowly helps me open the threatening letter inside the package.
"The handwriting is sloppy, with uneven pressure applied. It's typical of an anxious personality type."
Then, as if he's reviewing an autopsy report, he comments mildly, "This type of person usually has brittle bones that snap easily." 
“A million dollars,” he said, his voice flat, like he was negotiating over a car, not a person.Astrid shook her head, opening her mouth to protest, but he cut her off.“Let’s make it two then,” he offered. She stared at him, stunned, wondering if he’d lost his mind.“Mr. Voss…”“Final offer. Five million,” he said, his gaze steady, unyielding.Astrid took a deep breath, her heart pounding. “Fine. I’ll be your wife.”***When Astrid Blythe, a rising event planner, runs into her ex, Adrian Voss, at his engagement party, she’s shocked to discover that his fiancée is missing. What starts as a strange encounter quickly spirals into something even more surreal when Adrian offers Astrid a proposal of his own: marry him in a cold, calculated, no-strings-attached arrangement.Despite her better judgment, Astrid agrees to the deal. But as the line between business and desire blurs, she finds herself drawn back into Adrian’s dangerous orbit—and realizes, to her horror, that she’s falling again for the man she once loved…the man who had a hand in the death of their child. 
The traffic on the highway is at a standstill, and my two-month-old son, Benjamin Wagner, is wailing with hunger.
When I reach for the hypoallergenic formula I'd prepared, I find expired dog food instead. I begin scrambling for the formula, but my husband, Isaac Wagner, stops me.
"I gave the formula to Nancy because her dog's been having stomach issues lately. Just find something else to feed Benjamin for now. Nancy's dog cost 30 thousand dollars, so it deserves the two-thousand-dollar formula. Benjamin is a boy—he needs to learn to tough it out."
I yank my arm free from his grip and hiss, "Benjamin has severe allergies. He's reactive to over 200 substances and needs to drink the hypoallergenic formula. He's only two months old! He can't even handle solid food yet! You took his special formula to feed a dog. Do you want him to starve to death?"
Isaac frowns in annoyance. "Nancy's parents are gone. Rocky is the only family she has left. What's wrong with letting it have a little formula to ease its stomach? You're a mother. How can you be so heartless?"
I'm about to dash out of the car. "Is our son's life worth less than a dog's?"
Isaac slaps me and yells, "Our son will only grow strong if he experiences a little hunger and cold. It won't kill him to miss a few meals." 
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