Thanks for reading & hope you enjoy!

XO,

Christine

Chapter 1

Love does not exist. Prove me wrong! Go ahead. I dare you!

I know, right about now, you’re thinking about chucking my story in the garbage. You’re probably thinking, “What kind of a romance is this anyway?” That’s what I’d be thinking, and I’m a huge connoisseur of romance. Yep, that sounds surprising, but it shouldn’t be. I’m going to let you in on a little secret so that you’ll understand. Mostly, I read the seriously dirty, depraved, and dark side of romance, because I enjoy seeing the characters miserable for a time. I’m not a complete sadist though. Those books still almost always end with a happily ever after or at least a happy for now.

Yet, here I am, about to type out my own crazy…

Shit! What the hell should I call it? I’m not quite sure ‘romance’ would be the proper term. Maybe it was though. My story just started a little differently than most. It started more like the dirty, dark side of romance that I enjoyed reading. It started with an unhappy father, two weird marriages for his only other children, a failing business, and a proposal of the indecent kind. Yep, now, if you’re ready, I’ll tell you my story, but you’ve been warned, it doesn’t start in a happy place. Not at all.

Chapter 2

“Samuel Brighton Tucker?” His name was a question on my lips for good reason. He was the man of the hour, the question that had been asked, and the sex God that every single woman alive under the age of 50 wanted a private audience to worship. Hell, some of them probably wouldn’t care about the privacy aspect.

“Is there a problem with his name?”

“Pansy-ass girly name,” I mumbled as my father looked down his nose at me, even though I was standing, and he was sitting. I was short, just scraping in at five feet tall, but I wasn’t that short. He was looking down on me figuratively. Still, I felt the impact and almost sent myself to the naughty girl corner or time out or wherever else bad little children were sent.

Only, I wasn’t a child any longer. I was a nearly 21-year-old woman. My Bachelor of Arts in Comparative Literature and Cultural Studies was almost mine for the taking, once I finished this last semester. Then, I would have to figure out what the hell kind of job I could get with that particular degree. I used to want to be an agent or an editor of romance, mostly so I could reject all the fluffy, happy pieces and focus on making the darker side of romance a much bigger deal than it already was.

I’d been told that I was living a pipe dream though, and that it would be near impossible for me to do that, because major publications loved their fluffy romance stuff. Well, that might have rung a tad bit true, in some circles, but I was bound and determined to prove them wrong, even if I had to write the damn books myself. Oh, hey, not a bad idea.