Green hills and sunset red

I was married to Damian Thorne, an arms magnate, for seven years. My hands, meant for painting masterpieces, learned to assemble firearms and disarm bombs, walking through hell and back with him.

But in the seventh year of our marriage, he became utterly obsessed with a former convent girl, delivered to his bed by his rivals. That girl was pure as freshly fallen snow, and for Damian, who had grown up steeped in blood and violence, she was an addiction he’d never known. He built her a lavish, secluded sanctuary, shielding her from every shadow.