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“I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“My condolences.”

“Richard Conlon didn’t deserve so little time with you.”

“Mrs. Conlon, please accept my apologies but try to live your life. Rich would have wanted that for you.”

The parade of mourners seemed never ending, and why shouldn’t they be when my husband was one of the most well known producers in the music industry as well as being entertainment biz royalty?

However, if I heard the words, “I’m sorry for your loss,” one more time, I would claw someone’s eyes out.

The bastard deserved to die and I wasn’t sorry for any part I’d played in his “unfortunate” demise.

It wasn’t easy playing the grieving widow, not when I had waited twenty years for this with the patience of someone who didn’t want to be in the eye of a police investigation surrounding my husband’s expiration.

And clinically, that’s the only way I could think about his death.

The waiting had been the worst part of all.

Fiddling with his medication, and having him take more of a certain medication and less of another was hard work.

The autopsy showed he died of a heart attack. A sixty-five year old man having the time of his life with his thirty-year-old trophy wife—hell, at least he died with a smile on his face.

And no matter what looks I received, that’s what I would forever be known for: Richard Conlon’s second wife. His trophy wife after he’d put the first out to pasture after thirty years of marriage.

She’d been with him throughout the years when he struggled yet I was the one who’d inherited eighty percent of his wealth. The other fifteen percent went to his first wife, and five percent went to medical research for causes he strongly believed in supporting.

Steena Conlon knew not to fight me on behalf of his Estate, not when I’d offered her an extra fifteen percent cut from what he left me out of the goodness of my heart. It was more than adequate since she split her time between her home country of Sweden and a chic Parisian apartment in one of the most desirable neighborhoods in the city.

Eventually, the revelers left and I was stuck in Richard’s old school yet fashionably conscious mansion in Bel Air. The place did nothing for me with its extensive collection of high art, timeless furniture and marble floors. Even now, I hated this place and couldn’t wait to put it on the market but I would have to stay in this empty tomb for at least a year. It would give me more than enough time to settle all debts, let his money make more money, and retire the staff with dignity and pride.

If only my parents would have been around to see how well I’d done for myself after all their false starts and chances at fame in their lifetimes.

No one loved sensationalism as much as the American public, and I would rather be known as Richard Conlon’s late wife than the child of a Bradley O’Neil. My father had killed my mother after she’d come home from one of her many trysts and then shot himself in the head.

I was ten years old.

From then on, I was one of the lucky children trapped in the system known as Child Protective Services. I was described by my caseworker as quiet, striking, and compliant despite my age. My consummate acting skills allowed me to be placed with a very loving foster family who weren’t drunks, drug addicts or trying to take the system for a “ride.”

They fell in love with me instantly, and shortly after placement, my foster family petitioned the courts to adopt me since I had no surviving family. Their wishes were met without a hitch and for a long time, I was known as Alyssa Richards. The O’Neil last name was wiped away like used toilet paper but I would eventually seek out my birthright and claim my
real
last name eventually.

The downside was I’d grown up in a very strict Mormon background along the Eastside hills of Las Vegas. I knew the Book of Mormon back to back, and although my parents weren’t the fanatical type, I still attended Mormon schools, graduated from Bringham Young University with a Bachelor of Science in Accounting and a Minor in French language.

I made my foster parents very happy and though they didn’t agree with me moving to Los Angeles so soon after graduating, it’s exactly what I did. My accounting degree opened doors in the entertainment world that would have been closed off because for once, I was a beautiful and intelligent young woman using my brain to get ahead.

It was clinical, boring work but it also gave me access to the fabulous parties and the most influential people in the movie and music business. I enjoyed the looks of shock and horror on the old guys’ faces when I told them what I did for a living as opposed to being an aspiring musician/actress/model/whatever.

My job also allowed me access to personal information for some of the wealthiest men and women in the City of Angels but I was only interested in one particular name from the start: Richard Conlon.

It had taken some persistence on my part and my Mormon adopted parents would have been ashamed at my behavior but he eventually noticed me, wined and dined me, and treated me with the utmost respect. My first real moment of the power I could do with my feminine wiles came when he asked me to marry him.

The wedding was very much like the marriage: uptight, orchestrated and only the crème de la crème were invited. I didn’t mind. It was only six years of my life and I was still a young a vibrant woman at the age of thirty; I also had something that were considered major commodities when it came to relationships in Los Angeles.

Money and power.

I was the one in control now and woe betide anyone who forgot it.

That evening after the funeral, I cracked open a bottle of Cristal champagne and drank it while binge-watching episodes of
Empire
I’d missed out on. I truly did love the music business though I had no talent to speak of other than a brain like a calculator, and the soul of Judas even the Devil himself would envy.

It was true: something had changed when my parents died.

Some part of me had perished at ten years of age right along with them and although I’d finally gotten retribution, it felt as empty and cold as the mansion I now resided in alone.

I waited more than the allotted time before I entered the party scene again but it couldn’t have happened soon enough. There was only so much working out, and binge-watching television a woman could do before she started to go stir crazy.

I’d reached that point shortly into my first week living on my own in that big, cold, empty estate. However, I had to play it off for an additional few weeks before I could do anything about it.

The Saturday night I decided to go out on my own, I’d been researching brand new clubs on the Westside. I had no interest in running into anyone from the staid, uptight crowd I’d frequented with my deceased husband. For once, I wanted to go out and have some fun.

A new club had opened near Century City—Fantasy—and the name alone had me foaming at the mouth like an epileptic. According to the website, it was the brainchild of DoPe, also known as Dorian Petersson. He was one of the most requested and highest paid DJs in the world along with being an often sought-out producer. The most famous artists in pop, R&B and hip-hop often requested the services of Dorian to turn a mediocre song into a club anthem.

Along with Calvin Harris, David Guetta, Zedd, Armin van Buuren, Tiësto, and Kaskade, he was a legend in the progressive house and dance community. He’d remixed songs by many high profile artists including Beyoncé, Taylor Swift, Rihanna, and Chyna Bleu.

Although DoPe was his moniker and the name he used as a producer, his two locations of Fantasy—the first opened inside Vogue Hotel & Casino in Las Vegas—were operated under his legal name. I’d seen photos of him, and at the youthful age of twenty-eight, he was a musical genius who was as popular with the ladies as he was with musicians seeking a remix of their latest hits.

I didn’t expect to run into him at his club but if we did, it would be a happy coincidence he’d remember for the rest of his life. After years of screwing a geriatric, it would be fun to have sex with a guy who belonged to the same jaded Millennial generation as myself, even if I was two years older than him.

I’d just showered, bathed myself in the perfumed scent of Hypnotic Poison that complimented the little black Dior dress I wore and a classy pair of midnight blue sky-high Christian Louboutins. My evening bag matched my shoes perfectly and I’d just fluffed out my long wavy hair when a knock sounded at my door.

I rolled my eyes out of frustration. Only the help ever knocked, and if they were disturbing me on a Saturday night then it couldn’t be good.

“Yes?” I shouted out as I applied deep red lipstick to my face. It was the only compliment I’d given my olive skin along with a naked brush of cover-up and mascara.

I knew I was a beautiful woman but I’d never relied on my good looks to get anything in life. Like everything else, they would eventually fade but I would have my sharp brain and cunning skills for a long time to come.

Esmeralda opened the double doors to my suite. “Señora, sorry to disturb you but Señor Conlon’s doctor is here to see you.”

It took all the control inside of me not to smirk before I turned toward her and replied, “Let him in.”

Dr. Campbell Richards entered the suite and closed the door in Esmeralda’s face without preamble before he waltzed toward me.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I whisper-shouted. “You’re not even supposed to be around anymore. Isn’t that what we have our phones for?”

Cam stared at me with those gorgeous seaweed green eyes in a lightly tanned face surrounded by the most gorgeous hair the color of chestnut brown. He was a good-looking man who worked out on a regular basis and was taller than me by six inches but with my high-heels on, we were almost the same height.

“I was worried about you, Aly. No one has heard from you since the funeral and well . . . Mom and Dad wanted to make sure you were taking care of yourself.”

I hated when he referred to our adopted parents as “Mom and Dad”—they were
his
biological parents but they sure as fuck weren’t
mine
. Not to mention we hadn’t had a proper brother-sister relationship since I’d reached puberty.

Funny, I always thought I’d hit the jackpot when a Mormon family adopted me but they were just as twisted and unexpected as the rest of us mere mortals. My beloved brother, who was supposed to wait until his wedding day—had been fucking me since I was fourteen and he was seventeen. Of course there was no one to tell because I would have been tossed out on the streets and there was no way the perfect and gorgeous Campbell Richards would have done anything to jeopardize his stellar reputation in the Community.

When my biological parents died, they hadn’t just ended their own lives but they’d put me on a course for revenge that would change my life forever. Twenty years was a long time to wait for revenge but I’d done the dirty deed, and now my talented husband was nothing more than ashes in an urn interred at a posh cemetery in Bel Air.

“I have to appear like I’m in mourning, don’t I?” My face looked down to the perfect Persian carpet I stood on as he crowded me, and his hands touched my face delicately.

“Yes, I know, but you could’ve at least called me and put me out of my misery. I thought you were truly depressed. I tried to stay away—I swear it—but you know I can’t live without you.”

Ugh, that clingy tone of voice and those words!

Always declarations of love we both knew he couldn’t act on but half the time Cam lived in his own world. Now that my husband was dead, we couldn’t be together any more than when he was alive. He knew that and thankfully, so did I.

He had a beautiful Stepford wife—Mormon raised of course—and two beautiful children. He only pretended he needed me as a way of controlling me, and then there was the money. Countless riches he would receive once I started wiring money into his bank account. He was the main reason Richard was dead. He’d been his primary care physician after all, and referred to my late husband by me.

I physically backed away from him by a few inches but it wasn’t enough to stop his hovering. “Cam, I have to get out of here. I’m going stir crazy and isn’t Mackenzie missing you? She’s a good woman—a bit dim but that’s served its purpose over the years for both of us. It wouldn’t do either one of us any good if she started to suspect something was going on between the two of us.”

He kissed my neck softly and breathed in my scent. “I can’t live without you, Aly, you know that. These past few weeks have been absolute torture. You don’t hate me or is it something else? Do you not need me anymore now that you’ve accomplished what you set out to do?”

I stared into his eyes and there was a hardness there that hadn’t arisen before. Shit. The last thing I needed was for Cam to turn against me. The problem with the kind of delicate operation I’d carried out to exact my revenge was more than one person had been involved.

Cam didn’t feel bad about what he’d done but he would turn on me if he felt I no longer loved him.

Of course I adored him—like a younger sister loved her older brother—but I wasn’t nor had I ever been in love with him. He was always a means to an end. He was going to sleep with me anyway whether I was a willing victim or not so I began to enjoy it, if only to take away the sting of not having a choice in the matter.

My hands touched his face and I was careful not to kiss him with my rouge-stained lips. There were other ways to show how much he meant to me. I leaned against him, my head turned to the side as one hand caressed his head while the other undid his zipper.

My hands were still somewhat moist from the scented lotion I used before he’d been brought into the sanctity of my suite, and it found his dick easily. His cock, only semi-hard, grew to its full length and girth in my hand as I rubbed him slowly and methodically.

“Sweetie, how can you think I would ever use you? You’re the only one who has been here for me and understood why I
had
to do this. I couldn’t have done it without you and you know how much I love you.”

Cam grabbed my hair and pulled my head back as he kissed my collarbone, and his hands grabbed my breasts through the thin fabric. “Show me.”

My hand worked faster over his erection although not too eagerly. I wanted him to enjoy himself instead of thinking perhaps I was only trying to get rid of him, if only for a few precious hours and one night.

Now that he’d come back, he’d be around again and again. No doubt I would have to endure a whole afternoon with him after he and the wifey spent quality time at the temple worshipping
their
God. The invisible white-bearded man in the sky they believed in simply didn’t exist for me. Not that I wasn’t spiritual and didn’t believe in retribution. I knew I would pay for my sins but the vengeance outweighed the cost I’d eventually have to suffer.

“Fuck, your palm is like silk, milking me to heaven and back. I love you so much, Aly.”

Keep telling yourself that, Cam, whatever helps you sleep at night.

I gripped his cock and squeezed between my gentle handling until he couldn’t take it anymore and he came, his semen coating my hand as his lips clung to my neck.

He pulled away and grabbed a few Kleenex from the magazine table while I walked back into my bedroom and cleaned my hands with a couple of Huggies baby wipes before disposing them in the trash. I wanted to feel disgusted by what I’d just done but I wanted him gone even more.

By the time I reappeared, he’d straightened his suit and looked distinguished again.

“Now, brother dearest, may I go out tonight and enjoy myself or will it look too . . . uncouth?” I mocked him now only because I knew I could get away with it.

“Your life is yours to choose, Alyssa. That is between you and your God to work out. It’s not for me to judge especially since you’ve never been a true believer in the one and true God of our faith.” He avoided eye contact as if we’d done nothing other than have a casual conversation this whole time.

“The one true God? I grew up Catholic for God’s sake until—”

“Yes, I know,” Cam interrupted. “If I’m not mistaken, suicide is a mortal sin in your church too. Do you honestly believe you will ever see your father in heaven?”

I shook my head sadly. “Does it matter? My mother didn’t deserve to die.”

His arm came out of nowhere as he grabbed me by the neck and squeezed ever so gently. “Your mother was a whore who was willing to sell her body to the highest bidder, Alyssa. She would have done
anything
for fame. I went along with your plan because I can do a lot of good from the money that has come from a sinner but not because I believed in your revenge scheme. As far as I’m concerned, Richard did nothing wrong.”

It took everything in me not to break down and sob. “Well, in that case, please don’t worry. I always keep my promises and you will start receiving the money transfers to your account next week. It’s when I will begin to have access to the vast amount of my . . . newly inherited wealth, according to the attorneys representing the Estate.”

“That’s nice,” he replied before he kissed my lips and let go of my neck. “Let’s just establish one thing right here and now. This little arrangement between us doesn’t stop. The weekend isn’t a good time but I will call you next week with appointments that are convenient to me. After all, I have a spouse to think about—you can longer claim the same. Is that understood?”

“I wouldn’t assume anything different.” I picked up my handbag and tucked it underneath my right arm. “Shall I show you out as to not arouse suspicion?”