My husband's pregnant mistress set a "backless dresses only" rule for the gala to humiliate my burn scars—until my billionaire boss handed me a custom gown and a plan to destroy them both.

The rain fell over Park Avenue in long, shimmering sheets, reflecting the golden glow of the Grand Plaza Hotel’s marquee.

Dozens of high-fashion photographers pressed against the red velvet ropes, their camera lenses flashing like a storm of white lightning. High society’s elite stepped out of sleek Maybachs and Bentleys, showing off diamond jewelry and designer tuxedos for the annual Founders’ Gala.

Standing near the main entrance, dressed in a sweeping emerald-green velvet dress with a daringly plunging neckline, was Cassidy Vaughn.

Her hair was styled in intricate golden waves, and her smile was triumphant as she leaned heavily into Preston Vance’s arm. Preston wore a custom Brioni tuxedo, his chin raised high, looking every bit the rising corporate star he believed himself to be.

"Look at them whispering about us, Preston," Cassidy purred, smoothing her hand over her barely visible baby bump. "Tomorrow, every headline in Manhattan will call us the new golden couple of the financial district."

Preston adjusted his silver cufflinks, a smug smirk playing on his lips. "And where is my pathetic wife? I checked her GPS location an hour ago—she was still sitting in her little apartment. I suppose she finally realized that showing her hideous back to four hundred billionaires would be public suicide."

Cassidy let out a light, tinkling laugh that sounded like breaking glass. "I told you she’d hide. A woman like Vivian doesn't belong in our world. She belongs in the shadows, covered up in cheap robes."

Suddenly, the flashing cameras stopped focusing on Cassidy and Preston.

A massive black Rolls-Royce Phantom with dark tinted windows pulled up directly to the edge of the red carpet. The driver, wearing pristine white gloves, stepped out and opened the rear door.

A collective gasp swept through the crowd of reporters.

Stepping out first was Gideon Ashford.

At six-foot-four, with broad shoulders, sharp grey eyes, and a commanding presence that made powerful men flinch, Gideon was the unchallenged king of Wall Street. He wore a midnight-blue bespoke tuxedo, his silver-knickered hair perfectly styled.

He didn't move toward the entrance. Instead, Gideon turned back to the open door, raised his long, powerful arm, and gently offered his hand to the woman inside.

A slender, sun-kissed leg extended from the vehicle, wearing a crystal-encrusted Louboutin stilettos.

I stepped onto the red carpet.

The dress Gideon had commissioned from a famous Parisian designer was a masterpiece of midnight-black silk and diamonds. The front was sleek, high-necked, and elegant.

But as I turned to take Gideon’s arm, the entire back of the dress revealed itself.

It was completely backless—cut all the way down to the base of my spine.

There were no wraps, no shawls, and no makeup attempting to conceal my skin. The thick, silvery keloid burn scars spanning across my shoulders and upper back were framed by thousands of tiny, brilliant-cut diamonds stitched directly along the edges of the fabric.

My scars didn't look like a disfigurement. Framed by diamonds and black silk, they looked like a glorious, shimmering pair of phoenix wings carved into my skin.

The photo flashes erupted like a supernova.

FLASH! FLASH! FLASH!

"Who is she?!" a lead reporter from Vogue shouted, pushing through the security ropes. "Look at those diamond details! It’s a work of art!"

"Is that Gideon Ashford’s new partner?!" another reporter screamed. "Look at her back! It’s breathtaking!"

Standing twenty feet away, Cassidy’s face turned completely grey. Her wine glass trembled in her hand so violently that red liquid splashed over her emerald dress.

Preston’s mouth fell open. His eyes bulged out of his head as he stared at me—stared at the scars he had spent five years calling repulsive, now framed by twenty million dollars worth of diamonds on the arm of the most powerful man in New York.

I didn't turn away. I didn't hide.

I met Preston’s gaze directly, raised my chin, and allowed a cold, dazzling smile to touch my lips.

Gideon leaned down, his warm breath tickling my ear, his strong arm wrapping firmly around my waist.