Novels by Irene Chisom

(Helena’s POV)There are three universal truths about high society that you should know. One, No one ever truly cares about charity galas. It’s just an excuse for powerful men to stroke their egos and for their wives to wear gowns they’ve been dying to show off. Two, The second you show weakness, they will eat you alive, and they do it with a smile and a glass of champagne, and three, I am the main course tonight.The car slowed as we neared the Grand Bellemont Hotel, where cameras flashed like a firing squad waiting for the kill.I exhaled, fingers clenching around my clutch. "This is a mistake."Adrian didn’t look up, still adjusting his cufflinks with calm, deliberate movements. Like he wasn’t about to walk us into a lion’s den."It’s only a mistake if you make it one," he said smoothly.I turned to him, irritation curling in my stomach. "And what exactly does that mean?""It means," he bellowed, "that whatever they say, however they look at you, it only matters if you let it."I

(Helena’s POV)"This is a mistake."Eleanor didn’t look up as she neatly folded another dress into my suitcase. "That’s an understatement."I sighed, watching her move around my room like she was preparing evidence for a trial. Which, knowing Eleanor, wasn’t far from how she saw this situation."This isn’t forever,it’s just two years." I muttered, more to myself than to her.She let out a sharp laugh, shoving a pair of heels into the suitcase with unnecessary force. "No? You married Adrian Cavendish, Helena. If he has his way, this will be forever."A chill crept over my skin, unwelcome and lingering. No. He wouldn’t keep me, this was temporary.Nothing more.I pulled my sweater tighter around me, my gaze drifting to the half-packed suitcase on the bed. One suitcase was all I had left.My home—had been stripped bare piece by piece. The designer gowns, the jewelry, the art Daniel had collected over the years, all sold to cover his debts. Now, all my life fit into a bag.Eleanor zipped

(Adrian’s POV) There should have been flowers, music, laughter or perhaps a lace-trimmed handkerchief delicately dabbing at a joyful tear. Weddings were meant to be grand affairs, filled with promises and scandalous dances under glittering chandeliers. But this wedding wasn't it. Instead it was a dimly lit conference room at the Celeste Regent Hotel with a disinterested officiant shuffling papers like this was a tax audit rather than the binding of two lives together. It was Helena, the bride in black, standing rigidly before me, looking as if she were walking to the gallows instead of the altar. Helena does not wear white, of course, she won't, she was never going to make this easy for me. She is definition of rebellion wrapped in silk, a reminder that this is not love. Yet, here we are. She doesn’t look at me, her eyes drift past my shoulder, toward the door, like she’s thinking about running. But I know she won’t, not because she wants this, but because she has no other cho

(Helena’s POV)Daniel always said Adrian Cavendish never did anything without calculating the cost. A favor from that man came with strings so thick I bet they could strangle you."Whatever his real reasons, they aren’t charity," Eleanor warned over the phone after I told her of my encounter with Adrian, her voice clipped with irritation. “He wants something.”And that was the problem. It seems he wants something, but I can't figure out what. The same thought had been circling like a vulture in my mind since last night.Marry me.The words refused to leave my mind, clinging to my skin like a bad perfume, suffocating and impossible to scrub off.Marry him? I would rather set myself on fire.And yet—pride didn’t pay my debts.Nor did it erase the final eviction notice nailed to my door.I had spent two years fighting, scraping together what little I could, desperately trying to outrun the wreckage Daniel left behind.But last night, I had finally hit the wall, and Adrian Cavendish ha

(Helena’s POV)I told myself I wouldn’t go, that I had dignity and I still had options. But dignity didn’t pay the bills. And the bank didn’t accept pride as currency.So I stood in front of Cavendish & Co., my heart pounding, knowing this was my last chance to crawl out of the wreckage Daniel had left behind.It had taken me an hour to gather the nerve to call him. Another hour to talk myself into stepping into the black car he had sent. And now, as I stared at the massive glass doors before me, I wondered if I had made the worst mistake of my life.I stepped inside, my heels clicking against the polished floors, and barely had a moment to collect myself before a poised, impeccably dressed woman at the front desk glanced up."Mrs. Whitmore?" she asked smoothly, already expecting me. "Mr. Cavendish is waiting for you. Follow me."I exhaled slowly, steeling myself. There was no turning back now. He led me to the private elevator, and I rode up in silence, my fingers twisting around t

(Helena’s POV)The first thing I learned about widowhood was that grief wasn’t the worst part. No one really warns you about the shame, about how quickly people stop looking you in the eye when they whisper and gossip about your dead husband, about how fast friends become strangers when your husband's name is no longer one to be respected but pitied. I stood in front of the grand doors of the Langley Club, an establishment I had entered a hundred times as Mrs. Daniel Whitmore. But today, I was just Helena, and that meant nothing. The doorman—Harris, a man who had once bowed and greeted me warmly—blocked my entrance. "I'm sorry, ma’am, but your membership has been revoked." His voice was neutral like he had rehearsed beforehand. I blinked in surprise. “I’m sure that’s a mistake, let me speak to the manager.” “It isn’t. Your fees haven’t been paid for three months and I'm sorry but I'm not allowed to let you in. Your account has been closed.” A slow, creeping flush burned