There was a name given to the woman that wore patent leather Louboutin heels and a cold smile, but anyone that valued their life never spoke this name in Elora Coillette’s presence.

Most that crossed paths with her simply called her the Mistress, not for her taste in S&M, but because she had managed to make being a mistress a full-time occupation.

Despite her notorious attitude, Elora had been able to quell that rebellious spirit inside of herself, changing into the carefully polished woman that society’s elite haunted in upscale bars and restaurants.

Which was how Braxton Montenegro found her.

He had been different, her Braxton. With a degree in business administration from Yale, many had expected the youngest Montenegro to join in the family trade, but he had ultimately chosen a different path, one that led him into unsavory business practices with men that one should never consort with.

They were on top of the world, and for once in her life, Elora felt like she was finally receiving everything she was owed.

At least until he betrayed her by trying to bring in a girl that was half her age as a new play toy.

That just wouldn’t do.

Elora often wondered if he had forgotten what an avid learner she was—how despite his penchant for having business stay between men, she had learned how to do what he did best by watching him work.

So when he chose to shatter her trust, she did the only thing she knew how.

She got rid of him.

And even as she watched his face go blue as he gasped for breath, spittle running from his lips as he reached for her, instead of being horrified, Elora was … fascinated.

Hours after, she had grieved his loss, wishing that it had been anyone other than her Braxton that had thought to make a fool out of her, but as quickly as she mourned the life she had taken, she was more concerned with the loss of the life she had become accustomed.

But she didn’t worry for long …

Within days, she was the new Mrs. Erickson.

Then Porter.

Mitchell.

Fitzgerald.

The list was endless, but she grew bored of living under the thumbs of men. She was no longer content with having them rut on top of her, only to accept a stipend at the beginning of each month.

No, she wanted more than that.

She wanted to be more.

And if there was one thing Elora was good at, it was getting her way.

Soon, she was starting an empire that rivaled any man’s, and she had done this by making sure that no one, no one, would ever try and cross her again.

So if Gabriel Monte thought she would merely roll over once she received that forgery she had spent more money on than anything in her collection, he was sorely mistaken.

“Please, I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. Just—”

Gabriel’s begging was cut off as a hammer slammed down onto his knee, shattering bone instantly. His cry of pain was so loud that Elora was sure it shook the walls.

But she was unmoved by the broken blood vessels beneath his flesh, turning his skin from ghostly pale to a shade of muddled red that looked delightfully painful.

“There, there Gabriel,” she said, tugging her gloves off and passing them off to one of the men that was covered in blood spatter. “I’ve come to offer you the opportunity to make things right.”

He opened his mouth to speak again, the tears that had been welling in his eyes now freely spilling down bruised and bleeding cheeks, but Elora put a finger to his lips before he could say a word.

“You’ll die in this room,” she assured him with a flick of her wrist at their surroundings, “but the question you need to ask yourself is whether or not you want to die alone.”

Pain, Elora had learned, could show a man what he was really worth. Some were better than others, dying before her men had gotten the chance to extract the information from them, but most—and she was sure Gabriel would fall in this category—didn’t die gracefully. They gave up their partners fairly quickly because they were such selfish creatures.

She despised men like this.

“E-Elliot," he stammered out, blood dribbling from his lips. "Elliot Hamilton.”

Elora almost smiled. “Tell me of your plan."

His gaze darted around the room. “The original was stolen the day of the auction. We didn’t—we couldn’t have known it would be taken. There was a safe guard in place."

The forgery, Elora assumed, but she didn't voice this thought aloud.

"Once we realized it was gone … I had every intention of telling you about the theft, but Elliot convinced me it was better to give you the replica as opposed to nothing at all. The money had already been wired and he didn't want to back out on the sale.”

Had he not so gleefully struck at the opportunity to spill the secrets of his scam, she might have let him live—though not without making sure he understood the gravity of his mistake.

But he had made his choice.

“Elliot Hamilton, you said?” Elora asked.

“He owns Cedar Art Gallery. It’s—”

She waved her hand for him to stop speaking. A name was enough for her to find everything she needed. “And the forger, tell me about her?”

At this, Gabriel looked slightly frightened. “She works for Elliot. I don’t know much about her.”

Probably because he hadn’t felt she was important enough to learn about—or perhaps that was what Elliot had been for. Maybe he would be able to answer questions his partner hadn’t.

Pulling her sunglasses from her purse, Elora donned them, looking to one of the men wearing the rubber apron and heavy black boots. “Make sure he’ll be unidentifiable by the time you finish. And do take your time.”

As she left that building, the sound of a saw starting up, Elora was already thinking about her next victim.