Studio Sparks: Her Husband's Best Friend Claims Her

The studio smelled like warm lights and the faint chemical tang of developing chemicals Gwen still kept around even though most of her work lived on hard drives now. It was past eleven. The city outside her third-floor windows had thinned to a low hum. Marco was two states away on a three-day site visit, and the rush edit for the bridal campaign sat half-finished on her main monitor—soft skin, white lace, someone else’s perfect marriage glowing at her while she worked alone in a thin black tank top that had ridden up just enough to show the soft plane of her stomach.

She rolled her shoulders, camera still hanging from the strap around her neck, and leaned in to adjust a shadow when the heavy studio door clicked open behind her.

“Gwen.”

Roman’s voice. Low. Familiar. Dangerous in the quiet.