My family's debts fill a ledger my husband carries into rooms like a hat.
Pride is the last thing we own. I told myself agreeing to this was strategy.

Preston set the terms himself. He does not negotiate and he is never in a hurry.
I waited in the corridor with his invitation folded into my glove.
Come in, he said. Then he took the dress off me and displayed me to the whole booth.
He had me there against the rail while my husband kept his eyes on the page.
I could not breathe on the way home.

That is the shame of it. Not the booth. That my defiance deserts me when he speaks.
He says one word in that low voice and I am already turning toward him.

Friday the debt is settled his way. Shown to whoever he chooses. Taken for as long as it amuses him, in front of my husband, who marks what each hour was worth.
One word from a footman and no drawing room in England opens to us again.
My husband cannot stop what he agreed to. I sent word that I will be there.
Do I walk into that booth on Friday? Do I keep my pride and go under holding it?

A full-length Regency interracial cuckolding and display erotic novel featuring a ruined wife and the prizefighter who sets the terms.