His Cruel Design Novel by Temperance Rodgers _ Novel



His Cruel Design Novel by Temperance Rodgers _ Novel

His Cruel Design Chapter 01

Those photos flashing on the giant screen?
The exact ones I’ve spent years trying to burn out of my brain.
Every big shot in Los Angeles was packed into that room, sipping drinks and passing judgment like it was casual Friday.
I heard someone mutter, “Her mom used to be the star attraction at the Pleasure Palace. Dad was the guy downstairs collecting the cash.”
Another voice chimed in, “Who would’ve guessed? LA’s hottest young designer came from *that* kind of family?”
And then the killer line: “Talent clearly runs in the blood. Mr. Stainbrook kept that side of things quiet—no wonder he’s living so comfortably.”
All the business buddies shot these knowing looks at Jackson.
I stood there frozen. Hands and feet ice-cold. Nails digging so deep into my palms I could feel the sting.
I turned to look at my husband—the man I shared a bed with every night.
And there he was: lounging back, Jessie curled against his chest like she belonged there, batting her lashes at me with that smug little victory smile.
Jackson just smirked, slow and lazy.
“Each page sells separately,” he said. “Highest bidder gets the private drive—full videos, every single client your mom entertained over the years.”
The room exploded. Applause, cheers, a couple of whistles—like we were at some twisted comedy show.
He pulled Jessie closer, stood up, and strolled over to me, looking down like I was mildly entertaining.
“Baby,” he drawled, “this is your big moment. Time to start raising that paddle. Don’t worry—Jessie won’t steal the spotlight tonight.”
Everyone smelled drama and crowded in tighter, phones half-raised like they were waiting for the money shot.
Some guy in the back couldn’t resist. “Come on, Jackson,” he called out, grinning. “Last auction you straight-up told us to choke her studio. We did. She can’t even afford to lift her hand once, never mind five hundred times.”
Laughter rolled through the room.
Jackson shrugged, playing innocent. “Hey, that was just me being dramatic. Didn’t think you guys would actually go through with it. My bad.”
He paused, then added with a shrug, “Guess my mother-in-law’s photos are gonna end up in someone else’s private collection.”
I stared at him, stunned. Then I shot to my feet.
“You told people to sabotage my studio behind my back?” My voice cracked. “Do you have any idea—I’ve poured every last dollar I had just to keep the lights on! I even mortgaged my mom’s bracelet to pay my staff!”
The whole place burst out laughing again, like I’d just told the punchline of the year.
Someone yelled, “Jackson, you gonna sponsor your wife a little? Come on!”
He gave that helpless, charming shrug everyone used to love. “She’s the picture of independence. Insists on doing it all with her own skills—‘unlimited bidding’ and everything. Tough girl. Daughter of a gangster, after all.”
Another voice jumped in: “True! Remember that thirteen-million-dollar bracelet? She claimed it without even blinking. Can’t wait to see what she pulls off tonight!”
The auction bell rang.

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