Chapter 3

Lana POV

The tattoo parlor was tucked away in South Philly, a grimy establishment that smelled of antiseptic and stale smoke.

It was raining hard outside, a gray sheet of water that matched the suffocating tension inside the room.

Jameson sat in the worn leather chair, shirtless. The artist was setting up the gun. The high-pitched buzz of the needle was the only sound in the room, grating against the silence.

I stood by the door, arms crossed over my chest. I wasn't leaving until I saw that letter 'C' disappear under black ink.

Jameson's phone rang.

He looked at it. He didn't pick up.

It rang again. And again.

"Answer it," I said, my voice devoid of warmth. "It might be 'business'."

He glared at me before sliding his finger across the screen.

"What?" he snapped.

Then his face went ghostly white.

"Where? Which hospital? I'm coming."

He hung up and bolted out of the chair, grabbing his shirt from the counter.

"We're leaving," he said.

"No," I said, stepping in to block the doorway. "You sit down and you cover that mark."

"Move, Lana," he growled. "Caren was in a car accident. She's in the ER."

"And?" I asked, arching a brow. "She's in Chicago. You're in Philadelphia. What are you going to do, fly there and hold her hand?"

"She's here," he said, slipping up. "She came to visit... family."

Lies. She had no family here. She was here for him.

"If you walk out that door," I said, my voice shaking with suppressed rage, "you are choosing her. You are choosing to insult me and my family."

"She could be dying!" he shouted.

"She's a rat," I said coldly. "Let her die."

Jameson looked at me with pure hatred. It was the first honest look he had given me in years.

"Get out of my way."

He shoved past me, his shoulder colliding hard with mine. He didn't care about the code. He didn't care about the marriage.

I followed him out to the sidewalk. The rain soaked my dress instantly, plastering the fabric to my skin.

"Jameson!" I screamed over the crash of thunder. "Look at your chest! You are branded like cattle! If you go to her, don't come back."

He opened the door of his black SUV. He looked back at me, rain dripping from his nose.

He looked at the tattoo on his chest, then at me.

He got in the car.

The engine roared to life, and he sped away, tires screeching on the wet asphalt.

He left his wife standing in the rain for his mistress.

I stood there until I was shivering. My phone pinged.

It was a picture message from Caren.

She was in a hospital bed, a small bandage on her forehead. She looked fine. But it was the hand holding hers that mattered.

Jameson's hand. I recognized the heavy watch. I recognized the rings.

He's so worried about me, the caption read. Thank God for friends.

I deleted the message. I didn't need it. I had seen enough.

I hailed a cab. I wasn't going to the hotel. I was going to the estate.

I had work to do.