Chapter 3 3

The pen felt slippery in Claudia's hand. It was a cheap, blue plastic ballpoint the nurse had thrust at her, nothing like the heavy Montblanc Ezequiel had offered an hour ago.

She signed her name on the dotted line. Claudia Valentine.

Not Sanford. In this moment, stripped of the protection of her husband's name, standing in the fluorescent purgatory of the ER, she was just a Valentine daughter again. A daughter of a failing house.

The nurse snatched the clipboard and disappeared back behind the swinging doors.

Hours bled into one another. Imogene paced the length of the waiting room, her heels clicking a rhythmic, maddening tempo on the linoleum. Every time she passed, Claudia smelled the faint, stale smoke clinging to her clothes-the only crack in Imogene's armor.

"He's stable," a doctor finally said, emerging at 3:00 AM. "He's in a coma, but stable. We've moved him to the ICU."

Imogene collapsed onto the hard plastic chair next to Claudia. She didn't cry. She reached into her Hermes bag and pulled out a stack of crumpled papers.

She threw them onto the empty seat between them.

"Read it," she said, her voice raspy.

Claudia picked up the top sheet. It was a balance sheet for Valentine Group. Red ink was everywhere.

"We have forty-eight hours," Imogene said, staring at the wall. "Forty-eight hours before the bank calls in the loans. If we don't pay, they seize everything. The house, the cars, the company. Daddy will wake up in prison for fraud."

Claudia felt cold. "What do we do?"

Imogene turned her head slowly to look at her sister. Her eyes were hard, devoid of sympathy.

"We need two hundred million dollars. A bridge loan." She pulled a silver cigarette case from her bag, her hands trembling slightly, then remembered where she was and shoved it back.

"Ask Ezequiel," she said.

Claudia flinched. "Imogene, I can't. He gave me divorce papers tonight."

Imogene went still. "He what?"

"He wants out. He knows about the trouble. He wants to cut ties."

Imogene grabbed Claudia's wrist, her grip painful. "You listen to me, Claudia. You do not sign those papers. You go to him. You beg. You cry. You use your body if you have to. I don't care what you do, but you get that money."

"I can't," Claudia whispered, thinking of Alexa, of the way he looked at her. "He loves someone else."

"Love?" Imogene laughed, a harsh, barking sound. "Who cares about love? This is survival. If Daddy dies, it's on you. If we lose the house, it's on you."

She stood up, smoothing her skirt. "I have to go meet the board. Fix this."

She walked away, leaving Claudia alone in the hallway.

Claudia sat there for a long time. Her hand drifted to her stomach. She wasn't just saving her father anymore. She was saving a future for this child. If she was divorced and destitute, Ezequiel's lawyers would take the baby. They would paint her as unstable, poor, unfit.

She had to be Mrs. Sanford a little longer.

She washed her face in the hospital bathroom, applying fresh lipstick to hide the blue tint of her lips. She drove to Sanford Tower as the sun was rising over the city.

The glass building pierced the sky, a monument to Ezequiel's power. She walked to the front desk.

The receptionist, a young woman with perfectly highlighted hair, looked up. She didn't smile.

"I need to see my husband," Claudia said.

She glanced at her computer screen, then back at Claudia with a look of barely concealed pity. "Mr. Sanford is in meetings all morning. He left instructions not to be disturbed."

"I'll wait," Claudia said.

She sat on the stiff leather bench in the lobby. One hour passed. Then two. Her stomach cramped with hunger-she hadn't eaten in twenty-four hours-but she didn't move.

At noon, the elevator doors pinged open.

Ezequiel walked out, flanked by three bodyguards and Mr. Sterling. He looked immaculate, fresh, powerful. He was laughing at something Sterling said.

Then he saw her.

His laughter died instantly. He stopped, causing the bodyguards to halt abruptly.

Sterling took a step forward, as if to intercept her, but Ezequiel raised a hand to stop him. He walked over to where Claudia was sitting.

She stood up. The movement was too fast. Black spots danced in her vision, and the floor seemed to sway. She stumbled forward.

Ezequiel's hand shot out, grabbing her elbow to steady her. His touch was electric. For a second, he held her, his thumb pressing into the soft skin of her arm.

Then, as if realizing what he was doing, he released her as if she were burning hot.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous. "Did you bring the signed papers?"

Claudia bit her lip, tasting copper. "I need five minutes."

He looked at his watch, annoyed. "I have a lunch."

"Five minutes, Ezequiel. Please."

He stared at her, his eyes scanning her face. He must have seen the desperation there. He jerked his head toward the elevators.

"My office."

The ride up was silent. They stood in the glass box, rocketing toward the sky. She could smell him-the smoke from his morning cigarette, the crisp scent of his starch. The Alexa perfume was gone, thank God.

They walked into his office. It was a cavernous space with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan. He walked behind his massive desk and didn't offer her a seat.

"Speak," he said.

Claudia reached into her bag and pulled out the financial documents Imogene had given her. She placed them on the glass desk and slid them toward him.

"We need a loan," she said. "Two hundred million."