Chapter 3 He won't be smiling for much longer.

A cherry-red Porsche Cayenne slammed on its brakes, tires screeching against the asphalt right in front of the hospital entrance.

Vera Vance threw the driver's door open and sprinted around the hood.

When she saw June standing on the curb, swaying like a ghost in the wind, Vera let out a sharp gasp. June's face was completely devoid of color, and a fresh patch of dark red blood was seeping through her coat.

"Oh my god, June!" Vera screamed, catching June just as her knees gave out. "What happened? Where the hell is Cole?"

June leaned her head against Vera's shoulder. A weak, bitter smile touched her lips.

"Even hell is better than being in there," June whispered.

"You're bleeding through your coat!" Vera yelled, ignoring June's attempt to walk. She scooped her arm around June's waist and practically carried her to the passenger seat of the Porsche.

Vera didn't take her to the Compton estate. She didn't take her to her own apartment. She slammed the car into gear and sped toward Mount Sinai, a private hospital where she had connections.

Inside the car, the heater blasted. Vera gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles white, tears of pure rage burning in her eyes.

"I'm going to kill him," Vera muttered, weaving dangerously through the Manhattan traffic. "I'm going to rip his heart out with my bare hands."

June laid her head against the cool leather seat. Her vision was swimming.

As the car hit a bump, a fresh wave of pain washed over her, and her mind slipped backward.

Ten years ago.

The sound of twisting metal and shattering glass. The rain washing the blood off the highway. The day her parents died.

She remembered standing in the rain, a fifteen-year-old girl with nothing left. Her uncle, Richard Erickson, had shoved a stack of legal papers in her face, declaring the family bankrupt and kicking her out of her own home.

She had collapsed on the wet pavement.

Then, a boy had stepped out of a black town car. He had the face of an angel. He knelt in the mud, handing her a white linen handkerchief that smelled of cedar and rain. He had looked at her with such profound pity and kindness.

That boy had been her reason for living for the last decade.

June opened her eyes in the present, the memory fading into the harsh reality of the car's dashboard.

"I thought he was my savior," June mumbled into the silence of the car. "I was wrong. I was in love with a ghost."

Vera glanced at her, confused but too focused on driving to ask.

They arrived at the private hospital. Vera's connections bypassed the waiting room entirely. June was rushed into a VIP suite.

The attending physician examined the torn stitches. His face turned red with anger.

"This is severe secondary trauma," the doctor snapped, looking at Vera. "Who did this to her? This requires a police report."

Vera stood by the window, her arms crossed so tightly her nails dug into her own skin. "I'll handle the police. Just fix her."

They hung a blood transfusion bag and re-sutured the wound. The pain medication finally kicked in, pulling June into a deep, dreamless sleep.

When June woke up, the room was quiet. Vera was sitting in a chair beside the bed, her eyes red and swollen from crying.

Seeing June awake, Vera immediately poured a glass of warm water and held it to her lips.

"Did you sign the divorce papers?" Vera asked, her voice raspy.

June swallowed the water and nodded. "Signed. I'm walking away with nothing."

Vera jumped up from the chair, her eyes wide. "What? Are you insane? That's Compton money! You gave him four years of your life, and you're leaving empty-handed?"

June looked at her best friend. Her eyes were completely calm, devoid of the panic and sorrow that had haunted her for years.

"I don't need his money, Vera," June said quietly. "I just want to erase his name from my life."

Vera stared at her. She knew June was a genius-she had known her since college-but she had watched June play the role of a submissive housewife for so long that she had almost forgotten who June really was.

June reached out and grabbed Vera's wrist. "Do me a favor. Go to my old storage unit. Bring me my old laptop. The thick black one."

Vera frowned, confused. "Your college laptop? Why?"

"Just bring it."

Two hours later, Vera returned with a heavy, outdated black laptop.

June placed it on her lap. She pressed the power button. The screen flickered to life.

Her fingers flew across the keyboard, typing a complex string of code into a black terminal window. A highly encrypted login screen popped up.

Vera leaned over, squinting at the screen. She couldn't understand a single line of the code, but the sheer speed at which June was typing sent a shiver down her spine.

Just then, the TV mounted on the wall of the VIP room switched to the evening news.

A reporter was thrusting a microphone into Cole's face as he exited a corporate building.

"Mr. Compton! Your wife was notably absent from the gala last night. Is everything alright with your marriage?"

On the screen, Cole stopped. He adjusted his suit jacket, his face a mask of perfect, polite concern.

"My wife is feeling a bit under the weather," Cole lied smoothly to the camera. "She is resting at home. Thank you for your concern."

Vera grabbed the TV remote and hurled it at the screen. The plastic shattered against the glass, leaving a spiderweb crack across Cole's smiling face.

"Hypocritical bastard!" Vera screamed.

June didn't flinch at the noise. She looked at the cracked screen, her fingers resting on the enter key of her laptop.

"Let him smile," June said, her voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "He won't be smiling for much longer."