Chapter 3 3

The moment Jeanie saw the maid slip into the bathroom, the blood drained from her face. She lunged forward, a desperate attempt to block the way. "Get out of there!"

One of Eleanor's bodyguards moved like lightning, stepping in front of Jeanie and slamming her back against the wall. The impact knocked the wind out of her, and his heavy arm pinned her in place.

From the bathroom came the sounds of rummaging-drawers being pulled open, cabinets slammed shut. Then, a moment of silence. The maid's eyes had found the laundry basket.

She tipped it over, spilling the contents onto the tiled floor. And there it was. A single piece of black, exquisitely tailored fabric amidst Jeanie's cheap, worn-out clothes.

The maid picked up the shirt and presented it to Eleanor as if it were a crown jewel. Eleanor took it between two gloved fingers, her expression turning from anger to venomous triumph. She recognized the Savile Row craftsmanship instantly. This was a shirt that cost more than Jeanie's entire apartment.

"So," Eleanor sneered, flinging the shirt into Jeanie's face. The fabric, still carrying the faint scent of cedarwood, felt like a slap. "This is what you've been doing? Selling yourself on the side while married to my son?"

"It's not what you think," Jeanie choked out, her mind racing. "I bought it at a secondhand market. For design inspiration."

Eleanor let out a cold, humorless laugh. "Do you take me for a fool? The prenuptial agreement has a strict morality clause. Any infidelity on your part means you get nothing. Absolutely nothing."

She pulled out her phone, her movements deliberate and cruel. She dialed a number, and Jeanie's heart stopped. She knew who it was. The trustee for the Mount Sinai medical fund.

"Yes, this is Eleanor Winters," she said, her voice dripping with ice. "I want you to freeze all payments to the account of Clara Brooks. Effective immediately."

Clara. Her mother. Her mother's life support.

The world went red.

A primal scream tore from Jeanie's throat. She threw herself against the bodyguard, fueled by a surge of pure, unadulterated rage. He stumbled, surprised by her ferocity, and she broke free.

She scrambled into the tiny kitchen and her hand closed around the first thing it found-a heavy, sharp boning knife.

She spun around, the polished steel blade gleaming under the dim light. She held it with a steady hand, the tip aimed directly at Eleanor's throat.

The bodyguards froze, their hands hovering over their tasers. Eleanor, for the first time, looked afraid. Her perfectly coiffed hair seemed to tremble as she stumbled backward.

"You restore that account," Jeanie hissed, her voice a low, dangerous growl. "Or I swear to God, we all die in this room today."

Before they could react, she pressed her back against the wall, her eyes never leaving Eleanor's terrified face. She didn't dare lower the knife or reach into her pocket. Instead, she locked her gaze on the bodyguards and shouted at the top of her lungs, "Siri, call 9-1-1 on speaker!" Her phone, sitting on the nearby kitchen counter, lit up. A tense second passed before the operator's voice filled the small room.

"911, what's your emergency?"

"I'm at 435 Union Street in Brooklyn," Jeanie said, her voice loud and clear, laced with manufactured panic. "There are people in my apartment. They broke in, they're trying to rob me, and they have weapons!"

Eleanor's face contorted with fury. The last thing a Winters wanted was to be dragged into a messy police report in a place like this. It was beneath her.

"You pathetic psycho," she spat, but the threat was gone from her voice. She gestured furiously to her entourage. They retreated, dragging the maid with them, leaving the black shirt on the floor like a discarded accusation.

The moment the door slammed shut, the strength drained from Jeanie's body. The knife clattered to the floor. She slid down the wall, her body wracked with silent, gut-wrenching sobs.

Miles away, in a glass-walled office overlooking Wall Street, Devaughn Winters paced restlessly, tugging at the collar of his shirt.

The door to his office flew open and Tate rushed in, his face pale. He was holding a confidential file.

"Sir," Tate said, his voice strained. He placed a series of grainy surveillance photos and a DNA comparison report on the massive mahogany desk.

Devaughn snatched the photos. The images were blurry, but the silhouette was unmistakable. The woman fleeing his suite, wrapped in his shirt.

"Her name," Devaughn commanded, his voice dangerously low.

Tate swallowed hard. He looked as if he was about to deliver a death sentence. He flipped to the last page of the report and pointed to a name.

"Her name, sir," Tate said, his voice barely a whisper, "is Jeanie Brooks. Your wife."

The photos crumpled in Devaughn's hand. The knuckles of his fist turned white. The name echoed in his mind-the woman on the contract, the faceless entity he had ignored for a year.

He shot to his feet, a sudden, violent movement. The temperature in the office seemed to drop by twenty degrees.

The miracle. The cure for his personal hell. The one woman on earth he could touch.

And he had pushed her away. He had treated her like a transaction.

Just then, the office door opened again. It was Alistair Finch, the lawyer, holding another manila envelope.

Alistair adjusted his glasses, oblivious to the storm brewing in the room.

"Mr. Winters," he announced dutifully. "I have confirmation. Mrs. Winters has signed the dissolution agreement."