Chapter 3 3

Aubree sat on the edge of the bed. She stared at the discarded ring. A sudden, violent shiver ripped up her spine and hit the base of her skull.

She pulled the collar of her silk pajamas tighter. The room wasn't cold. The freezing sensation was coming from inside her bones.

She reached down and pressed her hand against her left side. Beneath the silk, a long, faded surgical scar stretched across her skin.

A dull, throbbing ache radiated from the scar. The pain pulled her mind backward.

Three years ago. A massive blizzard shut down the streets of Manhattan.

Aubree was driving the car. Eli sat in the passenger seat. He had just lost a massive Wall Street merger. He was screaming. He punched the dashboard. He threw his phone against the windshield.

He turned his rage on her. He yelled at her to pull over. He told her that looking at her plain face made him sick.

Aubree tried to tell him the roads were too dangerous. The snow was blinding.

Eli reached over and shoved her door open. He pushed her hard.

She fell out of the car. Her knees hit the snow-covered curb. Eli slid into the driver's seat, slammed the door, and sped away, leaving her in the storm.

She walked for three blocks in negative-degree weather. The freezing wind whipped against her side. Her surgical wound, barely three months old, felt like it was splitting open.

Eli never knew. He never knew that three months before that blizzard, Aubree had utilized a labyrinth of offshore shell companies and a secret charitable foundation to facilitate an anonymous directed donation. She posed as a low-level foundation liaison during the medical screenings, hiding behind an ironclad non-disclosure agreement and a proxy legal team so impenetrable that the name 'Aubree Pratt' was legally and entirely erased from the donor registry.

Aubree's eyes snapped open. She gasped for air. A thick layer of cold sweat coated her forehead.

She tried to stand up to get the fever reducers from the bathroom drawer. Her legs gave out. She crashed to her knees on the thick carpet.

The freezing pool water and the trauma to her throat had destroyed her weakened immune system.

Her vision blurred. The edges of the room turned black. Her breathing sounded like a broken accordion.

She dragged her body across the floor toward the nightstand. She reached up and grabbed her phone from the charging cable.

Her fingers shook violently. She swiped the screen, trying to find her best friend Jax Keller's contact to call an ambulance.

A massive wave of dizziness hit her brain. Her hand went limp. The phone slipped from her fingers and fell onto the carpet.

Aubree collapsed onto her side. The fever spiked, pulling her into a dark, delirious state.

In her mind, she was back in the freezing operating room. She heard the steady beep of the heart monitor.

"Eli," she whispered to the empty room. Her voice was a dry rasp.

Outside the window, Manhattan was alive. Inside the massive penthouse, it was a tomb. No one heard her.

Her body temperature skyrocketed. Her lips cracked and bled. Her cheeks burned with a dark, unnatural red flush.

Hours passed. The pain burned away the last of her love for him. She realized her sacrifice meant absolutely nothing.

The morning sun sliced through the blinds and hit her face. She did not wake up.

Her chest barely moved. Her breaths were shallow and weak.

Heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway outside her bedroom. Angry voices pierced the silence.

The brass doorknob rattled violently.

The door was locked. A second later, a heavy boot kicked the wood.