Chapter 6

A black private helicopter descended from the gray Manhattan sky. The massive rotors whipped the wind into a frenzy as it landed on the helipad of the midtown skyscraper.

Cristofer stepped out of the chopper. His face was like thunder. He walked straight to the private elevator and pressed the button for his penthouse.

The silver doors slid open.

The penthouse was dead silent. The air felt cold. The usual scent of Corrine's citrus candles was gone.

Cristofer threw his suit jacket onto the velvet armchair. He marched toward the kitchen.

"Patty!" he yelled. His voice bounced off the high ceilings.

Inside the servant's quarters, Patty Doyle jumped. She had been frantically deleting photos from her phone-pictures of her drinking at a bar in Brooklyn last night with her boyfriend.

She smoothed down her gray uniform and practically ran into the living room. She kept her head bowed, terrified to look at her boss.

"I pay you one hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year to watch my wife," Cristofer said, his voice dangerously quiet. "Where the hell were you last night?"

Patty's stomach dropped. She knew the rules. If Cristofer found out she had abandoned her post while his pregnant wife was home alone, she wouldn't just be fired. She would be blacklisted from every wealthy household on the East Coast.

She had to protect herself. She had to blame the wife.

Patty dropped to her knees on the hardwood floor. She forced tears into her eyes.

"Mr. Clarke, please! It's not my fault!" Patty sobbed, burying her face in her hands. "It's Mrs. Ratcliff! She... she's lost her mind!"

Cristofer stopped pacing. He looked down at the weeping nanny. He twisted the watch on his left wrist.

"Lost her mind?" he repeated coldly. "Explain."

Patty swallowed hard. She pointed a shaking finger toward the kitchen.

"Her pregnancy hormones have made her completely unstable," Patty lied smoothly. "She has terrible paranoia. She thinks the private chef is trying to poison her!"

Cristofer's eyes narrowed.

"She took the organic salmon and the caviar we prepared for her yesterday and threw it all down the garbage disposal!" Patty cried.

Cristofer's chest tightened. He paid a fortune for that diet plan to ensure his heir got the best nutrients possible.

She scrambled to her feet. "I can show you! Please, follow me." Patty led him swiftly down the hall toward Corrine's master suite. She bypassed the pristine bedroom and went straight into Corrine's walk-in closet. Patty dug deep into a small, hidden wicker trash can tucked behind a row of unused designer shoes. She pulled out a crushed, yellow cardboard box.

She turned and held the box up to Cristofer's face. It was a cheap, two-dollar box of microwaveable Macaroni and Cheese.

"This is all she will eat!" Patty said, shaking the box. "She refuses to let me buy fresh vegetables. She locks herself in her room and eats this garbage. When I try to stop her, she throws things at me!"

Cristofer stared at the greasy, processed food box. A muscle in his jaw twitched violently.

"Last night, she just snapped," Patty continued, tears rolling down her cheeks. "She ran out the front door. I tried to physically stop her, but she threatened to have me fired if I told you!"

The lies were perfectly crafted. Patty used Corrine's quiet, isolated nature against her.

Cristofer looked at the box again. He thought about Corrine's pale skin. Her constant silence. He had always thought she was just introverted. Now, looking at this trash, he saw something else.

Sickness.

In the world of old money, a mother's mental stability was everything. It dictated the quality of the bloodline.

A deep, sickening feeling of disgust washed over him. He had been tricked. He had married a crazy woman.

"She is unfit to be a mother," Cristofer spat. The words tasted like poison in his mouth.

He turned away from Patty. He walked down the long hallway, heading straight for Corrine's master closet. He needed to see this for himself. He needed to find the proof of her insanity.

Patty stayed on her knees. As soon as his back was turned, she let out a long, silent breath of relief. She had survived.

Cristofer's phone buzzed in his pocket. It was Cole.

"Sir, we found a hotel registry under her name at a cheap motel near Central Park," Cole reported.

Cristofer sneered. "Call off the cars. Don't pick her up."

"Sir?"

"She's a lunatic," Cristofer said coldly. "Let her sleep in the dirt. When she gets hungry enough, she'll crawl back here on her own."

He hung up the phone. He stood in front of the heavy double doors of Corrine's closet. He grabbed the brass handles and shoved them open.