Chapter 7

The motion-sensor lights flickered on, illuminating the massive, hundred-square-foot walk-in closet.

Cristofer stepped inside. The space immediately made him angry. It was too empty.

On his side, rows of custom Italian suits and expensive watches lined the walls. But on Corrine's side, there were only a few plain, cheap maternity dresses hanging limply on the racks. The high-end designer gowns his mother had sent over were shoved into a dark corner, the price tags still attached.

To Cristofer, this wasn't modesty. It was an insult. It was a silent rebellion against his wealth.

He walked deeper into the closet, his eyes scanning the shelves like a detective looking for a murder weapon.

His gaze landed on a large velvet storage bench pushed against the back wall. The lid was slightly ajar. A strange, bright yellow color peeked out from the gap.

Cristofer walked over. He grabbed the edge of the velvet lid and ripped it open.

His pupils shrank. His breath hitched in his throat.

The bench wasn't filled with winter coats or blankets. It was packed with crushed, empty boxes of Macaroni and Cheese. There were dozens of them-easily a month's worth of hidden meals. He knew Corrine occasionally went out for coffee with Eleanor, and it was obvious now that she had been using those rare, unchaperoned hours to smuggle this garbage back into the penthouse.

The faint, artificial smell of powdered cheese and preservatives drifted up into his nose.

Cristofer's brain short-circuited. Patty's words echoed in his ears. This is all she will eat.

"She is actually feeding my child this toxic waste," Cristofer whispered. His hands curled into tight fists. His fingernails dug into his palms.

He didn't know the truth. He didn't know that Corrine suffered from hyperemesis gravidarum. He didn't know that every time she tried to eat the rich, heavy food the chef made, she threw up until her throat bled. He didn't know that this cheap pasta-the same food she ate growing up in the orphanage-was the only thing her stomach could keep down.

And he certainly didn't know that Patty had been pocketing the grocery money and forcing Corrine to eat the cheap meals.

Cristofer's vision went red. He didn't see a struggling mother. He saw a malicious woman intentionally starving his baby.

He lifted his leg and kicked the velvet bench as hard as he could.

The heavy bench tipped over. Hundreds of empty yellow boxes spilled out, cascading across the expensive Persian rug.

Cristofer stepped forward. His leather dress shoe crushed one of the cardboard boxes. The loud crunch echoed in the quiet closet. It sounded like bones breaking.

He pulled his phone out again. He dialed Cole's number.

"Change of plans," Cristofer barked. His voice was devoid of any human emotion.

"Yes, Mr. Clarke?"

"Call the NYPD commissioner. Activate our private investigators and the cyber team. I want this city torn apart brick by brick until you find her."

"Understood," Cole said, his voice tight with stress.

"Check every underground clinic, every shady hospital, and every homeless shelter in the five boroughs," Cristofer ordered.

He stared down at the crushed boxes at his feet.

"When you find her, do not bring her here. Send a medical transport helicopter. Take her directly to the Clarke family's private psychiatric facility in upstate New York."

Cole gasped quietly on the line. "Sir... the psychiatric facility?"

"I want a full toxicology panel and a complete psychological evaluation forced on her," Cristofer said, his tone brutal. "If those doctors find out she has caused even a fraction of a percent of damage to my child's development..."

Cristofer paused. He twisted his watch dial again.

"Have the legal team draft the papers to strip her of all parental rights. She will spend the rest of her life locked in a padded room."

"I will get it done immediately, sir," Cole said.

Cristofer ended the call. He looked at his reflection in the full-length mirror. His face was a mask of pure, aristocratic cruelty.

He turned around and walked out of the closet. His shoe stepped on a box with a cartoon smiley face on it, grinding it flat into the carpet.

He had just sentenced his wife to hell. But miles away, another group of vultures was already circling her hospital bed.