Chapter 4

The black Lincoln Continental merged onto the Van Wyck Expressway. The air inside the cabin was suffocatingly thick.

Christian pressed a button on the armrest. The dark privacy glass rolled up, completely sealing the back seat off from the driver.

He yanked at his silk tie, loosening it. He couldn't get the image of that woman in the airport out of his head. The slope of her shoulders. The way she stood. It made his skin crawl with a ghost he had been trying to bury for four years.

Brigette picked up a crystal flute from the mini-bar. She poured champagne and leaned toward him, her voice dripping with honey. "Drink, darling?"

Christian didn't even look at her. He backhanded the glass.

The crystal shattered against the door panel. Amber liquid splashed all over Brigette's expensive Chanel skirt and the plush floor mats.

Brigette gasped, jumping back. She grabbed a napkin, her face flushing with anger and humiliation.

"Why did you do that in front of the reporters?" she snapped, her voice losing its sweet edge. "You made me look like a fool!"

Christian slowly turned his head. His eyes were dead. They sliced over her face like scalpels.

"Do not forget what you are," Christian said, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "You are a PR tool. Nothing more."

Brigette bit her lip. Her hands shook. "I am the mother of your children! Everyone knows I gave birth to Leo and Luna. I am the future Mrs. Page!"

Christian's eyes darkened into something terrifying. He lunged forward and grabbed her wrist. His fingers dug into her bones like a vice.

"If those children didn't need a mother on paper," Christian hissed, his face inches from hers, "you would have been thrown out of New York four years ago."

Brigette winced in pain. Panic flared in her chest. She knew he had been secretly investigating the hospital records from that night.

She forced tears into her eyes. "I almost died saving your life! I gave you your heirs!"

Christian's face twisted with absolute revulsion. He violently shoved her hand away. He leaned back against the leather seat, looking exhausted.

"I haven't touched a single hair on your head in four years, Brigette," he said, his voice hollow. "Don't push your luck."

The words slapped her across the face. The illusion she sold to the world was a lie. He had never slept with her. Not once since the fire.

"If you ever call the paparazzi to stage another wedding stunt," Christian warned, staring out the window, "I will cut off your trust fund by morning."

Brigette went pale. She swallowed her pride and nodded quickly.

The car fell into a dead silence.

Christian reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. His thumb rubbed against a small, silver ring. The edges were charred black from fire. It was the only thing they recovered from the warehouse. Heidi's ring.

Every time he closed his eyes, he heard her screaming his name on the phone. The guilt ate his stomach alive.

Brigette watched him stare at the ring. Pure venom flashed in her eyes.

She pulled out her encrypted phone. She typed a quick message to her biological father, Bobbie Weeks. Accelerate the plan. The old man needs to die now.

The Lincoln pulled up to the Wall Street headquarters. The bodyguard opened the door.

Christian stepped out, instantly transforming back into the ruthless CEO. He walked into the lobby without looking back.

Brigette sat alone in the back seat. She crushed the napkin in her fist and threw it at the floor.

Inside the elevator, Christian's assistant held an iPad. "Sir, the underground surgeon you hired has arrived in New York."

Christian's eyes sharpened. "Book the consultation at the hospital for tomorrow morning. Whatever the cost."