Chapter 1

Karen lay on the tangled sheets of the California King bed. The expensive silk felt like ice against her bare skin. Her eyes tracked the movement of Israel's hands.

He stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, the morning light catching the sharp angles of his jaw. He didn't look at her. He slid a platinum Patek Philippe cufflink through the buttonhole of his crisp white shirt. The click of the metal snapping into place sounded like a gunshot in the dead silence of the master bedroom.

His face was a mask of absolute detachment.

Karen pushed herself up. The quilt fell away from her shoulders. She reached out, her fingertips trembling as they moved toward the tense muscles of his back. She just wanted to touch him. One last time.

Israel shifted his weight. He stepped sideways, smoothly evading her hand before she could even make contact. He walked to the full-length mirror, adjusting his collar.

Karen's hand froze in mid-air. Her stomach dropped. She slowly pulled her arm back and gripped the bedsheet, her knuckles turning stark white.

Israel reached into the inner pocket of his tailored suit jacket. He pulled out a folded legal document and tossed it onto the walnut nightstand. It landed with a heavy thud.

The bold black letters at the top of the page glared at her: Non-Disclosure Agreement Termination Confirmation.

Karen's lungs tightened. She couldn't pull in a breath. She looked up, staring at the reflection of the ruthless man in the mirror.

"Ayla arrived in Los Angeles last night," Israel said. His voice was flat. It held no emotion, no hesitation.

Karen's throat burned. She opened her mouth, her voice shaking. "Israel..."

He turned around. His dark eyes swept over her, looking at her the way someone looks at a carton of milk that has passed its expiration date.

"Don't cross the line, Karen," he warned.

Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. She ignored the warning. She leaned forward, driven by a pathetic, desperate instinct, and lifted her face to ask for a goodbye kiss.

Israel turned his head away in disgust. Her lips only brushed against the cold, hard line of his jaw.

He picked up his suit jacket from the back of the chair. Without another word, he turned his back on her and walked toward the heavy oak door.

The door clicked shut. The lock engaged with a sharp snap. The sound sucked all the oxygen out of the room.

Karen collapsed back onto the pillows. A suppressed sob tore through her chest, echoing off the empty walls.

Then, a violent vibration rattled the glass of the windows.

It was the deafening, mechanical roar of heavy machinery tearing into the earth.

Karen shot up from the bed. Her heart slammed against her ribs.

She threw off the covers. She didn't bother finding her slippers. Her bare feet hit the freezing Afghan rug as she stumbled toward the window. She grabbed the heavy velvet curtains and yanked them apart.

The bright California sun stabbed her eyes, but the scene below made the blood freeze in her veins.

Two yellow industrial bulldozers were tearing through the backyard. Their heavy metal tracks crushed the rose bushes into the mud.

Her eyes darted to the southeast corner of the lawn. The soil there meant everything to her.

The Dogwood tree was gone.

The tree she had planted with her own hands. The tree she watered every single day. It was gone.

In its place was a massive, ugly crater in the dirt. It looked like someone had ripped the heart straight out of the earth.

Karen's eyes widened in pure terror. A broken scream ripped from her throat.

She grabbed a silk robe, throwing it over her shoulders as she ran. She sprinted out of the bedroom and bolted down the spiral staircase, her bare feet slapping against the marble steps.

She shoved open the glass doors leading to the patio. Her feet sank into the cold mud and sharp wood chips covering the grass.

A crew of men in hard hats were dragging the thick trunk of the Dogwood tree toward a massive, red industrial woodchipper.

Karen threw herself at the foreman. She grabbed his neon vest, screaming over the noise of the machines. "Who told you to do this? Stop!"

The foreman looked at her with cold indifference. He raised a thick finger and pointed toward the front gates.

A black Maybach was just pulling out of the driveway. The license plate read IF 1.

Israel.