Chapter 3

Idella stood outside the heavy oak door of Fount's private study. She took a deep breath, the cold, wet fabric of her blouse sticking to her ribs, and knocked.

"Come in." The voice was low, entirely devoid of emotion.

Idella pushed the heavy door open. The thick scent of aged bourbon and expensive cigars hit the back of her throat.

Fount stood with his back to her, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the estate. He wore a custom-tailored black dress shirt. In his right hand, he swirled a crystal glass filled with bourbon and ice. The clinking sound was the only noise in the massive room.

"Fount," Idella said, her voice trembling slightly despite her best efforts to keep it steady.

He didn't turn around.

"Why are you in Chicago during business hours?" Fount asked, his tone icy.

"My mother, Loretta, is in critical condition," Idella said, speaking fast, desperate to get the words out. "She needs an artificial heart valve. The Mayo Clinic needs a two-million-dollar deposit by tomorrow, or they won't operate."

She took a step forward, her wet shoes squeaking slightly on the hardwood floor.

"Susan forced me to sign a resignation letter today," Idella continued, her voice dropping to a plea. "I have nothing left. Fount, please. After three years of marriage, I'm begging you. Just help me."

Fount finally turned around. His cold, calculating eyes swept over her shivering frame, lingering on her soaked clothes and messy hair. A flash of pure disgust crossed his features.

He walked over to his massive mahogany desk and set the glass down.

"The Fitzgerald family does not sponsor charity cases," Fount said evenly. "And I certainly do not throw money into bottomless pits."

The words sliced through her chest.

"Then let me advance the dividends from my trust fund," Idella countered desperately. "The one point seven million in my name. I just need to borrow against it."

Fount let out a short, mocking laugh. He walked around the desk, stopping just inches from her. He towered over her, his presence suffocating.

"That trust was established purely for tax evasion purposes," Fount stated, his voice devoid of pity. "You have zero legal right to liquidate it. You own nothing."

Idella stumbled back a step, her heel catching on the edge of the Persian rug. The prenuptial agreement she had signed-the one he claimed was just a formality to protect her-was a trap.

"What about my patents?" Idella argued, her heart hammering against her ribs. "The targeted therapy research I did in Seattle. That brought the company millions!"

"Company property," Fount interrupted sharply. "You were an employee. A highly replaceable one."

He reached up and adjusted his left cufflink, a gesture he only made when he was deeply annoyed.

"Look at yourself, Idella," Fount sneered, his eyes narrowing. "You are hysterical. You are emotionally unstable. Your white-trash family is dragging you down, and you expect me to clean up your mess."

Tears finally broke free, spilling hot down Idella's cold cheeks.

"Why did you marry me?" she cried out, her voice breaking. "Why did you give me the illusion of a family if you were just going to do this?"

Fount's hand paused on his cufflink. His expression hardened into stone.

"Because you were quiet," Fount said coldly. "You were submissive. You made a perfectly acceptable ornament for the board to look at."

The truth hit her with the force of a physical blow. She felt entirely stripped bare, thrown out into the freezing snow.

Fount turned back to his desk. He opened a drawer, pulled out a leather-bound checkbook, and uncapped a gold fountain pen. He scribbled a number across the paper.

He ripped the check from the book and tossed it. It fluttered through the air, landing on the floor right at Idella's feet.

"One hundred thousand dollars," Fount said, not looking at her. "Consider it funeral expenses. Take it and get off my property."

Idella stared at the piece of paper on the rug. Her stomach churned violently. Bile rose in her throat.

To take that money, she would have to bend down. She would have to bow to him.

She didn't move. She slowly lifted her head. The tears stopped. A new, freezing numbness washed over her.

She bit down on the inside of her cheek until she tasted the sharp, metallic tang of blood.

"I would rather sell my own organs than take a single cent from you," Idella said, her voice dropping to a terrifyingly calm whisper.

Fount scoffed. "You won't last a week without my money."

Idella didn't say another word. She spun around, grabbed the heavy brass handle of the oak door, and yanked it open, fleeing the suffocating room.

Behind her, Fount yanked his tie loose with a frustrated jerk and downed the rest of his bourbon in one swallow.

Idella practically fell down the grand staircase, her vision blurred. She had to find the money. She couldn't let her mother die.