Chapter 3

The penthouse was silent. The only sound was the hum of the refrigerator and the distant rumble of the city far below. Clementine stood in the center of the living room, her heels kicked off on the marble floor, her hand pressed flat against her stomach.

The nausea had started on the ride home. It wasn't just the champagne. It was a deep, rolling wave of sickness that made her head spin and her mouth water with the taste of bile. She had barely made it through the dinner, smiling and nodding while her stomach churned and her skin prickled with a cold sweat.

She blamed the stress. She blamed the tight corset of the dress. She blamed the smell of Gisela's perfume that seemed to linger in Donovan's car.

She didn't know. She couldn't possibly know that it was something else entirely. A tiny cluster of cells dividing and growing, completely unaware of the war zone it had landed in.

The front door slammed open.

Clementine flinched. The sound echoed through the apartment like a gunshot.

Donovan stalked in. His tie was loose, his jaw clenched. His eyes were wild, burning with a frantic, dangerous energy. He had been drinking. She could smell the scotch from across the room.

He had come home late. He had stayed behind at the gala, and when he had finally answered her text, his reply had been a single, cold word: Home.

He saw her standing there, still in her evening gown, and his face twisted.

"We need to talk," he snarled.

He crossed the room in three long strides. His hand shot out and wrapped around her wrist. His grip was iron, his fingers digging into the delicate bones beneath her skin.

"Donovan, you're hurting me," Clementine said, her voice tight. She tried to pull away, but his hand only tightened, pulling her toward the sitting area.

He dragged her over to the coffee table and shoved a tablet under her nose. The screen was showing a gossip site. Pictures of her from the gala. In every shot, her smile looked strained, her eyes hollow.

"Look at this," Donovan hissed, his face inches from hers. "Look at the comments. 'Sad.' 'Vacant.' 'Like a doll with the strings cut.' You almost ruined the entire performance tonight."

Clementine looked at the pictures. She looked at the stranger staring back at her from the screen. A slow, cold anger began to burn away the nausea and the fear.

"Maybe you should hire a professional actress next time," she said, her voice quiet but sharp. "Instead of marrying one."

The words hung in the air. It was the first time she had ever talked back to him. The first time she had ever acknowledged the game they were playing.

Donovan's eyes went wide. The fury in them shifted from cold to blazing. He stepped closer, his chest brushing against hers, his breath hot on her face.

"Wife?" he scoffed, the word dripping with venom. "You are a name I bought. A prop. A tool to remind her of what she lost."

He reached out and grabbed a handful of her hair, forcing her head back. His eyes were bloodshot, the pupils dilated.

"Do you know why she refused to see me tonight?" he yelled. "Because she saw you! She saw that cheap copy standing next to me, and she was disgusted. She thought I betrayed her memory with a bargain-bin knockoff!"

"I am not a copy!" Clementine shouted. The words tore out of her throat, raw and desperate. Two years of swallowing her pride, of biting her tongue, of smiling through the humiliation-it all exploded in a single moment of defiance. "I am not your tool, Donovan! I am a person!"

She wrenched her head free from his grip and turned away. She couldn't stand to look at him for another second. If she stayed, she would say things she couldn't take back. She would tell him about the money. About Aurelian. About the fact that she was worth a hundred of him.

She started walking toward the grand staircase that curved up to the second floor. She just wanted to get away. She wanted to lock herself in the guest room and breathe.

"Where do you think you're going?" Donovan roared behind her. "We're not done!"

His footsteps pounded on the marble floor. He caught up to her at the base of the stairs. His hand clamped down on her shoulder, spinning her around.

"Let go of me!" Clementine cried out. The nausea surged again, stronger this time, making her vision blur. "I'm not feeling well, Donovan! Let me go!"

"Not feeling well?" he mocked, his face twisted into an ugly sneer. "Or are you just jealous? Jealous that you'll never be half the woman Gisela is? You're nothing but a shadow, Clementine. A cheap, pathetic shadow."

The words hit her like a physical blow. The anger drained out of her, replaced by a hollow, echoing emptiness. He really believed it. He really thought she was nothing.

The silence stretched between them. And then, cutting through the tension, her phone rang.

It was in her clutch. The sound was loud and jarring.

Donovan's eyes dropped to the bag. "Who is that? Who are you talking to about me?"

"It's just Debby," Clementine said, reaching for the phone. "It's nothing."

"Give it to me," he demanded, holding out his hand. "You're not plotting behind my back."

"No!" Clementine clutched the bag to her chest. It was her lifeline. Debby was the only person who knew the real her. She wasn't going to let him take that too.

She turned away from him, trying to shield the phone. She took a step backward.

Her heel caught on the edge of the first step.

It was a tiny misstep. A fraction of an inch. But it was enough.

Her foot slipped into empty air. Her balance shifted. For a terrifying second, she was suspended, her arms pinwheeling, her mouth open in a silent scream.

Donovan's hand was still reaching for her, but he was too slow. His fingers brushed the silk of her sleeve and closed on nothing.

Clementine fell backward.

The world tilted. The ceiling rushed up to meet her. She felt the sharp, hard edge of the marble steps slamming into her back, her ribs, her skull. A blinding white light exploded behind her eyes. The pain was immediate and all-consuming, a hot, wet agony that stole the breath from her lungs.

She tumbled down the stairs, a ragdoll of silk and broken limbs, until she landed in a crumpled heap at the bottom.

The silence that followed was deafening. The apartment was perfectly still. Even the hum of the refrigerator seemed to stop.

Donovan stood at the top of the stairs, his hand still outstretched, his face a mask of frozen shock. The alcohol haze evaporated in an instant, leaving behind a cold, sharp clarity.

He hadn't pushed her. He knew that. But he had caused it. He had chased her. He had grabbed her.

He took a shaky step down. Then another. He moved slowly, as if walking through water, his eyes locked on the still figure at the bottom.

"Clementine?" his voice was a cracked whisper.

He reached the bottom and dropped to his knees beside her. Her eyes were closed. Her face was ashen, the makeup smudged and streaked. Her head was angled at an odd angle.

And then he saw it. A dark stain spreading beneath the skirt of her silver gown. A wet, heavy stain that was soaking into the white marble.

Blood.

"Clementine?" he tried again, his voice breaking. He reached out and touched her face. Her skin was cold. "Clem! Wake up!"

She didn't move. She didn't breathe.

Panic, raw and primal, clawed at his throat. He fumbled for his phone, his hands shaking so badly he almost dropped it. He jabbed at the screen with a trembling finger.

911.

He held the phone to his ear, his eyes fixed on the growing pool of blood. He had seen blood before. He had caused blood before. But this was different. This was her blood.

And for the first time in his life, Donovan Bray felt afraid.