Clarine's fingers closed around the cold, heavy steel of a pair of gardening shears left on the soil bench. She gripped the handles until her knuckles turned white. Her eyes locked onto the dark figure stepping around the palm tree.

Suddenly, the estate's backup generator kicked in. Blinding overhead lights flooded the greenhouse.

The two intruders froze, exposed in the glaring light.

"Drop it!"

Three estate security guards burst through the main doors, weapons drawn. They tackled the blinded men to the wet floor, pinning them down.

An hour later, Clarine sat on the living room sofa. She had a thick blanket pulled tightly around her shoulders. Her body was still shivering, but her face was entirely blank.

A police sergeant stood across from her, flipping his notepad shut. "Where is your husband, Mrs. Lynch?"

"He is with another woman," Clarine said. Her voice was flat, devoid of any emotion.

The officers exchanged uncomfortable, pitying glances.

Just before dawn, the screech of tires echoed outside. Evert's Maybach stopped at the front steps. He strode through the front doors, his tie loosened, annoyance radiating off him in waves.

He stopped when he saw the mud, the broken glass on the rug, and the police officers. A flicker of shock crossed his eyes, but he quickly masked it with a hard scowl.

"Mr. Lynch," the sergeant stepped forward, his tone clipped. "Your wife was nearly killed tonight. You should have been here."

Evert's jaw tightened. He walked the police to the door, his posture rigid. As soon as the door shut, he spun around to face Clarine.

He didn't check if she was hurt. He didn't ask if she was okay.

"You brought the police to my house?" Evert's voice was a harsh whip. "Do you have any idea what this will do to the Lynch family stock if it leaks?"

Clarine slowly lifted her head. She looked at the man she had loved for three years. The final, desperate ember of hope in her chest hissed and died.

That evening, the annual Lynch and Gill family charity gala took place at The Apex Club in Manhattan.

Clarine stood in the grand ballroom. Evert's styling team had forced her into a conservative, high-necked white gown. She felt like a porcelain doll on display.

Her stepmother, Marta, glided over with a crystal champagne flute in hand.

"Look at you," Marta sneered, her eyes raking over Clarine. "I heard you made a fool of yourself crying to the cops last night."

Gemma, Clarine's half-sister, smirked beside her. "Everyone knows Evert spent the whole night at Cherie's apartment. You're pathetic."

A group of wealthy socialites nearby turned their heads, whispering behind manicured hands.

Clarine straightened her spine. Her hands curled into tight fists at her sides. She looked Marta dead in the eye, her voice trembling with a dark, reckless edge. "Keep talking, Marta. But do you really want to see what a woman with absolutely nothing left to lose will say? Push me, and I'll spill every dirty secret keeping the Gill family from bankruptcy. See what happens then."

Marta's smug smile vanished. Her face twisted into an ugly scowl. She shot Gemma a dark, venomous look.

A moment later, the ballroom doors opened. Cherie walked in, wearing a plunging, blood-red dress. She commanded the room as if she were the real Mrs. Lynch.

Cherie sauntered straight to Clarine. She held out a glass of pink champagne. "Clarine! I'm so sorry about the misunderstanding last night. Let's drink and make peace."

Clarine stared at the glass. She opened her mouth to refuse.

From across the room, Evert's gaze locked onto hers. He adjusted his cufflink-his signature warning. His eyes demanded she take the drink and avoid a public scene.

Clarine's chest tightened. She took the glass from Cherie and took a small sip.

Five minutes later, the room tilted.

A violent wave of dizziness hit Clarine's brain. The chandelier lights blurred into long, blinding streaks. Her stomach rolled.

She turned toward the hallway leading to the restrooms, intending to force herself to throw up. Her legs felt like lead. She stumbled.

Gemma was instantly at her side, gripping her arm like a vice. "Oh, my sister had too much to drink!" Gemma announced loudly to the staring guests. A nearby waiter stepped forward, looking concerned, but Gemma quickly waved him off with a tight smile. "She's having a severe panic attack. Evert asked me to take her up to his private suite immediately to avoid a scene." The waiter nodded and stepped back. "I'll take her upstairs to rest."

"Let go of me," Clarine slurred. Her tongue felt thick and useless.

She tried to shove Gemma away, but her muscles wouldn't obey. Gemma dragged her toward the private elevators.

As the elevator doors slid shut, Clarine's drooping eyes caught a glimpse of Marta. Her stepmother was raising a glass to Jax Kade, a notorious, sleazy Hollywood producer.

The elevator dinged at the top floor. Gemma hauled Clarine's limp body down the silent, thickly carpeted hallway.

They reached the suite at the end. Gemma fumbled with a keycard.

Clarine bit down hard on her own tongue. The sharp, metallic taste of blood filled her mouth. The sudden spike of intense pain sent a jolt of adrenaline through her sluggish veins.

With a desperate burst of strength, Clarine violently shoved Gemma's chest.

Gemma shrieked as her high heels twisted. She crashed hard onto the floor. "You bitch!"

Clarine didn't look back. She ran. Her legs wobbled, but she threw her weight forward. She saw a heavy mahogany door slightly ajar-the Presidential Suite.

She threw herself inside, slammed the door shut, and hit the deadbolt just as Gemma's fists pounded against the wood outside.

Chapter 2

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