Chapter 8

The next morning.

The first rays of sunlight pierced the gray clouds over Manhattan.

Blackburn had left for Wall Street at six o'clock.

Blair stood in the center of the massive walk-in closet.

She ignored the rows of Chanel suits and Hermes bags. She walked to the very back. She pulled out two old, scuffed canvas suitcases.

She packed three pairs of jeans, a few plain sweaters, and her toiletries.

She opened the bottom drawer of the dresser. She pulled out five worn, leather-bound books of violin sheet music. They belonged to her mother.

She zipped the suitcases shut. She didn't take a single diamond. She didn't take a single dollar.

She walked out of the penthouse and never looked back.

An hour later, a yellow cab dropped her off in front of a crumbling brownstone in Brooklyn. It was an old Morgan family property that the feds hadn't seized yet.

Blair pushed the heavy wooden door open.

A thick cloud of dust hit her face. She coughed violently, covering her mouth with her sleeve.

She dropped her bags. She rolled up her sleeves. She spent the next five hours scrubbing the floors and wiping down the old furniture, trying to find anything she could sell.

By three in the afternoon, her muscles were screaming.

She grabbed a thermos of homemade soup and took the subway to Mount Sinai Hospital.

She walked down the long, sterile corridor toward the ICU.

She hadn't eaten in two days. The harsh fluorescent lights above her started to flicker.

A sudden wave of extreme dizziness hit her. The floor tilted sharply to the left.

Blair stumbled. Her legs gave out.

She pitched forward, dropping the thermos.

Before she hit the linoleum floor, two strong hands grabbed her shoulders.

"I've got you," a deep, warm voice said.

Blair blinked hard. The dark spots in her vision cleared.

She looked up.

A tall man in a crisp white doctor's coat was holding her up. He had soft brown eyes and messy blonde hair.

He stared at her face. His eyes widened in shock.

"Blair? Blair Morgan?" he asked.

Blair frowned. She focused on his face.

It was Julian Frye. They had studied together at the Juilliard School of Music before he switched to medicine. He was now a top neurosurgeon.

"Julian," Blair breathed out.

Julian looked at her pale, sunken cheeks. His eyes filled with genuine concern.

"What happened to you?" he asked softly. "I saw the news about your family. Do you need help? Do you need money?"

Blair shook her head. "No. I'm okay. I'm just tired."

Julian noticed a dark smudge of dirt on her left cheek from cleaning the old house.

Without thinking, he raised his hand. He pressed his thumb against her skin and gently wiped the dirt away.

At that exact second, the heavy double doors at the end of the corridor slid open.

Blackburn strode into the hospital.

He had tracked the hidden GPS chip he installed in Blair's phone.

His dark eyes swept the hallway. They locked onto the two figures standing near the window.

He didn't step forward immediately. He stood frozen in the shadows of the corridor, his chest tightening as he watched them. He saw the way Blair looked at the man-her guard completely down, a soft, vulnerable expression on her pale face that she had never, not once, directed at him. A dark, poisonous coil of jealousy twisted violently in his gut.

Then, he saw Julian's thumb on Blair's cheek.

A violent, blinding rage exploded in Blackburn's chest.

He marched down the hallway. His heavy footsteps echoed like gunshots.

Before Blair could turn her head, a massive hand clamped down on her waist.

Blackburn yanked her backward with brutal force.

Blair gasped as her back slammed into his rock-hard chest.

Blackburn wrapped his arm tightly around her stomach, pinning her against him like a possessive animal.

He lifted his chin. He glared at Julian. The air in the hallway instantly froze.