Chapter 4

It was two in the morning.

Clara lay flat on her back in the massive silk-sheeted bed in the master bedroom.

She stared at the dark ceiling.

The space beside her was empty. Chadwick hadn't come to bed.

The silence of the penthouse was suddenly shattered by the sound of heavy, frantic footsteps running down the hallway.

"Chadwick! Chadwick, please!" Dorcas's voice shrieked through the walls.

Clara threw the covers off. She grabbed her cashmere wrap and walked out of the bedroom.

She saw Chadwick sprinting down the hall in his dress pants and an undershirt.

Clara followed him. She stopped just outside the half-open door of the guest suite.

Autumn was sitting up in bed.

She sneezed. Then she sneezed again.

She rubbed her nose. It was a basic, run-of-the-mill cold.

Chadwick looked like he was watching someone bleed out.

He fell to his knees beside the bed and pressed the back of his hand against Autumn's forehead. He was panting.

"She has a weak immune system," Dorcas cried, wringing her hands. "A cold turns into pneumonia for her in hours!"

Chadwick ripped his phone out of his pocket.

He dialed a number and put it on speaker.

"This is Chadwick Brewer," he barked into the phone. "I need the VIP pediatric suite at Mount Sinai prepped immediately. Have a respiratory team waiting at the private entrance."

Clara leaned against the doorframe. Her stomach twisted into a painful knot.

Last month, Leo had a fever of 40 degrees. Chadwick had barely looked up from his iPad. He had told Maura to give the boy some Tylenol and stop overreacting.

Chadwick grabbed a thick wool blanket from the end of the bed. He wrapped Autumn in it like a burrito and scooped her up.

He turned and practically ran out of the room.

He brushed right past Clara.

"Watch the house," Chadwick threw over his shoulder. He didn't even look at her.

He sprinted toward the private elevator.

Dorcas followed right behind him. As she passed Clara, the nanny turned her head.

For a fleeting moment, the panic in Dorcas's eyes was replaced by a cold, unreadable glint before she looked away.

Clara stood alone in the freezing hallway. The air felt heavy, suffocating.

She turned and walked into Leo's room.

Her son was curled into a tight ball under his duvet, fast asleep.

Clara sat on the edge of the mattress. She reached out and gently traced the edge of the dark bruise on his forehead.

The last remaining shred of hope she had for her marriage died right there in the dark.

She pulled her phone from her pocket. She dialed her private wealth manager.

"Clara, it's 2 AM," the voice on the other end groaned.

"I need a full, itemized list of all post-marital assets on my desk by 8 AM," Clara said. Her voice was flat, devoid of any emotion. "Everything."

She hung up the phone.

She sat in the dark chair by the window and watched the sun come up over Manhattan.

At seven o'clock, Chadwick still hadn't returned. He hadn't sent a single text.

Clara walked into her massive walk-in closet.

She bypassed her soft sweaters and pulled out a sharp, structured black blazer and matching trousers. She strapped her Cartier watch to her wrist.

She stood in front of the mirror and applied a coat of dark red lipstick.

She grabbed her briefcase and walked out the door. The grieving wife was gone. The predator was awake.