Chapter 2

The morning sun cut through the cheap plastic blinds.

It cast harsh, straight lines of light across the living room floor. Frieda pushed herself up from the armchair where she had spent the night. Her back ached.

She walked past the sofa and headed straight into the tiny kitchen.

She needed to make hangover soup.

Frieda grabbed a knife. She sliced through a firm red tomato and a yellow onion. Her movements were quick and precise. The sharp scent of raw onion filled the small space.

A low, painful groan came from the living room.

Dewitt slowly opened his eyes. The sunlight hit his face, and he winced.

He sat up, pressing the heels of his hands against his throbbing temples.

He looked down. He saw the fleece blanket pooled around his waist. His body went completely still. His eyes sharpened, instantly alert and guarded.

He heard the rhythmic chopping sound.

Dewitt turned his head. He saw Frieda standing at the kitchen counter. She was wearing a faded yellow apron over her clothes.

The memories of last night hit him like a freight train.

The smell of her skin. The way he had pinned her wrists. The absolute loss of control.

Dewitt's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ground together. His stomach churned with deep, bitter regret. He had almost ruined the entire test.

He threw the blanket off his legs. He forced his face into a mask of pure ice.

He stood up and walked toward the kitchen. His footsteps were heavy and deliberate.

Frieda turned around. She held a steaming bowl of tomato and onion soup in her hands.

She looked up, a soft, hesitant smile forming on her lips.

Her smile died the second she met his eyes.

Dewitt's gaze was freezing. It cut through her like a physical blade.

Frieda froze. Her fingers tightened around the hot ceramic bowl.

Dewitt stared at the soup. His upper lip curled in a sneer.

"I don't need your cheap pity," he said. His voice was flat, devoid of any human warmth.

Frieda flinched. The words felt like a slap to the face.

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep her chin from trembling. She slowly turned and placed the bowl on the counter. She kept her head down, hiding the sudden sting of tears in her eyes.

Dewitt didn't look at her again.

He turned on his heel and marched straight to the guest bedroom.

The door slammed shut with a loud bang.

Inside the guest room, Dewitt walked straight to the attached bathroom. He turned on the faucet. He splashed freezing cold water onto his face, trying to wash away the scent of her that still lingered in his mind.

He dried his face. He stripped off his wrinkled shirt and pulled a fresh, dark, perfectly tailored suit from his garment bag.

He tied his tie with sharp, angry jerks. He looked in the mirror. The cold, ruthless corporate executive was back.

Dewitt walked out of the bedroom. He ignored the kitchen entirely.

He walked into the small room they used as a study and locked the door behind him.

He sat down at the cheap desk. He opened his encrypted laptop and logged into his secure cloud drive, a habit he maintained to keep his personal affairs strictly separated. He opened an email from his assistant, K.C.

The attachment was labeled: Divorce Agreement and Severance Terms.

Dewitt's eyes darkened. His chest felt tight, but he ignored it. He clicked download.

He scrolled through the legal jargon. He checked the final number. It was enough money to keep her comfortable for a few years. A generous payout for a failed test.

He grabbed his expensive fountain pen. He flipped to the printed signature page on the desk.

He pressed the gold nib against the thick paper. He was ready to end this.

A sharp, piercing ring echoed through the apartment.

The doorbell. It rang again. Frantic and loud.

Dewitt's hand jerked. The pen left a harsh black scratch across the paper. He cursed under his breath and dropped the pen.

In the kitchen, Frieda wiped her wet hands on her apron.

She frowned and walked to the front door. She leaned forward and looked through the peephole.

An elderly woman stood in the hallway. She had perfectly styled silver hair and wore a tailored tweed coat. A middle-aged woman stood slightly behind her, holding a massive, expensive-looking gift box.

Frieda had no idea who they were.

She hesitated for a second, then unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open a few inches.

The elderly woman's stern face instantly melted into a bright, warm smile.

"You must be Frieda," Eleonora Vance said.

Before Frieda could process the words, Eleonora pushed the door wide open and stepped right into the apartment. The nanny, Maura, followed closely behind.

In the study, Dewitt heard the voices.

His blood ran cold. He recognized that voice instantly.

He grabbed the divorce papers, shoved them into the bottom drawer of the desk, and slammed it shut.

He unlocked the study door and stepped into the living room.

His eyes locked onto Eleonora. His pupils dilated in pure shock.

Eleonora turned her head. She locked eyes with him.

"Dewitt Stone," she said. Her voice carried the heavy, unquestionable authority of a billionaire matriarch.

Dewitt's face drained of all color.

His lungs seized. His perfectly controlled world had just been blown wide open.