Chapter 2

Hardy took two long strides toward the side of the bed. His tall frame blocked the harsh sunlight streaming through the window, casting a heavy shadow over Alaya's pale face.

He did not ask how she was feeling. He did not ask if she was in pain. His dark eyes swept over the flat surface of the blanket covering her stomach. His jawline tightened so hard a muscle twitched beneath his skin.

Underneath the blanket, Alaya's hands curled into tight fists. Her fingernails dug so deeply into her palms she felt the skin break. Every muscle in her body screamed at her to grab the surgical scissors from the tray and drive them directly into his chest.

She forced herself to breathe. She remembered the mistakes of her past life. Screaming and fighting now would only alert him to her change. She needed to play the game.

She forced the burning hatred in her eyes to melt into a look of absolute, crushing despair.

She lowered her eyelashes. She forced her shoulders to shake. The movement was small at first, then more violent. Tears welled up in her eyes and spilled over her cheeks, hot and fast.

She brought her hands up to cover her face. A broken, pathetic sob ripped from her throat. She played the role of the devastated mother perfectly.

Hardy's body went completely rigid. For a fraction of a second, a flash of raw agony broke through the thick ice in his eyes.

He slowly lifted his right hand. His fingers extended, moving toward her shaking shoulder.

He stopped. His hand hovered exactly one inch above the hospital gown.

He pulled his hand back. He curled his fingers into a tight fist and pressed it firmly against the side of his suit pants.

"It was an accident," he said. His voice was flat, mechanical, and completely devoid of warmth.

Behind the cage of her fingers, Alaya smiled. It was a cold, dead smile. An accident? She knew exactly what the mechanic had found on the brake lines of her car. A clean, precise cut.

She threw her hands down and snapped her head up. She glared at him through her tears.

"My baby is dead!" she screamed, her voice hoarse and cracking. "Where were you? Why are you only here now?"

Hardy looked away. He refused to meet her piercing gaze. He turned his head to look out the window at the Manhattan skyline.

"There was a sudden crisis with the board of directors," he lied smoothly. "I had to stay and manage the fallout."

Alaya's eyes darted downward. There, resting against the cuff of his expensive suit jacket, was a faint, almost imperceptible smudge of cerulean blue oil paint. A pigment used exclusively in art studios.

She grabbed the heavy goose-down pillow from behind her back. She gripped the fabric with both hands and hurled it as hard as she could directly at his chest.

"Get out!" she shrieked.

Hardy did not flinch. He did not raise his hands to block it. The pillow hit him and fell to the floor. When he turned back to look at her, his face was terrifyingly dark.

He looked at her shaking, hysterical form. He categorized her behavior as standard post-traumatic stress. Arguing with a hysterical woman was a waste of energy.

He reached down and casually brushed the front of his suit jacket, smoothing out the invisible wrinkles.

"You need to calm down," he said coldly. "I will have Silas send some nutritional supplements over later."

He turned his back on her. He walked to the door, pulled it open, and stepped out into the hallway without looking back.

The heavy door clicked shut.

The instant the latch engaged, the tears on Alaya's face stopped. The pathetic shaking of her shoulders vanished.

She reached over and grabbed a rough paper towel from the bedside stand. She scrubbed the moisture from her cheeks, her eyes returning to a state of dead, calculating calm.

She threw the covers off. A sharp, pulling ache radiated from her lower abdomen, but she ignored it. She walked barefoot across the cold floor to the floor-to-ceiling window.

She looked down at the hospital driveway far below.

A black Maybach pulled up to the curb. She watched Hardy's broad shoulders disappear into the back seat. The car merged immediately into the heavy New York traffic.

She knew exactly where that car was heading. It was not going to the financial district. It was heading straight for the Williamsburg bridge.

Alaya walked back to the bed and slammed her palm against the call button.

"Send Dr. Coleman in here," she commanded the speaker. "Tell him to bring my complete medical file. Now."

Five minutes later, Dr. Coleman stood at the foot of her bed. He was sweating. He shifted his weight from foot to foot.

"Mrs. Suarez, I... the original physical file was already collected by Mr. Suarez on his way out," he stammered.

Alaya's eyes narrowed. Hardy was hiding something. He was hiding the specific details of the crash, or the details of the fetal death.

She leaned forward. "If you do not print a complete copy from the internal system and hand it to me in the next three minutes, the Hewitt family legal team will have your medical license revoked before dinner."

The doctor wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. He nodded rapidly and practically ran out of the room.

He returned shortly with a thick stack of printed papers. He handed them to her with shaking hands.

Alaya flipped past the standard trauma assessments. She scanned the complex medical jargon, her eyes searching for anomalies.

She stopped at the toxicology report. Down at the very bottom of the page, in a small, easily missed font, was a single note from the lab tech.

Trace amounts of Beta-blockers detected in blood sample.

Alaya stared at the words. Her breathing stopped. Her heart was already weak from a previous condition. Beta-blockers would slow her heart rate to a dangerous, potentially fatal level.

Someone had drugged her before she got into that car.