Chapter 3

Alaya folded the medical report with precise, rigid movements. She walked over to the wall panel, punched in the code for the hidden safe, and shoved the papers inside. The heavy steel door clicked shut just as the sound of low voices drifted through the hallway.

She froze. She walked silently to the heavy wooden door and pressed her face close to the narrow slats of the built-in blinds.

Hardy had returned. She watched through the slats as he grabbed Dr. Coleman by the arm and shoved him into a small consultation room across the hall. The door didn't click shut completely. Alaya silently opened her own door and slipped across the corridor, pressing her ear to the narrow gap.

Dr. Coleman looked terrified. He kept his voice low, but the narrow opening carried the sound directly to Alaya's ears.

"The uterine tearing from the impact was severe, Mr. Suarez," the doctor said, his voice trembling slightly. "The damage is irreversible. It is highly unlikely Mrs. Suarez will ever be able to conceive again."

Hardy's massive frame flinched. It was a violent, involuntary jerk. The fingers of his right hand curled inward, spasming against his thigh.

He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. When he opened them, the cold, dead stare was back. He forced his jaw to unclench.

"Will this increase the rejection risk for her transplanted heart?" Hardy asked. His voice was like crushed ice.

The doctor shook his head quickly. "No, sir. The cardiac tissue is stable. Her lifespan won't be affected by the infertility."

Hardy gave a single, sharp nod. He looked completely indifferent, as if the fact that his wife could never have children was a minor inconvenience on a spreadsheet.

Behind the door, Alaya pressed both hands hard against the center of her chest. The phantom pain in her transplanted heart flared, mixing with a suffocating, crushing despair. He only cared about the organ beating inside her chest. She was just a container to him.

Out in the hallway, Hardy's private cell phone vibrated.

He pulled it from his pocket and glanced at the screen. His facial muscles tightened instantly.

He looked up and snapped his fingers at his executive assistant, Silas, who was standing a few feet away. Hardy made a sharp, cutting motion with his hand-the signal to move immediately.

He didn't even turn his head to look at Alaya's door. He spun on his heel and walked rapidly toward the VIP elevator, his long strides eating up the distance.

Alaya leaned her forehead against the cold wood of the door. She watched his broad back disappear around the corner. Her lips curled into a bitter, self-mocking smile. She thought she was numb to him, but hearing her infertility diagnosed and watching him walk away without a second thought still made her stomach churn.

A night-shift nurse, Jennings, pushed a medication cart past the room. She glanced at the door and gasped, startled by the sight of Alaya's pale face pressed against the glass slats.

Alaya pulled the door open and grabbed the nurse by the forearm. She yanked Jennings into the room and shut the door.

Alaya opened the bedside drawer, pulled out a stack of hundred-dollar bills she kept for emergencies, and shoved them into the nurse's hands.

"The man who just left. The black Maybach," Alaya ordered, her voice completely flat. "Find out exactly where that car is going. Right now."

Jennings stared at the cash, swallowing hard. "My boyfriend works in the underground dispatch room. He can track the plates on the city grid."

"Do it."

The next ten minutes felt like physical torture. Alaya sat on the edge of the leather sofa. She picked up a sealed alcohol wipe and mechanically tore the foil wrapper into tiny, jagged shreds.

The door opened. Jennings slipped back in, breathing heavily.

"The car crossed the bridge," Jennings whispered. "The GPS tracker stopped in Williamsburg, Brooklyn."

Alaya closed her eyes. She knew the exact coordinates. She knew the exact brick building. It was the cheap apartment rented by Kelsi Warner, the "struggling art student" her husband sponsored.

Alaya shoved the rest of the cash from the drawer into Jennings's pocket. "Get out. You saw nothing."

The nurse nodded and fled.

Alaya walked into the bathroom. She turned the silver faucet handle and let the freezing water run over her hands. She splashed the ice-cold water directly onto her face, shocking her system.

She looked up. Water dripped from her chin onto the hospital gown. The woman in the mirror had zero affection left in her eyes. There was only the cold calculation of an executioner.

She walked back to the bed and picked up her phone. She took a deep breath, forcing her lungs to expand smoothly, and dialed her father's private line.

Halbert Hewitt answered on the second ring. "Alaya? Sweetheart, are you alright?"

Hearing the deep, worried gravel of her father's voice made Alaya's throat close up. A massive lump formed in her airway.

She swallowed hard, forcing the tears back down. "I'm fine, Dad. The doctors say I just need to rest."

She did not mention the beta-blockers. She did not mention the cut brake lines. She did not mention Hardy rushing off to his mistress. Her father's blood pressure was already dangerously high. A shock like this could kill him.

"I'll come see you tomorrow," Halbert said.

"No, stay at the manor. I'll be home soon."

She ended the call. She opened a secure, encrypted browser on her phone. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, typing in the name of the most ruthless, discreet private investigation firm in New York.

Shadows.

She opened a new email draft. She typed out the license plate of the Maybach. She typed out Kelsi Warner's exact apartment address.

She hit send.

At that exact moment, a massive crack of thunder shook the hospital windows. A flash of lightning illuminated her face in the dark room, casting sharp, terrifying shadows across her cheekbones. The countdown on her marriage had officially started.