Chapter 3

Eliza's hands clamped onto the door frame of the Maybach. Her knuckles turned bone-white, her fingers digging into the metal so hard she thought her nails would rip off. She wasn't getting out. She wasn't going in there.

Alistair sighed, a sound of utter impatience, and reached out to pry her fingers loose.

Clifford shoved the butler aside. "Useless," he muttered. He leaned into the car, his large hand closing over Eliza's shoulder. He dragged her out of the vehicle with zero effort.

Her legs gave out the second her heels hit the ground. She collapsed onto the cold, gray epoxy floor of the garage, the impact jarring her teeth.

The automatic glass doors of the clinic slid open. Three figures in blue scrubs and surgical masks pushed a stainless-steel gurney toward them at a brisk pace. The metallic clatter of the wheels on the floor sent a spike of pure terror through Eliza's stomach, making it cramp violently.

"No!" she screamed. She swung her arms wildly, trying to fight them off, but the doctors were practiced. They caught her wrists and forced her back onto the gurney.

Click. Click.

The heavy leather restraints snapped shut over her wrists and ankles. She was pinned down like an animal in a slaughterhouse.

Clifford stepped up to the side of the gurney. He looked down at her, his face utterly impassive. He reached over to a nearby tray and picked up a sterile scalpel. The overhead fluorescent lights glinted off the steel.

He brought the knife to her face. The freezing cold metal of the blade's back pressed against her cheek. He trailed it slowly down her jawline, over the pulse hammering in her neck, stopping just above her collarbone.

"If you make one more sound," he said, his voice a demonic whisper, "I won't wait for the doctor. I'll cut it out of you myself right here."

Eliza clamped her jaw shut. The tears she had been holding back broke free, streaming down the sides of her face and pooling in her ears. Her brain felt like it was short-circuiting from the fear.

Just as the tip of the blade touched the fabric of her sweater, a shrill, piercing ringtone shattered the silence of the garage.

Alistair pulled the phone from his pocket. He glanced at the screen, and all the blood drained from his face. He practically threw the phone at Clifford. "Sir. It's the Matriarch."

Clifford's eyes narrowed. He dropped the scalpel onto Eliza's chest and snatched the phone. He jabbed the speaker button, his jaw tight with irritation.

"What?" he barked.

An ancient, aristocratic voice crackled through the speaker. Eleonora Prescott did not sound angry; she sounded absolute. "Call off the surgery, Clifford. Keep the child."

Clifford's hand tightened around the phone until the case creaked. The Grays may have had the name, but everyone knew the Prescott money was what kept this empire afloat. Eleonora held all the cards. "Absolutely not," he snarled. "I am not letting a blind beggar carry a Gray heir."

Eleonora's cold laugh echoed in the concrete garage. "Then say goodbye to your trust fund. The board will freeze every cent by morning if you defy me."

The words trust fund hit him like a physical blow. His hand, which had been reaching for the scalpel again, froze in mid-air.

"Furthermore," Eleonora continued, her tone leaving no room for argument, "you will marry this woman immediately. I want legal legitimacy. No bastards. No questions."

Clifford roared in frustration. He hurled the phone across the garage, then grabbed the scalpel off Eliza's chest and threw it at the wall. The blade shattered with a sharp, metallic ping, the fragments raining down onto the epoxy floor.

Eliza lay on the gurney, her chest heaving. Marriage? The word echoed in her mind, completely absurd, completely insane.

And then, the pain hit.

The slight buzzing in her skull from the car erupted into a full-blown electrical storm. A surge of raw current slammed into her optic nerves. She squeezed her eyes shut against the agonizing pain, feeling like a thousand needles were being driven directly into her brain.

She writhed against the restraints, a low whimper escaping her lips. The doctors backed away, looking at Clifford for instructions, but he was busy fuming, his back turned to her.

The burning suddenly vanished, replaced by a bizarre, cooling sensation. It felt like ice water washing over her brain, soothing the fried nerves.

Eliza gasped. She opened her eyes a fraction of an inch.

The darkness... it wasn't complete anymore. A faint, painful flicker of white light, like a dying firefly, pulsed behind her eyes for a millisecond before vanishing. It was nothing, a phantom sensation born of pain, but it was the first crack in a decade of night. She turned her head toward the sound of ragged breathing. Standing three feet away, his chest heaving with rage, his jaw clenched tight, was a man whose presence radiated pure fury. She couldn't see the dark hair or the sharp, arrogant line of his profile, but she felt the weight of his gaze. For the first time in ten years, Eliza Christian felt a shift in the endless dark. She was facing Clifford Gray. And he had no idea her world was beginning to fracture.