Chapter 1

Alondra Lang pushed the heavy oak door of the private hospital room. It was cracked open just an inch.

Her fingers gripped the handle of the insulated thermos so tightly her knuckles were white. She had spent three hours making the soup inside.

Through the narrow gap past the privacy screen, she saw Gerard Arnold. Her husband.

He was sitting on the edge of the hospital bed. His large hands, the ones that usually pushed her away, were gently holding Cecil Barber's pale fingers.

"I'm four weeks pregnant, Gerard," Cecil said. Her voice was soft, trembling with practiced fragility.

A loud ringing exploded in Alondra's ears. The sound drowned out the hum of the hospital ventilation.

Her fingers went numb. The thermos slipped from her grasp.

It hit the polished linoleum floor with a sharp, deafening crash. Hot soup splashed violently across the room and pooled on the sterile, gleaming surface.

Gerard's head snapped toward the door. The tender look in his eyes vanished the second he saw Alondra. It was replaced by a familiar, freezing disgust.

He dropped Cecil's hand and strode across the room.

Before Alondra could speak, his hand clamped down on her upper arm. His grip was brutal. He yanked her out into the harsh fluorescent light of the hallway.

Gerard shoved her away. Her back hit the cold wall.

"Don't you dare upset her," Gerard warned. His voice was a low, dangerous hiss. "She needs rest."

Alondra's chest heaved. Her throat burned as if she had swallowed glass. "What about our marriage, Gerard? Three years. What does that mean to you?"

"It was a convenience," Gerard said flatly. He adjusted his expensive silk tie. "She saved my life five years ago. I owe her. You were just a placeholder."

He turned to his assistant, who was standing a few feet away. Gerard snatched a manila folder from him and slammed it against Alondra's chest.

She reflexively caught it.

"Sign it," Gerard ordered.

Alondra looked down. The bold black letters on the top page read: Divorce Agreement.

Her stomach dropped. The air in her lungs turned to ice.

Her hands shook violently, her entire body trembling as the weight of his betrayal crushed her fragile spirit. She looked down at the bold black letters, tears spilling over her lashes and staining the crisp white paper. "Gerard, please..." she whispered, her voice breaking into a pathetic sob. She couldn't do it. She couldn't just throw away the only life she knew. When he shoved a cheap plastic pen into her trembling hand, her fingers went limp. The pen clattered to the polished floor. She didn't sign it. Instead, she let out a choked cry, turned her back on his freezing disgust, and ran blindly toward the elevator, her heart shattering into a thousand irreparable pieces.

Ten minutes later, the Manhattan rain was soaking through her thin trench coat. The icy water plastered her hair to her cheeks.

She pulled open the door of her Porsche parked on Fifth Avenue and slid into the driver's seat.

Her vision was completely blurred by tears. She jammed the key into the ignition. The engine roared to life.

She pulled out onto the slick asphalt. The windshield wipers thrashed back and forth, struggling against the downpour. She took a deep, shuddering breath and aggressively wiped the tears from her stinging eyes. She forced herself to sit up straight, gripping the steering wheel tightly to regain control of her racing mind. Her vision cleared just as the traffic light up ahead turned red. With deliberate focus, Alondra pressed her foot firmly on the brake pedal. Instead of the familiar tension, it went straight to the floorboard with terrifying ease. There was no resistance.

Panic seized her throat. She pumped the pedal frantically. Nothing happened.

The screech of tires ripped through the rain. The Porsche spun out of control, sliding sideways into the oncoming lane.

A massive delivery truck was barreling straight toward her.

The impact was deafening. Metal crumpled like paper.

The airbag exploded against her face. A sharp, agonizing crack echoed in her chest as her ribs snapped. Warm blood filled her mouth.

Her vision faded to black at the edges. Through the shattered driver's side window, she saw a black Maybach pull up to the curb.

The rear window rolled down. Gerard's face appeared.

He stared at the mangled wreckage of her car. His expression was completely blank. He didn't reach for his phone. He didn't open his door.

He simply pressed a button. The tinted window rolled back up.

The Maybach pulled away, its taillights disappearing into the rain.

A raw, suffocating hatred burned in her chest, hotter than the pain in her crushed bones. Then, her lungs stopped moving. Everything went dark.

A violent sensation of falling jerked her awake.

Alondra gasped for air. Her eyes flew open.

Blinding sunlight stabbed her pupils through the gap in the heavy blackout curtains.

She shot up into a sitting position. Her chest heaved as she dragged oxygen into her lungs. Her hands clawed at the soft leather sheets beneath her.

She looked around frantically. The massive, minimalist space. The dark gray walls.

This was the master bedroom of the Arnold penthouse. The apartment she had moved into two years ago.

She looked down at her hands. There was no blood. No broken bones.

Her heart hammered wildly against her ribs. She was alive. She was back. She recognized this morning. This was the exact day, two years ago, right after she had foolishly called Cecil to beg her to leave Gerard. It was the very morning she was supposed to go to the hospital to deliver her pathetic apology soup.