Chapter 1

The first time Ethan Vanderbilt looked at me, I felt like I was the only person in the vast, echoing practice hall at Juilliard.

My violin was a cheap rental, but under my fingers, it sang.

He stood by the door, a silhouette against the dusty light, and just listened.

Ethan Vanderbilt, a name that whispered of old money and new power, the kind that owned half of Manhattan.

I was Clara Hayes from Queens, juggling practice with frantic calls about my brother Leo' s mounting hospital bills.

Cystic fibrosis didn' t wait for scholarships to mature.

After I finished playing, he didn' t clap.

He just said, "You have a gift."

His voice was low, and it wrapped around me.

The next day, Leo' s specialist called, his voice full of surprise.

"Clara, an anonymous benefactor has cleared all of Leo's outstanding medical debts and set up a fund for his future treatments."

Anonymous.

But I knew.

Ethan didn't just pay bills.

He moved us from our cramped Queens apartment to a sunlit place in the city, with clean air for Leo.

He bought me a new violin, an Amati, its wood warm and alive in my hands.

He said my music deserved it.

I fell in love with him, with the grand gestures, with the feeling of safety he offered.

He was my rescuer, my prince.

Ethan asked me to marry him six months later.

His father, Arthur Vanderbilt Sr., the patriarch, was furious.

He called me a "socially unsuitable nobody from Queens."

Arthur threatened to cut Ethan off, disinherit him.

Ethan didn't flinch.

He chose me.

We had a wedding in the Hamptons, smaller than he wanted, but beautiful.

He lost access to a significant part of his trust fund for a while.

He faced down his entire family, their cold shoulders, their whispered disapproval.

All for me.

It made me believe his love was unshakeable, a fortress.

Leo' s care, the expensive, experimental treatments that kept him breathing, became entirely dependent on Ethan' s resources, on the Vanderbilt name that now grudgingly accepted me.

I believed I was living a fairy tale, a hard-won one.

I thought his devotion was my forever.

Then, years later, the fairy tale began to crumble, fast and brutal.

It was winter in Aspen.

Sera Monroe had appeared in Ethan' s life a few months before, a painter with a story about a tremor in her hand she "bravely overcame."

Ethan was fascinated by her, by her feigned indifference to his world.

I confronted him about her, about the way he looked at her, the way he neglected me.

His eyes, once warm, turned to ice.

That night, after a charity gala where he' d paraded Sera on his arm, he told me I needed a "lesson in humility."

He dragged me out onto the balcony of our ski lodge.

A blizzard was raging, the wind cutting like glass.

I was wearing only a thin silk robe.

"You will stand here until you understand your place, Clara."

He locked the balcony door.

The cold bit into me, numbing my skin, then my bones.

Hours passed. I shivered violently, my teeth chattering so hard I thought they would break.

Marcus Thorne, Ethan' s head of security, stood inside, by the window, watching.

He didn' t move. He didn't help.

He just watched me freeze, under Ethan's orders.

That was the first time I truly understood the man I married could destroy me.

Sera vanished a week after Aspen.

Just gone.

Ethan found me in the library.

His voice was soft, almost gentle, a terrifying contrast to the cold fury in his eyes.

"Where is she, Clara?"

"Sera? I don't know. Why would I know?"

My voice trembled despite my efforts to keep it steady.

He circled me, like a predator.

"Don't lie to me. You were jealous. You said something, did something."

"I didn't. I haven't seen her since Aspen."

He stopped in front of me, his gaze pinning me.

"I don't believe you."

He pulled out his phone.

A video started playing.

Leo.

My sweet Leo, in his hospital bed, his face pale, his breathing ragged.

Suddenly, an alarm blared on the video.

Leo' s ventilator. It was malfunctioning.

His eyes widened in panic. He struggled for air.

"Ethan, no! What are you doing?" I screamed, lunging for the phone.

He held it out of reach, his face a mask of cold control.

"He's fine, for now. A 'technical fault.' Easily fixed. Or not."

Tears streamed down my face. "Please, Ethan, don't do this. He needs that machine."

"Then tell me what you did to Sera. Or, better yet, agree to what I need you to do."

"Sera is sensitive," Ethan said, his voice devoid of any warmth. "She needs reassurance. You will publicly acknowledge her. You will be gracious. You will make it clear you accept her presence in my life."

He paused, watching my agony.

"And you will never question me about her again. If you do, or if Sera feels threatened by you in any way..."

He let the threat hang in the air, then glanced at the phone still playing the horrifying video of Leo.

"Leo has about five minutes before this 'technical fault' becomes permanent. Your choice."

My choice.

What choice did I have?

Leo was my world, my only family before Ethan.

I looked at Ethan, at the man I once loved, the man who now held my brother's life in his hands.

His eyes were empty of anything I recognized.

I realized then, with a cold, sinking finality, how little I meant to him.

I was a possession, and now, perhaps, a broken one he was tired of.

Sera was the new, shiny toy.

And Leo was just leverage.

"I'll do it," I whispered, my voice hoarse. "I'll do whatever you want. Just make sure Leo is okay. Please."

He smiled, a chilling, triumphant curve of his lips, and made a call.

The alarm on the video stopped. Leo' s breathing eased.

My heart shattered.

I remembered the first time I saw Sera Monroe.

It was at a gallery opening in SoHo, one of those painfully chic events Ethan insisted we attend.

She was surrounded by a small group, holding court.

She was introduced as a "prodigy," a painter of "fragile genius."

Someone mentioned her "debilitating hand tremor," how she fought through it to create her art.

I watched her hand as she gestured; the tremor was there, subtle, almost elegant.

It looked practiced.

She caught my eye and gave a small, enigmatic smile.

Ethan was, of course, immediately drawn to her carefully constructed persona.

Later that evening, Sera found me alone by the champagne table.

"Clara Vanderbilt, isn't it?" she said, her voice soft, almost conspiratorial.

"Yes. And you're Seraphina Monroe."

"Sera, please." She took a sip of her champagne, her eyes glinting. "Ethan is quite taken with you. But he's a man who enjoys a chase. He's already asked about me. Extensively."

I was stunned by her directness, her audacity.

"He's persistent," she continued, a small smile playing on her lips. "He told me he finds my 'authenticity' refreshing after all the... polished surfaces in his world."

She looked directly at me then.

"He told me he's never met anyone like me. He said he's going to have me."

Her words were a calm declaration, not a boast.

She was telling me she was his new obsession, and there was nothing I could do about it.

I felt a chill despite the warm room.

Ethan pursued Sera relentlessly, publicly.

He bought out her first solo show, every single painting, for an exorbitant sum.

He commissioned portraits. He funded a new "artist's retreat" in her name.

The society pages buzzed. Sera was the "unconventional muse" to the "Golden Prince."

Her feigned initial disinterest, her "I don't care about your money" act, had hooked him completely.

He loved the challenge she presented, or pretended to present.

She was different from the women who usually threw themselves at him.

She was an "artist," a "genius," someone who supposedly saw beyond his wealth.

It was all a carefully crafted illusion, and he devoured it.

I tried to talk to Ethan, to understand.

"She's just a diversion, Clara," he'd said dismissively, early on. "A game. You're my wife. You're the mother of my future children. Don't you know that?"

His words were meant to reassure, but his eyes were distant.

"Don't make this difficult," he'd added, a subtle warning in his tone. "Just let me have my fun. It means nothing."

His "fun" was a daily torment for me.

I saw them everywhere – in magazines, at events I was forced to attend, their images plastered across the internet.

His arm around her, his eyes full of an intensity I remembered he once had for me.

I tried to be patient, to believe his words that she was temporary.

I hoped he would tire of her, of her act.

But Sera was smarter than his other fleeting interests.

She didn't make herself too available. She played the game well.

She "reluctantly" agreed to be seen with him, but only on her terms, always maintaining her "artistic integrity."

This only fueled his obsession.

He became colder to me, more demanding.

The public displays of affection with Sera became more frequent, more blatant.

Each one was a knife twisting in my gut.

My home, my life, felt invaded, contaminated.

I begged him to stop, to consider Leo, to consider what this was doing to us.

He brushed me off.

"You're being overly emotional, Clara."

I asked for a separation.

He laughed. "Don't be ridiculous. You're a Vanderbilt. Where would you go?"

Then Sera disappeared after that Aspen trip, after the blizzard punishment.

And Ethan, without a shred of evidence, decided I was to blame.

He refused to listen to my denials.

He was convinced I had somehow driven her away, his new prized possession.

His anger was a cold, suffocating blanket.

He used Leo again, of course.

The "technical faults" with Leo's ventilator became more frequent, always coinciding with Ethan's interrogations about Sera.

"Just tell me you confronted her, Clara. Tell me you told her to leave me alone. That's all I need to hear."

His voice was soft, persuasive, deadly.

I was trapped in a nightmare.

To protect Leo, I had to lie.

I had to give him the confession he wanted, even though it wasn't true.

"Yes," I finally choked out, tears blurring my vision. "I... I told her to stay away from you. I told her you were my husband."

He smiled, satisfied.

"Good girl. Now, wasn't that easier?"

The ventilator alarms miraculously stopped.

But a part of me died that day. The part that still hoped for the Ethan I once knew.

The stress, the constant fear, the psychological torment, it all took its toll.

I was pregnant. Secretly.

I hadn't told Ethan. How could I, when he was so wrapped up in Sera, so cruel to me?

I wanted this baby, a small piece of hope in the darkness.

But one night, after a particularly vicious argument where he' d locked me in the penthouse panic room for hours because I' d questioned him about a new diamond bracelet he' d bought for Sera, the cramping started.

It was sharp, relentless.

I lost the baby. Alone. On the cold marble floor of that gilded cage.

When I finally managed to call for help, and the doctor confirmed the miscarriage, Ethan's reaction was chilling.

"Irresponsible timing, Clara," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "You should have been more careful. Now, pull yourself together. Leo needs you focused."

He didn't ask if I was okay. He didn't mention our lost child.

It was just an inconvenience to him.

Another problem I had created.

A few days later, Marcus Thorne informed Ethan that Sera had been "found."

She was at a remote artists' colony, "seeking solace and inspiration," her publicist claimed.

She was photographed looking ethereal and dedicated, sketching landscapes, completely unaware of the "distress" her disappearance had caused.

Ethan was delighted. He flew to her immediately.

He didn't spare a thought for me, for the child we'd lost, for the pain he'd inflicted.

It was all about Sera, his "fragile genius."

The news reports gushed about their "romantic reunion," about his devotion to his muse.

It was sickening.

I was lying in bed, weak and empty, when Ethan returned from his reunion with Sera.

He strode into the bedroom, smelling of her perfume.

"Get up, Clara. We're going out."

"I can't, Ethan. I'm not well."

He looked at me, his eyes narrowed. "Don't be difficult. Sera is being honored at a charity dinner tonight. You will be there. You will smile. You will behave."

I pleaded with him, told him I was still recovering, that I was in pain.

He ignored me.

"Marcus will help you get ready," he said, turning to leave.

Then he paused at the door. "And Clara, no more talk of miscarriages. It's done. Forget it."

He left me there, alone with my grief and his cruelty.

He ordered me confined to our wing of the penthouse, with a nurse who was more like a jailer, until the event.

The nurse, a stern woman Ethan had hired, eventually reported the full extent of my "female troubles" to him – the miscarriage was confirmed, not just a complaint.

I heard his voice booming from the hallway later.

"A baby? Now? What was she thinking? It would have complicated things with Sera!"

Not "our baby." Not "I'm sorry for your loss."

Just an unwanted complication.

I was locked in, bleeding, grieving, and he was angry about the inconvenience.

The physical pain was immense, a deep, aching emptiness.

I lay there, clutching my stomach, whispering for my lost child, for an end to this nightmare.

No one came. No one cared.

Ethan was too busy planning his public appearance with his precious Sera.

In those dark, pain-filled hours, as I drifted in and out of consciousness, one thought became crystal clear.

I had to leave him.

Not just for myself. But because I finally understood.

The man I loved was gone, replaced by this monster.

And if I stayed, he would destroy everything I had left, including my sanity and my will to live.

The loss of our child was the final, brutal confirmation.

There was nothing left to save in our marriage.

Only myself. And Leo. I had to protect Leo.