Chapter 2

The moment Alex left the apartment, she felt a surge of adrenaline. She didn't go to a spa or a friend's house. She went straight to the immigration office. Her father's tech money and the Hamilton name greased the wheels. What should have taken months was expedited into a matter of days. She was reclaiming her British citizenship, the one she had willingly given up to become Mrs. Brooks Kane.

Her family had all moved to London years ago, leaving her behind in New York. She had chosen to stay for him. For a man who worshipped a doll. The thought was so absurd it was almost funny. Almost.

In three days, the paperwork would be complete. The last legal tie binding her to this city, to this life, would be cut.

She had spent six years trying to become the perfect wife for a saint. She had muted her vibrant wardrobe, trading her Gucci reds and yellows for muted grays and navies that Brooks deemed "appropriate." She learned to cook the bland, healthy meals he preferred. She gave up her loud parties and late nights for quiet evenings spent reading in a separate room from her husband.

She had tried everything to get past his walls, to find the man underneath the ascetic facade. She had seduced, cajoled, and even begged. But she had never even touched the core of his desire, because it was never meant for her. It was a lock that her key would never fit.

A bitter smile touched her lips. So be it.

That night, for the first time in years, Alex decided to be herself. She called her friend, Chloe, a woman who had witnessed her long, painful obsession with a sympathetic eye.

"Chloe," Alex said, her voice buzzing with newfound energy. "Take me out. I want to go somewhere loud and crowded. And I'm wearing the red dress."

"The red dress?" Chloe's voice was filled with shock. "The one Brooks said was 'indecent'?"

"The very same," Alex confirmed, pulling the sequined backless dress from the depths of her closet. It felt like reclaiming a piece of her soul.

"But Alex... what if Brooks finds out?"

"I hope he does," Alex said, and she meant it.

At the club, the bass thrummed through the floor, a rhythm Alex hadn't felt in years. She had forgotten how much she loved it. Dressed in shimmering red, she was no longer the pale, quiet wife of Brooks Kane. She was a shooting star, and heads turned as she walked through the crowd.

"Alex, you look... incredible," Chloe breathed, her eyes wide. "I haven't seen you look this alive since before you met him."

"This is who I am," Alex said, grabbing Chloe's hand and pulling her onto the dance floor. "No more hiding."

She let the music take over, moving with a freedom that was intoxicating. She danced with strangers, letting their hands rest on her waist, laughing when they whispered compliments in her ear. She felt a spark of her old, reckless self ignite.

A handsome man with a charming smile bought her a drink. He leaned in close, his breath warm against her ear. "A woman who looks like you shouldn't be here alone."

"I'm not alone," Alex said, her eyes flashing. "I'm free."

She let him pull her closer, their bodies swaying together. It was a meaningless flirtation, a reminder that she was still desirable, that Brooks Kane wasn't the only man in the world.

Chloe appeared at her elbow, her face pale with panic.

"Alex, stop. He's here."

"Who's here?" Alex asked, annoyed at the interruption.

"Brooks," Chloe whispered, her eyes wide with fear. "He's been watching you for the last ten minutes."

Alex's blood ran cold. She slowly turned her head.

There he was. Across the pulsing, sweaty dance floor, in a private booth, sat her husband. He was surrounded by his usual circle of Wall Street sycophants, but he looked utterly out of place, an iceberg in a volcano. His black suit was immaculate, his posture rigid. He was a stark slash of black and white in a world of neon color.

And his eyes, those cold gray eyes, were locked on her.

There was no anger in them. No jealousy. Just a chilling, blank emptiness. It was the same look he gave a spreadsheet, a line item he was about to delete.

One of his friends leaned over and said something, his voice carrying over the music. "Damn, Brooks. Your wife's putting on quite a show. You're not going to go leash her?"

Brooks took a slow sip of his water. "She's just letting off steam." His voice was flat, devoid of any emotion. It was as if he were watching a stranger.

The dismissal hurt more than any angry outburst could have. He didn't care. He truly did not care.

Her heart, which had been soaring with a sense of freedom, plummeted back to earth. What was she even doing? Trying to provoke a man who felt nothing for her? It was pathetic.

Just as she was about to turn away, to go home and lick her wounds, Brooks's expression changed. His body went rigid. The glass in his hand trembled. His gaze, once cold and empty, now blazed with an intensity she had never seen before. It was a raw, possessive fire.

But it wasn't directed at her.

He was looking past her, towards the entrance of the club.

Alex followed his line of sight. And there she was.

Chastity Drake.

She was standing near the bar, looking lost and fragile in a simple white dress. She was talking to a young man, her head tilted, a shy smile on her face. She looked like an angel who had wandered into hell.

Brooks shot to his feet, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. The controlled mask of the Saint of Wall Street shattered, replaced by a look of pure, primal fury.

He didn't walk. He stalked. He moved through the crowd like a predator, his eyes never leaving his adopted sister.

Alex watched, rooted to the spot, as he reached Chastity. He grabbed her arm, his grip so tight she winced.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded, his voice a low, dangerous growl.

Chastity looked up at him, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and adoration. "Brooks? I was just... my friends brought me. I didn't know you would be here."

The young man with her tried to intervene. "Hey, man, take it easy-"

Brooks didn't even look at him. "Get lost," he snarled, and the man, seeing the look in his eyes, wisely backed away.

"You shouldn't be in a place like this," Brooks said to Chastity, his voice tight with a strange, repressed emotion. "It's not safe for you."

"But I can take care of myself," she whispered, her lower lip trembling. "You can't keep me locked up forever, Brooks. You have a wife now."

The mention of his wife, of Alex, seemed to sting him. "This is different. It's not about her. It's about you." He couldn't say the real words. He couldn't say, I can't stand the thought of another man looking at you. He couldn't admit the incestuous, obsessive jealousy that was eating him alive.

Alex, watching from a distance, understood it all. The doll in the chapel. The years of neglect. The coldness. It all clicked into place. He married her to put a barrier between himself and Chastity. A shield.

A bitter, painful laugh bubbled up inside her. He didn't want her. He just didn't want anyone else to have Chastity.

She turned to leave, unable to watch another second of the twisted drama.

"If Alex wasn't here," Chastity's voice, suddenly clear and sharp, cut through the noise. "If she just disappeared, could we go back to how things were?"

Alex froze.

Chastity's eyes, no longer innocent and fragile, found Alex across the room. They were filled with a cold, triumphant malice.

Then, everything happened at once.

Chastity let out a small, theatrical cry. She wrenched her arm from Brooks's grasp and lunged towards Alex.

Alex didn't even have time to react.

Chastity grabbed a half-empty wine bottle from a nearby table and swung it with all her might.

There was a sickening crack as the bottle shattered against the side of Alex's head.

Pain, sharp and blinding, exploded behind her eyes. The club lights spun into a dizzying kaleidoscope. The music warped into a distorted scream.

She felt a warm, sticky wetness spreading through her hair and down her neck.

Through the haze, she saw Chastity raise the broken, jagged neck of the bottle, her face twisted in a mask of pure hatred.

"You ruined everything!" Chastity shrieked.

A second blow landed on her shoulder, a searing, tearing pain.

Alex's knees buckled. The world went dark. Her last conscious thought was of the cold, indifferent look in her husband's eyes as she fell, a forgotten casualty in his sick, secret war.