Chapter 3

Alex POV:

Just as the light began to fade from Charity' s bulging eyes, the door flew open again. Dwight stood there, his face a mask of fury.

"Alex, let her go!" he bellowed.

He moved faster than I' d ever seen him move. He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my flesh like talons, and ripped me away from her. The force of it sent me stumbling backward, my shoulder slamming hard into the edge of a minimalist bookshelf. A sharp, searing pain shot down my arm, and I cried out, clutching it.

Charity collapsed to the floor, gasping and choking, greedily sucking air into her lungs.

Dwight didn't even glance at me. He rushed to her side, gathering her into his arms, cradling her head against his chest. "It' s okay, baby, it' s okay. I' m here," he murmured, his voice thick with a tenderness he hadn't used with me in years.

He looked up at me, his eyes blazing with contempt. "The helicopter is on its way. Your father is being prepped for transport to Lenox Hill. Dr. Evans is waiting."

My heart gave a painful lurch of relief, but it was immediately swamped by the bitterness of the scene in front of me.

"Let me see," I demanded, my voice tight with pain and suspicion. I wasn't going to take his word for anything ever again.

He shot me a look of disgust but pulled out his phone and jabbed a number. A moment later, he thrust the phone at me. "Talk to the head nurse."

I saw a live video feed on the screen. My father, pale and still, hooked up to a dozen machines. A team of medics was bustling around him. A woman in scrubs turned to the camera. "Mrs. Adkins? We're stabilizing him for transport now. Mr. Adkins has arranged everything."

A wave of dizziness washed over me. I handed the phone back to Dwight, the adrenaline that had been fueling me draining away, leaving only a hollow, aching exhaustion.

"We're getting a divorce, Dwight," I said, the words tasting like ash in my mouth.

He was still cradling Charity, gently stroking her hair. He didn't even look at me. "Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm not being ridiculous. It's over."

"No," he said, his voice dangerously calm. "It's not. We had a deal. For better or for worse. You don't get to just walk away."

"You did," I shot back. "The moment you let her into our lives."

He finally looked at me, his eyes cold as ice. "She's a child, Alex. This isn't her fault. It's yours. You're the one who can't control yourself." He looked down at Charity's bloody face with a pained expression. "You never could."

"You and I are bound together, Alex," he said, his voice dropping to a low, possessive growl. "By God, by law, by everything we've been through. You will never be free of me. Ever."

The finality in his tone sent a chill down my spine.

I turned away from him, pulling a cigarette from the pack in my pocket. My hand was shaking, and the white paper was smeared with Charity's blood from my fingers. I lit it, the acrid smoke a welcome burn in my lungs. My phone buzzed. A message from my lawyer. He was on standby.

"Tell your people to bring a medic," Dwight said, his voice returning to its usual commanding tone. "For your shoulder."

I just laughed, a bitter, broken sound. "You break me, and then you offer to fix me. That's always been your way, hasn't it?"

I remembered the time he' d thrown a glass at the wall in a rage, and a shard had flown out and cut my cheek. He' d spent the next hour meticulously cleaning and bandaging the wound, his hands gentle, his eyes full of remorse. The scar was still there, a faint silver line, just like the one on his arm where the chip used to be. Both marks of his love. Both lies.

Ignoring him, I walked out of the loft and sent a message to my lawyer. `Prepare the papers. No settlement. I want nothing. Just a signature.`

I took a cab to Lenox Hill, the city lights blurring past the window. By the time I got there, my father was already in the ICU. I rushed toward his room, my heart pounding in my ears. As I rounded a corner, I heard two nurses whispering by a station.

"Can you believe it? That poor old man... his own son-in-law refused to help at first. Said something about 'cosmic balance'..."

The floor seemed to drop out from under me. I stumbled, my injured shoulder screaming in protest as I slammed against the wall to catch myself. I pushed off, my vision tunneling, and practically ran the rest of the way to his room.

And then I saw him.

He was lying on the bed, but he was too still. The rhythmic beep of the heart monitor was gone, replaced by a single, flat, unending tone. A white sheet was pulled up over his face.

No.

No, no, no.

"Dad?" I whispered, my voice a child's plea. I stepped into the room, my legs feeling like lead. I reached out a trembling hand and pulled back the sheet.

His face was peaceful, but his skin was waxy and gray. His eyes were closed. He was gone.

"Dad, wake up," I said, shaking his arm. "Come on, Dad. I'm here. It's Alex. I'm here now."

My words echoed in the sterile, silent room. He didn't move. He would never move again.

A strangled sob tore from my throat. I collapsed against the bed, my body shaking with a grief so profound it felt like it was ripping me apart.

And then I heard it.

From the room next door. A peal of light, feminine laughter. Charity's voice.

"Oh, Dwight, you're the best. I'm starving! Could you get me that organic kale smoothie from that place on Madison? The one with the extra spirulina?"

A wave of icy rage cut through my grief. I stood up, my body trembling, and walked out of my father's room.

The door to the next room was ajar. Dwight was standing by the bed, smiling down at Charity, who was propped up against a mountain of pillows. Her face was cleaned up, her nose bandaged, but the smug, victorious look was back in her eyes.

She saw me standing in the doorway. Her smile widened.

"Oh, look who it is," she said, her voice dripping with fake sympathy. "Did you come to see how a real woman is treated by her man?"

Dwight turned. His smile vanished when he saw my face. He wouldn't meet my eyes. He looked at the wall, at the floor, anywhere but at me.

I took a step into the room. "Look at me, Dwight."

He didn't move.

I walked over to him, grabbed his chin, and forced his head up, making him face me. His eyes were full of something I couldn't read-guilt, maybe? Annoyance? It didn't matter.

"He's dead," I said, my voice cracking. "My father is dead."

Dwight's expression didn't change. He just stared at me, his face a blank mask. "I'm sorry for your loss, Alex."

That was it. "I'm sorry for your loss." The kind of empty platitude you offer a stranger.

A sound, half-laugh, half-sob, escaped my lips. Then, the rage I'd been holding back exploded.

My hand flew up, and I slapped him across the face, the sound echoing in the quiet room like a gunshot. His head snapped to the side, a red mark blooming on his cheek.

"How dare you!" Charity shrieked, trying to get out of bed. "Don't you touch him!"

I turned on her and slapped her too, so hard her head hit the pillow with a dull thud.

Dwight flinched, not at the slap, but at the single tear that finally escaped my eye and traced a path down my cheek. He looked at me then, truly looked at me, and his mask of indifference cracked. He looked stunned, as if he'd never seen me cry before.

The memory hit me with the force of a punch. Years ago, when his mother was going through chemo, her hair falling out in clumps, he had held me and wept, his body shaking with grief and fear. I had held him, stroked his hair, and promised him I would never leave his side. I would bear any burden for him.

"You lied to me," I whispered, the words raw and broken. "All this time. You lied."

"Alex," he started, his voice suddenly soft, reaching for me. "Let's not do this here."

"Don't touch me," I snarled, recoiling from his hand as if it were a snake. "You promised a 'grand funeral' for my father. A promise you made to my face after letting him die. Do you remember?" The Chinese words slipped out, a language of old griefs, of promises broken.

He flinched at the unfamiliar words, his brow furrowing in confusion.

"You promised," I repeated, my voice rising to a hysterical pitch. "Another lie! Just like all the others!"

"I'll arrange the best funeral," he said quickly, his voice placating, as if speaking to a child. "The best of everything, Alex, I promise."

Another promise. It was worthless.

I reached up and pulled the heavy, ornate hairpin from my chignon. It was a gift from him, from a trip to Asia years ago. Solid silver, with a pointed, deadly tip.

Before he could react, I lunged forward and plunged the pin deep into his shoulder, the same one he had ripped away from Charity.

He roared in pain, stumbling back.

I stood over him, the hairpin still in my hand, now slick with his blood. I looked from his shocked, pained face to Charity's terrified one.

"You want to know what I want, Dwight?" I asked, my voice deadly calm. "I want you to pick up that IV stand. And I want you to break her leg."