Chapter 5

Ellie Gilbert POV:

I lay curled on the floor amidst the ruins of my room, the torn remnants of my life scattered around me like confetti at a funeral. The stack of hundred-dollar bills Jace had left on the dresser was a monument to his contempt. I didn't touch it. I wouldn't let him buy my forgiveness, not this time.

In the distance, I heard the faint roar of a helicopter taking off from the building's rooftop helipad. One of the maids, a young girl with pity in her eyes, timidly peeked into the room.

"Ms. Valentine has left for a weekend in the Hamptons, Mrs. Sharpe," she whispered.

I didn't respond. Fallon's absence brought no relief, only a deeper, more profound emptiness. I idly scrolled through my phone, a masochistic impulse driving me to look. The society pages were already buzzing. Jace had posted a photo on his private Instagram, a candid shot of Fallon laughing on the helicopter, the wind whipping through her hair. His caption was a single word: "Mine."

A wave of nausea washed over me. I threw the phone across the room, where it clattered against the wall and fell silent. The word echoed in my head. Mine. He had once said that to me, whispered it against my skin in the dark. Now, the word was a brand, searing another woman's claim onto his heart.

Love, I realized with a chilling clarity, didn't just die. Jace's love hadn't faded; it had been transferred. I was a property he had divested from, his emotional capital now fully invested in Fallon.

The weekend passed in a grey, timeless fog. On Monday morning, the news broke. Fallon Valentine's helicopter had vanished from radar somewhere off the coast of Montauk. A storm had blown in unexpectedly. Debris had been found, but there was no sign of her or the pilot.

Jace's reaction was primal. A raw, guttural cry of anguish tore from his throat when his head of security delivered the news. He shattered the crystal glass in his hand, not even noticing the blood that welled from his palm.

He became a man possessed. He mobilized every resource of the Sharpe empire, dispatching a private fleet of boats and helicopters to scour the coastline. The Coast Guard was a bit player in the face of his personal, frantic search.

The media, ever the sycophants, spun it as a tale of epic devotion. "Golden Boy's Desperate Search for His Lost Love," the headlines blared. They showed footage of Jace, unshaven and haunted, standing on a windswept cliff, staring out at the turbulent sea. He even made a pilgrimage to St. Patrick's Cathedral, the place where we were married, and was photographed on his knees, praying for Fallon's safe return. He was praying to a god he didn't believe in, in a church that now represented his broken vows to me, all for her.

I watched it all on the news, a bitter, acidic taste in my mouth. They were celebrating his infidelity, sanctifying his betrayal. This twisted, obsessive performance was being lauded as the height of romance. The world was applauding the very man who had forced me to abort our child and had my womb carved out of my body. The hypocrisy was so profound it made me physically ill.

Then, just as suddenly as she had vanished, Fallon returned.

She stumbled into the penthouse in the middle of the night, not alone. She was being dragged by two brutish-looking men, their faces hard and their suits ill-fitting. They were followed by a third man, slick and dangerous, with dead eyes and a cruel twist to his lips. Fallon's dress was torn, her face bruised.

"Well, well, Sharpe," the slick man said, his voice a low growl. "Look what we found washed up on shore." He shoved Fallon forward, and she crumpled to the floor. "Seems your girl here owes my boss a lot of money. The Valentines thought they could welsh on a deal. We're here to collect."

He named a figure that was astronomical, even for Jace. "You have one hour to make the transfer. Or we take the girl back. And this time, you won't find her."

Jace stared at the men, his mind racing, calculating. The security in the building had been compromised. They were outgunned. His eyes darted around the room, landing on me where I stood frozen in the doorway.

A horrifying idea began to form in his eyes. A plan so monstrous, so utterly devoid of humanity, it took my breath away. He was going to use me.

He looked at me, his gaze no longer that of a husband or even a man. It was the look of a general sacrificing a pawn.

"Ellie," he said, his voice dangerously calm. "Get the keys to the Bentley. You're going to create a diversion."