The Unwanted Wife's Ultimate Escape

The penthouse was too quiet.

It was the kind of dead, suffocating silence that made the blood rushing through Blair's veins sound like a roaring river in her ears.

She sat at the edge of the massive marble dining table.

The Wellington steak sat on a porcelain platter in the center. It had been warm three hours ago. Now, the pastry was cold, stiff, and smelled faintly of congealed butter. The scent made her empty stomach churn violently.

Blair pressed her left thumb into the center of her right wrist.

A sharp, familiar ache throbbed deep beneath the skin, radiating up her forearm. She rubbed the joint in slow, punishing circles. It was a habit she couldn't break. A physical reminder of a past she wasn't allowed to talk about.

She looked up at the wall. The hands of the Patek Philippe clock glowed in the dim light.

It was twelve-fourteen in the morning.

The electronic lock on the front door emitted a sharp, high-pitched beep.

The sound made Blair's stomach tighten into a hard knot. Her pulse hammered against her throat.

The heavy oak door swung open.

Blackburn stepped inside. He brought the bitter, biting chill of the New York winter in with him.

He didn't look at the dining table. He didn't look at her.

His dark hair was slightly windblown. His jaw was set in a hard, unforgiving line. He looked exhausted, but the rigid posture of his broad shoulders showed zero vulnerability.

Blair pushed her chair back. The wooden legs scraped against the hardwood floor. The sound was painfully loud in the empty room.

She walked toward the entryway. Her legs felt heavy, like she was moving through wet concrete.

"You're late," she said.

Her voice was quiet. It barely carried across the distance between them.

Blackburn didn't answer. He reached up and yanked his silk tie loose. He pulled the fabric down an inch, freeing his throat with a gesture of pure irritation.

Blair stopped a foot away from him. She reached out her hands.

"Let me take your coat."

Blackburn shifted his weight. He stepped to the side, completely avoiding her touch.

Her hands grasped empty air.

He shrugged off the heavy wool suit jacket. He didn't hand it to her. He let it drop.

The jacket slid off his arm and fell over the edge of the leather sofa, half of it pooling on the floor.

Blair swallowed hard. Her throat felt like dry sandpaper.

She bent down. Her knees popped in the quiet room. She reached for the dark fabric of his jacket.

As her fingers gripped the wool, she felt something stiff inside the inner breast pocket. It didn't feel like a business card. It was thicker.

She paused. Her heart picked up speed, slamming against her ribs.

She slid her hand into the silk-lined pocket. Her fingers pinched the edge of a piece of glossy photo paper.

She pulled it out.

She flipped the photo over.

All the air rushed out of her lungs.

Her chest caved in. She couldn't draw a breath.

It was a candid shot. The lighting was warm. Blackburn was standing in what looked like a private hospital suite. He was looking down. The harsh, cold lines of his face were completely gone. He looked soft. He looked incredibly gentle.

His hands were raised. He was fastening a heavy diamond necklace around the neck of a woman.

The woman was wearing a white nurse's uniform. She was smiling up at him.

Blair's fingers went entirely numb. The sharp edges of the photo cut into her skin, but she couldn't feel it.

A loud, high-pitched ringing started in her ears. Her stomach pitched violently, acid rising in the back of her throat.

She stared at the woman's face. She didn't know her. But she knew the look in Blackburn's eyes. It was a look he had never, not once in three years of marriage, given to her.

Blackburn turned around.

He had just tossed his keys onto the glass console table. His sharp eyes locked onto Blair.

His gaze dropped to her hands. He saw the photo.

Blair waited for a flash of panic. She waited for him to step forward, to snatch it away, to look guilty.

He didn't.

His dark eyebrows pulled together in a deep frown. The skin around his eyes tightened. There was no guilt on his perfect face. There was only extreme, unfiltered annoyance.

He looked at her like she was a pest that had crawled onto his expensive rug.

"What are you doing?" he asked. His voice was a low, dangerous rumble.

Blair forced her lungs to expand. She took a ragged breath.

She placed the photo down on the marble kitchen island. Her hand was shaking so badly the paper tapped against the stone.

"Who is she?" Blair asked. Her voice cracked on the last word.

Blackburn let out a short, harsh scoff.

He didn't walk toward her. He walked past her. He went straight to the crystal decanters on the wet bar.

He picked up a heavy glass and poured two fingers of amber whiskey.

"Don't cross the line, Blair," he said. He didn't look at her as he spoke. He lifted the glass and took a slow sip.

"The line?" Blair repeated. Her chest burned. "I am your wife."

Blackburn set the glass down. The crystal clinked sharply against the wood.

He turned to face her. His eyes were dead and cold.

"You are Mrs. Gilbert," he corrected her. His tone was flat. "Your job is to smile at galas and spend my money. It does not include going through my pockets. It does not include asking questions."

The words hit her like a physical blow to the stomach. She took a step back.

She looked at the photo on the island, then back at him.

The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.

Blair dug her fingernails into her palms. The sharp pain grounded her.

Her chest felt unbearably tight, as if the air had been violently sucked out of the room. She needed to grab onto something-anything-to prove she was still breathing, still alive beneath the crushing weight of this marriage. Her eyes darted around the cold, immaculate penthouse before she forced herself to speak.

"I got an email today," she said. Her voice was hollow.

Blackburn picked up his glass again. He looked entirely bored.

"The New York Philharmonic," Blair continued. She forced herself to look him in the eye. "They sent me an interview notice. I want to go. I want to work. I want to play the violin again."

Blackburn stopped moving.

His grip on the whiskey glass tightened until his knuckles turned stark white.

He stared at her for three agonizing seconds.

Then, he set the glass down. He walked over to his heavy oak desk in the corner of the room.

He opened the top drawer and pulled out a leather-bound checkbook.

He grabbed a silver pen. He didn't ask her what the job was. He didn't ask her why she wanted to play again.

He just started writing. The scratch of the pen against the paper was loud and aggressive.

He ripped the cashier's check from the book.

He walked back to her. He didn't hand it to her. He flicked his wrist.

The stiff paper fluttered through the air and hit Blair squarely in the chest. It fell to the floor, landing near the toe of her slipper.

Blair looked down.

It was a check for five hundred thousand dollars.

"Pick it up," Blackburn ordered. His voice was pure ice.

Blair didn't move. Her breathing turned shallow and fast.

"Take the money," he said, stepping closer. His towering frame cast a dark shadow over her. "Go buy another Birkin. Go to Paris for the weekend. Do whatever it is you do."

He leaned down, his face inches from hers. She could smell the whiskey and the cold winter air on his skin.

"But do not embarrass me by begging for a job like a commoner. You wanted to be a trophy. So sit on the shelf and be quiet."

He straightened up. He didn't wait for her to answer.

He turned on his heel and walked straight into the master bedroom. The heavy door clicked shut behind him. A second later, the sound of the shower turning on echoed through the wall.

Blair stood frozen in the middle of the room.

A tear broke free and slid down her cheek. It felt hot against her freezing skin.

She looked down at the check on the floor. Five hundred thousand dollars. That was what her dignity cost him.

Suddenly, the screen of her phone lit up on the island. It vibrated violently against the marble.

Blair wiped her face with the back of her hand. She walked over and picked it up.

It was a text message from her older brother, Chaz.

The words on the screen made the blood drain completely from her head.

Blair. The company is gone. The feds are here. Please, save me.

The phone slipped from her numb fingers.

Blair stared at the cracked screen of her phone on the floor.

The words blurred together.

She dropped to her knees. The hard marble bruised her skin, but she didn't feel it.

She snatched the phone up. Her fingers were shaking so violently she nearly dropped it again.

She pressed Chaz's name on the screen. She held the phone to her ear. Her breathing was loud and ragged in the empty room.

The line rang once. Twice.

"You have reached the voicemail of..."

Blair pulled the phone away. Her chest heaved. She pressed end and dialed again.

Voicemail.

She stood up. Her legs felt like they were made of lead.

She paced across the living room. She needed noise. The silence of the penthouse was suffocating her.

She grabbed the remote and turned on the massive flat-screen TV on the wall.

The CNN logo flashed across the screen.

A red banner scrolled across the bottom.

BREAKING NEWS: SEC RAIDS MORGAN GROUP HEADQUARTERS.

Blair stopped walking.

Her blood ran cold. The temperature in her body plummeted.

On the screen, federal agents in dark windbreakers were carrying cardboard boxes out of her family's Wall Street building. Yellow police tape blocked the revolving glass doors.

Her knees gave out.

She hit the hardwood floor hard. A sharp pain shot up her shins.

She couldn't breathe. The air in the room was gone. The century-old Morgan financial dynasty was crumbling on live television.

Then, her phone vibrated in her hand.

She looked down. It wasn't Chaz.

The caller ID read: Mount Sinai Hospital - Emergency.

Blair's stomach dropped into a bottomless pit.

She swiped the screen. She pressed the phone to her ear.

"Hello?" her voice was a harsh whisper.

"Is this Blair Morgan?" a woman asked.

"Yes."

"Your father, Alastair Morgan, was just brought in. He suffered a massive myocardial infarction. He is in resuscitation right now."

The phone slipped an inch down her cheek.

She didn't grab a coat. She didn't change out of her thin cashmere sweater.

She ran out of the penthouse.

The New York winter wind hit her like a wall of ice as she ran out of the lobby. The cold bit into her skin, but she couldn't feel it.

She flagged down a yellow cab.

"Mount Sinai. Fast," she choked out.

The hospital smelled like bleach and sterile alcohol. The scent immediately made her nauseous.

She ran to the ICU desk. Her lungs burned.

A doctor in green scrubs walked up to her. He held a clipboard.

"Ms. Morgan?"

"Where is he?" Blair asked. Her fingernails dug into her palms, breaking the skin.

"He is stabilized on an ECMO machine," the doctor said. His face was grim. He handed her a piece of paper. "This is his critical condition notice. And this is the billing department's estimate. We need a deposit of one hundred thousand dollars to keep the machines running."

Blair looked at the paper. The numbers swam before her eyes.

She pulled her wallet from her purse. She took out her black American Express card. The one tied to the Morgan family trust.

She handed it to the clerk behind the desk.

The clerk swiped it.

The machine beeped. A harsh, angry red light flashed.

DECLINED.

The clerk frowned. She tried it again.

DECLINED.

"Your accounts have been frozen, ma'am," the clerk said. Her voice was flat. She didn't care. "Federal order."

Blair's throat closed up.

She grabbed the card. She backed away from the desk.

She pushed through the heavy fire doors into the stairwell.

It was dark. It smelled like dust and old concrete.

She sat on the cold steps. She pulled up Blackburn's private number.

She hated him. She hated asking him for anything. But her father was dying.

She pressed call.

It rang four times. Then, voicemail.

She hung up. She called again.

Voicemail.

She called fifteen times. Her thumb cramped from pressing the screen.

Nothing.

Her fingers were completely numb. She opened the Twitter app. She searched for Paige Mercer, his assistant. She needed to know where he was.

The trending tab loaded first.

The number one hashtag caught her eye. GilbertDisney

She clicked it.

A video started playing. It had two million views.

It was dark. The sky was lit up with massive, colorful fireworks. The Disney castle glowed in the background. The timestamp in the corner showed it was from the night before, when he had claimed to be locked in a board meeting.

The camera zoomed in on a VIP balcony.

Blackburn was standing there.

He took off his heavy wool coat. The same bespoke design she had seen him wear on countless winter nights.

He wrapped it around the shoulders of a woman.

Below the video, a caption and a tagged username appeared: "Kala @nurse_kala – Disney night "

The nurse from the photo. The one Blair had stared at hours ago, unable to place. Now she had a name. Kala.

Blair's lungs stopped working.

A sharp, tearing pain ripped through her chest. It felt like her heart was physically splitting in half.

Her fingers went slack.

The phone slipped from her hand.

It hit the concrete step and bounced down the stairs. The screen shattered into a spiderweb of glass.

Blair sat in the dark. She didn't cry.

She was completely, utterly empty.

The morning sun offered no warmth.

Blair stood in front of the Gilbert Group headquarters on Wall Street. Her eyes were red and swollen. Her throat was raw.

She walked toward the towering glass doors.

A security guard stepped in front of the turnstiles. He crossed his arms.

"I need to see my husband," Blair said. Her voice was hoarse.

"Mr. Gilbert is not in the building, ma'am," the guard said. He didn't move.

The click-clack of red-soled heels echoed across the marble lobby.

Paige Mercer, Blackburn's chief assistant, walked toward them. She wore a pristine white suit. Her lips were painted a sharp red.

Paige stopped on the other side of the turnstile. She looked Blair up and down. Her eyes lingered on Blair's wrinkled cashmere sweater.

"Mrs. Gilbert," Paige said. Her tone was dripping with condescension. "The CEO is in Orlando handling important private matters. He cannot be disturbed."

Blair gripped the metal bar of the turnstile. "My father is dying. I need to speak to him."

Paige leaned closer. Her voice dropped, but it was loud enough for the passing employees to hear.

"We all saw the news about the Morgan Group's fraud, Blair. Don't bring your family's mess here to bleed Mr. Gilbert dry. He has already instructed us to block all calls from you."

The employees in the lobby stopped walking. They whispered to each other. They pointed at Blair.

Their eyes were full of mockery.

Blair's face burned. A wave of intense humiliation washed over her.

She let go of the metal bar. She straightened her spine. She turned around and walked out of the building.

She dragged her exhausted body back to Mount Sinai Hospital.

The chief doctor was waiting for her outside the ICU. He held a chart.

"Ms. Morgan," he said. "If the deposit is not paid by noon, hospital policy dictates we must disconnect the ECMO machine. I am sorry."

Blair didn't say a word. She walked past him and went straight into the public restroom.

She turned on the faucet. The water was freezing. She splashed it onto her pale face.

She gripped the edges of the porcelain sink. She looked up at the mirror.

Her eyes dropped to her left hand.

The fluorescent light bounced off her ring finger.

A ten-carat pink diamond sat there. It was flawless. It was the Gilbert family heirloom. It was the symbol of her cage.

Blair didn't hesitate.

She grabbed the diamond. She pulled.

The ring slid over her knuckle and came off.

She walked out of the hospital. She took the subway to Fifth Avenue.

She walked down a narrow, hidden alleyway. She pushed open the heavy iron door of an exclusive pawnshop.

The shop smelled like old wood and dust.

An elderly appraiser with silver hair sat behind a thick glass counter.

Blair placed the ring on the velvet mat.

The appraiser picked it up. He screwed a jeweler's loupe into his right eye. He examined the stone.

He lowered the loupe. He looked at Blair. His eyes widened in shock. He recognized the Gilbert diamond.

"I need cash. Now," Blair said. Her voice was dead.

The appraiser saw the desperation in her eyes. He smiled a greedy smile.

"This is a highly recognizable piece," he said. "If you want a collateral loan, I can give you one hundred thousand dollars cash right now. But the interest rate is steep. If you don't redeem it within thirty days, the ring becomes my property."

"Give me the loan contract," Blair demanded.

He slid a piece of paper across the counter. Blair picked up a pen. She signed her name. She didn't care about the exorbitant interest. She just needed her father to live.

She walked out with a bank draft.

She ran back to the hospital. She slapped the draft onto the billing counter.

The printer buzzed. It spit out a long receipt.

Blair walked back to the ICU. She stood in front of the glass window.

She watched her father's chest rise and fall. The steady beep of the heart monitor filled the room.

The tight knot in her chest finally loosened. She let out a long, shaky breath.

She looked down at her left hand.

Her ring finger was bare. There was a faint, pale indentation where the diamond used to sit.

She realized something in that moment. This marriage was never a partnership. It was an execution block. And it was slowly killing her.

Blair reached into her pocket. She pulled out her phone with the shattered screen.

She dialed her family's private lawyer.

"Draft the divorce papers," she said. "I want out."