Three days later.

The apartment in Brooklyn was a shoebox.

It was a far cry from the penthouse in Manhattan-no doorman, no floor-to-ceiling windows, just a cramped living room that connected to a tiny kitchen. But it was hers. It was hidden.

Elinor sat on the floor, surrounded by cardboard boxes. She pulled out a small, pink sweater. It still smelled faintly of the hospital, of Cece. She pressed it to her face, inhaling the scent, her eyes burning.

A loud, aggressive buzzing shattered the silence.

Elinor's head snapped up. She stared at the door.

The buzzing came again, longer this time, followed by a heavy pounding.

"Elinor! Open the door!"

Derick's voice was muffled by the wood, but the fury in it was unmistakable.

Elinor scrambled to her feet, her heart hammering against her ribs. She backed away from the door, her eyes darting around the room.

"I know you're in there!" Derick yelled. "Open it, or I'll break it down!"

Elinor pressed a hand over her mouth to stifle her breathing. She wasn't ready. She couldn't face him, not here, not in this small space where she couldn't escape.

A metallic clicking sound came from the lock. Derick hadn't become a billionaire by taking no for an answer. He had resources.

The lock clicked. The door flew open, slamming against the wall with a bang.

Derick stood in the doorway, his chest heaving. Two men in suits stood behind him, one holding a lockpicking tool. Derick dismissed them with a jerk of his head, and they retreated down the hall.

He stepped inside, his eyes scanning the cramped, dingy apartment. His lip curled in distaste. "This is where you're hiding? Slumming it?"

Elinor grabbed a pair of heavy fabric scissors from the table behind her. She held them up, the point aimed at his chest. "Get out."

Derick ignored the scissors. He walked further into the room, his expensive shoes crunching on a piece of packing tape. He looked at the boxes, the scattered clothes, the lack of a second bedroom.

"Where is she?" he asked, his voice dropping to a dangerous rumble. "Where is Cece?"

"I told you," Elinor said, her hand shaking, the scissors wobbling. "She's dead."

"Stop lying!" Derick closed the distance between them in two steps. He grabbed the blades of the scissors with his bare hand, squeezing them tight enough that the metal bit into his palm. He wrenched them out of her grip and threw them across the room. They clattered against the kitchen counter.

He grabbed Elinor by the upper arms and slammed her back against the wall. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs.

"Where is my daughter?" he demanded, his face inches from hers, his breath hot on her skin.

Elinor gasped, trying to inhale. And then she smelled it. The faint, cloying scent of gardenias. Kamryn's signature perfume. It clung to Derick's collar, a ghost of the woman he had just left.

A wave of nausea rolled through Elinor. Her stomach heaved. This man, who had just been holding another woman, was now pressing her against a wall, demanding to see the child he had ignored.

"Let me go," she choked out, struggling against his grip.

Derick pressed his body closer, using his weight to pin her. He thought she would submit. He thought the familiar proximity would calm her, remind her of who she belonged to.

Elinor looked into his eyes. She saw only arrogance. Only possession. No remorse. No grief.

The disgust was overpowering. She gathered every ounce of saliva in her dry mouth and spat directly into his face.

Derick froze. The wet glob hit his cheek, sliding down toward his jaw. His eyes went wide with shock, then narrowed to slits.

He released one of her arms to wipe his face, his hand shaking with rage. He grabbed her chin, his fingers digging into the hinges of her jaw, forcing her to look at him.

"You are testing my patience," he said, his voice a low, venomous whisper. "Don't push me."

"Your patience?" Elinor laughed, a bitter, broken sound. "Your patience is for that fraud you keep on a leash?"

Derick's grip tightened on her chin. The mention of Kamryn was a red flag. "You're delusional. Kamryn is the only sane woman in my life."

"Then go to her," Elinor said, her voice dead. "Go back to your fake family."

Derick stared at her for a long moment, his chest heaving. He wanted to shake her. He wanted to force the truth out of her. But the deadness in her eyes unsettled him.

He released her chin with a shove. "There is no divorce," he said, adjusting his cuffs. "A Grant doesn't get divorced. You'll come home when you're done throwing your tantrum."

He turned and walked out, leaving the broken door hanging off its hinges.

Elinor slid down the wall, her legs giving out. She wrapped her arms around her knees, her body trembling uncontrollably. She fumbled for her phone on the floor beside her.

"Hello," she said, her voice hoarse. "I need a heavy-duty deadbolt installed. Today. And a security system. The best you have."

The nightmare was always the same.

Cece was lying on a cold metal table, her skin blue, her eyes open. She was reaching out her hand, her mouth moving, but no sound came out. And Elinor was running, running down an endless hallway, the walls closing in, never reaching her.

Elinor woke with a gasp, her body drenched in sweat. The bedroom was pitch black, the only sound the hum of the window unit.

Then she heard it. A rustling in the living room.

Her hand shot out, reaching for her phone on the nightstand. Her fingers brushed the empty surface. She must have knocked it off.

The bedroom door creaked open.

Elinor scrambled back against the headboard, her heart in her throat. A silhouette filled the doorway.

Derick.

He stepped into the room, flipping on the bedside lamp. He was carrying three large shopping bags, the kind from high-end boutiques on Fifth Avenue.

"How did you get in?" Elinor demanded, her voice raw.

Derick dangled a brass key from his finger. "A few thousand dollars made the super very cooperative. He had a spare."

He dropped the bags on the floor with a heavy thud. He walked to the closet and pulled it open, looking inside. Empty. He checked under the bed. Nothing.

"Where is she?" he asked, turning back to face her.

Elinor threw the covers off and got out of bed. She shoved him hard in the chest. "Get out! You can't just break into my home!"

Derick grabbed her wrists, holding her at bay. "Where is Cece, Elinor? I bought her things." He gestured to the bags. "New dresses. Toys."

Elinor looked at the bags. She saw the pink tissue paper poking out of one. Pink. Cece's favorite color.

A red haze descended over her vision.

"She's dead!" Elinor screamed. The sound tore from her throat, raw and ragged. "She's dead! She can't wear them! She can't play with them!"

Derick's expression hardened. "Stop the act."

He reached into the bag and pulled out a frilly, pink dress. He shoved it into Elinor's hands. "Put it away. I'm not playing this game."

Elinor stared at the dress. The fabric was soft, expensive. It was the kind of dress Cece would have loved, the kind she would have twirled in.

Elinor dropped the dress on the floor. She brought her foot down on it, grinding the heel of her bare foot into the delicate fabric.

She turned to the other bags. She kicked them over, scattering the boxes. She picked up a stuffed unicorn and ripped its head off, the seams tearing with a loud rrrip. She threw the pieces at Derick.

"You think you can buy her back?" she yelled, her voice breaking. "You think a dress makes you a father?"

Derick stood still, watching her destroy the gifts. His jaw was tight, his eyes unreadable. He didn't try to stop her.

Elinor ran out of things to throw. She stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by torn fabric and broken toys, her chest heaving. Her legs wobbled. The adrenaline was fading, leaving her hollow and weak.

Derick's phone rang.

The cheerful, custom ringtone filled the silence. Kamryn's tone.

Derick pulled the phone from his pocket. He looked at the screen, then at Elinor, who was swaying on her feet.

He answered it. "Kamryn?"

"Derick," Kamryn's voice simpered through the speaker. "Kiana had a nightmare. She's crying for you. Can you come?"

Derick looked at the mess on the floor, at the wife who was staring at him with eyes that held no life. He looked back at the phone.

"I'll be right there," he said.

He hung up. He looked at Elinor. "You need to cool off. I'll be back when you're ready to be rational."

He turned and walked out of the bedroom. The front door opened and closed.

Elinor stared after him. A laugh bubbled up from her chest, a high, keening sound that didn't sound like her. It was the laugh of a woman who had lost everything, even her own mind.

The laugh died in her throat. The room tilted sideways. The edges of her vision went black.

She reached out for the bedpost, but her hand closed on air. Her knees buckcled.

She fell forward, her head striking the corner of the wooden dresser on the way down. A blinding white pain exploded in her skull.

She hit the floor. She felt the warm, wet stickiness spreading beneath her head. She tried to move, but her body wouldn't obey.

The last thing she saw before the darkness took her was a flash of pink fabric on the floor, and a small hand reaching out to her from the shadows.

Derick was halfway to the elevator when the feeling hit him.

It was a cold knot in his stomach, a prickle on the back of his neck. He had seen Elinor angry. He had seen her hysterical. But he had never seen her eyes go blank like that. He had never heard that sound-the laugh that wasn't a laugh.

He paused, his hand hovering over the elevator button. Kamryn was waiting. Kiana needed him.

But the image of Elinor falling back against the wall, her face ashen, flashed in his mind. The super had said she hadn't left the apartment in days. The fridge was empty except for stale takeout boxes.

"Damn it," Derick muttered.

He turned around and walked back down the hall. He pushed open the broken door.

"Elinor," he called out, his voice sharp. "I forgot my-"

He stopped.

Elinor was lying on the bedroom floor, crumpled at an unnatural angle. A dark pool of liquid was spreading beneath her head, soaking into the cheap carpet.

Derick's heart stopped. The world narrowed to the woman on the floor and the blood.

"Elinor!" He sprinted across the room, dropping to his knees beside her. He gathered her into his arms, his hands shaking. Her face was white, her skin cold and clammy. A deep gash on her forehead was still bleeding.

"Hey!" he yelled, tapping her cheek. "Wake up! Open your eyes!"

She didn't respond. Her head lolled against his arm.

Derick pulled out his phone with trembling fingers. He bypassed 911 and dialed a direct number.

"Finch," the voice answered on the first ring.

"Alistair, it's Derick," he said, his voice tight. "Elinor's hurt. She's unconscious. Bleeding from the head. Get to Brooklyn, now."

He gave the address, dropping the phone without hanging up. He pressed his hand against the wound, trying to staunch the flow of blood. It seeped between his fingers, warm and red.

Twenty minutes later, the front door banged open. Dr. Alistair Finch, the Grant family physician, rushed in, his medical bag in hand. He was followed by a nurse.

"Put her on the bed," Finch ordered.

Derick carried her to the mattress, laying her down gently. He stepped back, his hands covered in her blood, his breath coming in short gasps.

Finch worked quickly, cleaning the wound, injecting a local anesthetic, and stitching the gash closed. He checked her pupils, her pulse, her blood pressure. He hooked up an IV bag of saline to a stand, the needle sliding into the back of her hand.

When he finally stepped back, he looked at Derick. His expression was grim.

"She's severely malnourished," Finch said. "Dehydrated. Exhaustion. The fall was a result of her body shutting down. Another few hours without intervention, and she might not have woken up at all."

Derick stared at the unconscious woman on the bed. She looked so small, so fragile. The bones of her wrists were sharp beneath the tape holding the IV in place.

"Will she live?" Derick asked, his voice rough.

"Physically, yes," Finch said. "But if she suffers another shock like this, it could kill her. She needs rest. She needs care. Not whatever the hell is on here."

Finch packed up his bag and left, the nurse following.

Derick stood in the silence of the apartment. He pulled a chair up to the bedside and sat down. He watched the slow rise and fall of her chest.

Hours passed. The sun went down, casting the room in shadows.

Elinor began to moan. Her head tossed on the pillow, her brow furrowed. Tears leaked from the corners of her closed eyes.

"No," she whimpered. "Please... don't take it."

Derick leaned forward, his hand hovering over hers, unsure if he should touch her.

Elinor's hand shot out. She grabbed Derick's wrist, her grip surprisingly strong, her nails digging into his skin.

"My baby," Elinor sobbed, her body wracking with tremors. "Cece... no... please..." The rest was a torrent of anguished, incoherent mumbling. He caught fragments, disjointed words that made no sense, lost in the raw sound of her grief.

Elinor's eyes flew open.

She gasped, a sharp intake of breath, and sat bolt upright. She looked around the room, her eyes wild, before landing on Derick.

She scrambled backward, pressing herself against the headboard, her chest heaving. She reached up and touched the bandage on her forehead, wincing.

"Stay away from me," she whispered.

Derick raised his hands, palms out. "You passed out. Finch stitched you up."

Elinor stared at him, her eyes flicking to the IV in her hand, then back to his face. The wildness faded, replaced by the familiar cold hatred.

Derick's expression hardened, his brief moment of concern vanishing. "So, even in your sleep, you're spinning stories?" he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Quite the performance."

Elinor opened her mouth, a retort on the tip of her tongue, but her stomach interrupted. A loud, prolonged growl filled the room, the sound unmistakable.

Derick blinked. He looked at her flat stomach, then back at her face.

Elinor's cheeks flushed with humiliation. She looked away, her jaw tight.

Derick stood up slowly. "I'll get you something to eat."

He turned and walked out of the bedroom, heading for the tiny kitchen. Elinor watched him go, her hand drifting up to touch the locket that still hung around her neck. The metal was cold, but the hate inside her was burning hotter than ever.