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.

Derick stood in front of the stove, a sight so absurd it might have been funny in another life.

He held a wooden spoon, staring at the pot of bubbling oatmeal like it was a hostile corporate takeover. He had never cooked a meal in his life. The penthouse had a chef; the office had a cafeteria. But the only thing in Elinor's barren cupboards was a canister of rolled oats.

He spooned the thick, beige paste into a bowl. It wasn't pretty, but it was warm.

He walked back to the bedroom. Elinor was trying to swing her legs over the side of the bed, the IV pole rattling.

"Get back in bed," Derick ordered.

"I don't need your help," Elinor snapped, her legs trembling as she tried to stand.

Derick set the bowl on the nightstand and placed his hands on her shoulders, pushing her back against the pillows. She was too weak to fight him.

He picked up the bowl and the spoon. He scooped up a small amount of the oatmeal, blowing on it until the steam dissipated. He held it out to her.

Elinor turned her head away, her lips pressed into a thin line.

"Eat," Derick said.

"I'd rather starve," Elinor replied.

Derick's patience snapped. He dropped the bowl on the nightstand with a clatter. He reached out and grabbed her jaw, his fingers pressing into the hinges, forcing her mouth open.

He picked up the spoon again and shoved it past her lips. "Swallow."

Elinor gagged, the bland taste filling her mouth. She glared at him, her eyes burning with venom, but she swallowed. She refused to give him the satisfaction of choking.

He fed her the rest of the bowl in silence, each spoonful a battle of wills. When it was empty, he set it aside.

He sat on the edge of the bed. He looked at her pale face, the dark circles under her eyes, the white bandage on her head. He reached out and gently brushed a strand of hair away from the gauze.

His touch was light, but his voice was not. "Stop this foolishness," he said, his tone low and commanding. "This self-pity act ends now. You will tell me where Cece is."

The words were a spark in a powder keg.

Elinor slapped his hand away, the sting of the impact sharp in the quiet room. "Don't touch me."

Derick sighed, a sound of pure frustration. He saw her defiance not as grief, but as a stubborn refusal to yield to him. He would remind her who was in control.

He leaned in, his expression shifting from anger to something colder, more possessive. He didn't move slowly. He didn't offer comfort. He grabbed her chin, forcing her face up to his. "Don't you forget, Elinor," he murmured, his voice a venomous caress, "you are still my wife." He pressed his lips against hers, a brutal, punishing kiss meant to dominate, not to soothe.

Elinor froze. The smell of gardenias hit her again, the taste of scotch and arrogance. She thought of Kamryn's smirk, of the phone calls, of the nights he spent away while Cece lay dying. This wasn't affection; it was a violation. An assertion of ownership over a woman he despised.

She didn't pull away. She opened her mouth.

Derick, misinterpreting her stillness as surrender, deepened the kiss, his hand moving to the back of her neck. He thought he had won.

Elinor bit down.

She clamped her jaw shut with every ounce of strength she had left, her teeth sinking into the flesh of his lower lip.

Derick let out a muffled roar of pain. He tried to pull back, but Elinor grabbed the front of his shirt, holding him in place. The metallic taste of blood flooded both their mouths.

He raised his hand and struck her jaw, forcing her mouth open. He stumbled back, his hand clapped over his mouth.

He pulled his hand away. It was covered in blood. His lip was torn, a flap of skin hanging loose.

He stared at Elinor, his eyes wide with shock and fury.

Elinor wiped the back of her hand across her bloody lips. She looked at him with pure, unadulterated disgust.

"You make me sick," she said, her voice cold and clear. "Don't ever touch me again."

Derick's shock curdled into rage. He lunged forward, grabbing a fistful of her shirt, hauling her up. "You crazy bitch!"

Elinor didn't fight. She leaned in, her face inches from his, her bloody mouth twisted into a snarl. "Do it," she hissed. "Hit me. Show me what kind of man you really are."

Derick stared into her eyes. He saw no fear. Only a challenge. Only hate.

His hand trembled. He couldn't do it. He couldn't strike a woman who was already broken.

He released her, shoving her back onto the bed. He turned, his chest heaving, and spotted the glass vase on the dresser. He grabbed it and hurled it against the wall.

The vase exploded. Shards of glass and water rained down.

A sharp piece flew across the room, slicing across Elinor's forearm. A thin line of red appeared. She didn't flinch. She didn't make a sound.

Derick stood there, his shoulders heaving, the blood dripping from his chin. He looked at the mess, at the blood on her arm, and felt a moment of dizziness.

He turned and stormed out of the apartment, the door slamming behind him.

Elinor sat on the bed, surrounded by the broken glass. She reached out and picked up a shard, running the sharp edge along her thumb. It was a clean pain, simple and understandable.

She dropped the glass and reached for her phone on the nightstand. She opened her messages and typed to her lawyer.

Expedite the divorce. Whatever it takes. Do it now.