Emma crossed the street, her steps lighter than they had been in weeks, and walked into the opulent lobby of the Chaney building.

Three days later, Emma wore a brand-new, sharp navy blue pantsuit. She sat in her private office at Diego's firm.

She hit the enter key, firing off the final competitor analysis report to the client.

Diego knocked on the open glass door and walked in. "Incredible work, Emma. Let's celebrate your first week. Le Bernardin, seven o'clock."

Emma hesitated, wanting to go home and rest, but realizing she had finally earned her own money, she nodded. "I'd love to."

At seven o'clock, they sat at a quiet window table in the three-Michelin-starred restaurant.

The lighting was soft and amber. A violinist played a slow classical piece in the corner.

Diego raised his crystal champagne flute. Emma raised her glass of sparkling water. They smiled and clinked their glasses together.

Suddenly, the heavy revolving doors at the entrance pushed open, causing a ripple of whispers to spread through the dining room.

Denton walked in, wearing a bespoke black suit. Hanging off his arm was Beverly, draped in a glittering evening gown.

The maître d' rushed forward, bowing slightly, guiding them toward the center VIP table.

As Denton moved, his peripheral vision caught the window table. His footsteps stopped dead.

His eyes locked onto Emma, who was smiling warmly at Diego. The temperature in Denton's eyes dropped to absolute zero.

Beverly followed his gaze. A tiny, malicious smirk twitched at the corner of her mouth before she hid it.

Denton didn't go to his table. He changed direction, his long strides eating up the distance toward the window.

His leather shoes made no sound on the thick carpet, but the suffocating pressure of his presence made the air around them freeze.

Emma felt the shadow fall over her. She looked up and met Denton's bloodshot, furious eyes.

Denton slammed both hands flat onto their dining table, leaning down to invade their space. He let out a harsh, grating sneer.

"Refusing to sign the divorce papers because you were busy securing your next meal ticket?" Denton's voice was loud enough to carry to the neighboring tables.

Diego stood up instantly, stepping in front of Emma. "Back off, Chaney. Watch your mouth."

Denton didn't even look at Diego. "Picking up the trash the Chaney family threw out? How desperate are you, Pena?"

The words were brutally vile. Around them, wealthy patrons stopped eating, turning their heads to watch the scandal unfold.

Emma's face drained of all color. Her fingers gripped the white tablecloth so hard her joints ached.

Beverly stepped up, placing a delicate hand on Denton's arm. "Denton, please," she cooed loudly. "Don't humiliate my sister in public. She can't help herself."

The fake pity was gasoline on a fire. Denton glared at Emma. "Vicious and completely shameless."

Emma snapped. She stood up, pushing past Diego's protective arm, stepping right into Denton's space.

She tilted her chin up, her voice steady and ringing with defiance. "I am eating a meal paid for by my own salary. You have no right to speak to me."

Denton stared at the new suit she was wearing-clothes he hadn't bought, a life she was building without him. A wild, uncontrollable rage flared in his chest.

He ground his teeth together. "You will pay for your stupidity today, Emma."

He grabbed Beverly's arm and stormed out of the restaurant, leaving a stunned silence in his wake. As Denton pushed through the revolving doors, he pulled out his phone and made a brief, cold call. "Keep an eye on her. And on Pena. I want to know every move they make."

Emma felt all the strength drain from her muscles. She collapsed back into her chair, her palms slick with cold sweat.

Emma declined Diego's offer to drive her home, not wanting to drag him further into the mess. She hailed a yellow cab alone.

At ten o'clock, the taxi pulled up to the Chaney building. A freezing mix of rain and sleet was falling over New York.

Emma pulled her coat tight and hurried through the lobby, taking the elevator straight to the penthouse.

The apartment was pitch black. The smell of alcohol in the air was suffocatingly thick, much worse than before.

She didn't turn on the lights. She kicked off her heels and walked barefoot, trying to be completely silent as she headed for the guest bedroom. As she passed the study, she heard the faint clink of ice against crystal from the shadows inside. Her heart skipped a beat, and she quickened her pace.

Her fingers just brushed the cold metal of the doorknob when a massive, burning-hot hand shot out from the dark and clamped around her wrist like a vice.

Emma screamed. A terrifying force yanked her backward, slamming her hard against the hallway wall.

The impact knocked the breath out of her lungs. Her spine throbbed with pain.

Her first thought, cutting through the panic like a blade, was the baby. Protect the baby. Her arms flew to her stomach, crossing over it as she hit the wall, absorbing as much of the impact as she could with her shoulders and back.

Denton's massive frame pressed against her, pinning her to the wall. His breath, reeking of hard liquor, ghosted over her face.

His eyes were wild, bloodshot, and completely unhinged.

"Did he touch you?" Denton snarled, his voice vibrating with raw aggression. "Did that bastard Pena put his hands on you?"

"No!" Emma shook her head frantically, twisting her wrist, but his grip was like iron.

Denton didn't believe her. He grabbed both of her wrists in one hand and slammed them against the wall above her head.

With his free hand, he gripped the collar of her silk blouse and ripped it downward. The buttons popped off, scattering across the hardwood floor like bullets.

"If you won't sign the papers," he growled against her skin, "then I still have the right to exercise my duties as your husband."

He buried his face in her neck, biting and sucking roughly at her skin. There was no passion, only violent punishment.

Absolute terror seized Emma's heart. Not for herself, but for the tiny, fragile life growing inside her.

When Denton forced his knee between her legs, trying to pry them apart, maternal instinct took over completely.

Adrenaline flooded her veins. She ripped one hand free, brought her right knee up, and drove it violently into his stomach.

Denton grunted in pain, his grip loosening for a fraction of a second.

Emma twisted her body, raised her hand, and slapped him across the face with every ounce of strength she possessed.

SMACK.

The sharp, explosive sound echoed through the dead silence of the hallway.

Denton's head snapped to the side. He froze completely, his chest heaving.

Emma scrambled away, pressing her back into the corner of the wall. She crossed both arms tightly over her stomach, glaring at him like a cornered wolf protecting its cub.

She was shaking violently from head to toe. "Don't touch me!" she screamed, her voice cracking. "You disgust me! You're dirty!"

Those words hit Denton like a bucket of ice water. The raw, unfiltered revulsion in her eyes completely killed his rage.

His massive ego took a catastrophic hit. He slowly stood up straight, his chest rising and falling. He adjusted his ruined collar.

His eyes turned to dead, empty voids.

He looked down at her shivering form. "I swear to God," he said, his voice terrifyingly calm, "I would rather touch a beggar on the street than lay one finger on you ever again."

He turned and walked away, slamming the master bedroom door so hard the walls shook.

Emma slid down the wall, gasping for air in the dark. Her hands never left her stomach.

Emma stood in the guest bathroom, letting the scalding water from the shower beat against her skin for half an hour until she was red and raw.

The next morning, she walked into Diego's consulting firm, thick concealer hiding the dark circles under her eyes.

The moment she stepped off the elevator, the frantic, chaotic energy of the office hit her.

Employees were running down the halls. Phones were ringing off the hook. Several desks already had cardboard packing boxes on them.

She rushed to Diego's office. Through the glass, she saw him yanking his tie loose, screaming into his phone in rapid Spanish.

He slammed the receiver down. He looked up, saw Emma, and forced a tired, strained smile.

Emma walked in. "Diego, what is happening?"

Diego didn't speak. He turned his Bloomberg Terminal monitor toward her.

The screen was a sea of flashing red numbers. Chaney Media Group, using a dozen shell companies, had launched a massive, coordinated short-selling attack on Diego's primary clients the second the market opened.

Simultaneously, three major financial news outlets had published coordinated hit pieces accusing Diego's firm of accounting fraud.

"My credit lines are frozen," Diego said, rubbing his temples. "We have maybe forty-eight hours before we file for bankruptcy."

Emma felt like she had been struck by lightning. This was Denton. This was his retaliation for the slap last night.

Her personal cell phone vibrated violently in her pocket.

She pulled it out. The caller ID read: Leland Rios—her father.

She answered. Before she could speak, her father's frantic, screaming voice blasted through the speaker.

"Emma! Denton just pulled every single bridge loan keeping the family business afloat! The banks are calling in the debts today!" Leland roared. "Get on your knees, crawl back to him, and beg for forgiveness, or you will ruin us all!"

Emma's expression turned to stone. "That is the price you pay for selling your daughter," she said coldly, and hung up. She powered the phone off.

But looking at Diego, who was burying his face in his hands, the guilt crushed her chest.

She couldn't let the only person who helped her be destroyed because of her toxic marriage.

Emma grabbed her coat and ran out of the office.

Thirty minutes later, she stood on the top floor of the Chaney Building, the absolute epicenter of Manhattan's corporate power.

The executive assistants saw her face and immediately looked down. No one dared to stop her.

Emma pushed open the heavy double doors of the CEO's office and marched in.

Denton sat in his massive leather chair, casually spinning a Montblanc pen between his fingers. He looked like he had been expecting her.

Emma slammed her hands down on his mahogany desk. "Stop the hostile takeover on Diego's firm right now."

Denton raised an eyebrow, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. "Coming to beg for your lover already?"

He opened his top drawer, pulled out the divorce settlement agreement, and tossed it onto the desk.

"Sign it. Leave with nothing. And I'll call off the dogs on Pena."

Emma stared at the thick stack of paper. Her mind raced to the astronomical costs of private hospital deliveries, diapers, and raising a child alone in New York. Her fingers twitched.

She gritted her teeth. She grabbed the agreement, ripped it violently in half, and threw the pieces right at Denton's face.

She turned around and walked out without a single word. The negotiation was dead.

Denton watched her leave, his jaw tight. The torn papers lay scattered across his desk like dead leaves. He didn't move for a long moment. Then his private cell phone rang, shattering the silence.

He glanced at the screen. Alex.

"What?" he answered, his voice clipped.

"Mr. Chaney, there's been an accident." Alex's voice was tight with urgency. "Beverly's car was hit on her way back from a follow-up neurological appointment downtown. The ambulance is taking her to NewYork-Presbyterian. The emergency room just called—she's hemorrhaging. They're saying the blood bank is critically low on her type."

Denton shot to his feet. The Montblanc pen rolled off the desk and clattered to the floor.

"What's her blood type?"

"Rh-negative AB. It's rare, sir. They're searching the regional bank now, but—"

"I'm on my way." Denton grabbed his coat and strode toward the door. He paused, his hand on the frame, and looked back at his security chief who had appeared in the doorway. "Find Emma. Bring her to the hospital. She's the same blood type."

The security chief nodded and disappeared. Denton took the private elevator straight to the underground garage. The engine of his black Aston Martin roared to life. He tore out of the parking structure and into the sleet-covered streets, weaving through traffic with brutal precision.

Fifteen minutes later, he screeched to a halt outside the VIP emergency entrance of NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital. He abandoned the car at the curb and ran inside.

The fluorescent lights of the corridor were blinding. A trauma team was rushing a gurney through the double doors. Denton caught a glimpse of Beverly's pale face and the dark stain spreading across her white dress before the doors swung shut.

A doctor approached him, pulling down her surgical mask. "Mr. Chaney? Your wife—"

"She's not my wife," Denton cut in. "What's her status?"

The doctor blinked, then nodded. "She's lost a significant amount of blood. We need to transfuse immediately, but the regional blood bank just confirmed they have only one unit of Rh-negative AB available. We need at least three."

"I'm bringing a donor," Denton said flatly. "Same blood type. She'll be here shortly."

He pulled out his phone and dialed the security team. "Where is she?"

"Five minutes out, sir. We picked her up on Fifth Avenue."

Denton ended the call and began pacing. The adrenaline was still pumping through his veins, his shirt damp from the sleet outside. He stripped off his coat and threw it over a waiting room chair.

He glanced down. A small smear of fresh blood stained the front of his white shirt, just below the ribs. It wasn't his. It must have transferred when he leaned over the gurney as it passed—Beverly's blood, soaking through the rails onto his chest. He hadn't even noticed.

He didn't bother trying to wipe it off. His eyes fixed on the emergency room doors, waiting.