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.

Emma walked out of the Chaney Building. The freezing rain had turned into a nasty mix of sleet and snow, biting at her exposed skin.

She walked aimlessly down Fifth Avenue, her mind racing, trying to figure out how to secure emergency bridge funding for Diego.

Suddenly, tires screeched against the wet pavement. Two black Escalades swerved sharply, pinning her against the edge of the sidewalk.

Before she could react, four massive men in black suits jumped out. They grabbed her arms.

"Let go of me!" Emma screamed, thrashing wildly.

They ignored her, shoving her brutally into the back seat of the SUV. The doors locked with a heavy clunk.

Twenty minutes later, the SUV slammed on its brakes at the VIP emergency entrance of New York-Presbyterian Hospital.

Emma was dragged out of the car and pulled down a sterile, brightly lit corridor that reeked of bleach and iodine.

They stopped outside a trauma room. Denton was pacing the hall. His white dress shirt was wrinkled, the sleeves rolled up past his forearms, and a dark smear of blood stained the fabric near his ribs. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair disheveled from running his hands through it repeatedly.

When he saw Emma, he lunged forward, grabbing her shoulders so hard his fingers bruised her skin.

"Beverly was in a crash on her way back from a follow-up neurological appointment downtown," Denton yelled, his voice cracking with panic. "She's hemorrhaging. She needs blood."

He shook her. "She's Rh-negative AB. The bank is empty. You have the same blood type."

Denton turned to the hovering nurse. "Draw her blood. Now."

The word "draw" triggered a massive alarm in Emma's brain. Taking a large volume of blood during the first trimester would cause a severe drop in blood pressure and almost certainly trigger a miscarriage.

She scrambled backward, wrapping both arms protectively around her stomach. "No! I can't! You can't do this!"

Denton's face contorted with pure, unadulterated disgust. He viewed her refusal as the ultimate act of cold-blooded cruelty.

"You would let your own sister bleed to death just to secure your inheritance?" he sneered, his voice dripping with venom.

"My body can't handle it, Denton, please!" Emma sobbed, shaking her head, unable to say the word pregnant.

Denton didn't give her another second. He flicked his hand at the bodyguards.

The two massive men stepped forward. They grabbed Emma by the shoulders and forced her down into the heavy leather phlebotomy chair, pinning her arms to the armrests.

Emma fought like a wild animal. She kicked, she thrashed, she even sank her teeth into one of the guard's hands until she tasted blood.

Denton stepped close, grabbing her chin, forcing her to look at him. "If she dies, Emma, I will bury you with her."

The nurse approached, her hands shaking as she held a thick-gauge needle.

Emma stared at the needle, tears streaming down her face. "Denton, please, I'm begging you..."

Denton looked away. "Draw it. Take as much as she needs."

The needle pierced Emma's vein. Dark red blood rushed up the tube, filling the plastic bag rapidly.

Within minutes, a deep, pulling cramp started low in Emma's abdomen. A warning sign.

Her face turned the color of ash. Cold sweat soaked through her shirt, sticking to her spine. Her vision began to blur at the edges.

She watched the bags fill. To keep herself from passing out and losing the baby, she bit down on her lower lip so hard that blood trickled down her chin.

After drawing nearly 500 milliliters, the nurse pulled back, terrified. "Mr. Chaney, this is against all medical protocols! I can give one unit, but any more could be fatal! She's going into hypovolemic shock."

"Draw it, or I'll make sure you never work in medicine again," Denton sneered.

The nurse trembled but refused, pulling the needle out. Denton didn't waste another second arguing. He snatched the blood bags from the tray and sprinted toward the operating room, not sparing a single glance at his wife, who was slumping over in the chair, barely conscious.

The nurse pressed a thick cotton swab against the puncture wound on Emma's arm, her eyes filled with pity.

Emma felt the entire room spinning wildly. A high-pitched ringing echoed in her ears.

She gathered the last microscopic drop of strength in her body and shoved the nurse's hands away.

Using the cold tiled wall for support, she dragged her feet, inching her way out of the emergency department.

At the end of the hall, she saw Denton pacing outside the surgical doors, completely oblivious to her existence.

A hollow, broken laugh escaped Emma's pale lips. Her heart was finally, completely dead.

She stumbled out of the hospital doors. Heavy snow was falling over the city. The freezing wind cut right through her thin clothes, chilling her to the bone.

She flagged down a passing yellow cab. She gave the driver the address of a cheap, rundown motel near Diego's office. She knew she couldn't go back to the penthouse.

In the back of the cab, another sharp, pulling cramp hit her stomach. She curled into a ball, shaking violently.

With trembling fingers, she dialed Dr. Cromwell's private number. She sobbed as she described the blood loss and the cramping.

The doctor's voice was sharp with panic. "Mrs. Chaney, you need strict bed rest immediately. You are on the verge of a miscarriage."

When she reached the motel, she swallowed the emergency progesterone pills the doctor had prescribed. She curled up on the damp, moldy mattress, not even taking off her coat.

She spent the entire night in a cold sweat, drifting in and out of consciousness, her hands never leaving her stomach.

The next morning, harsh sunlight pierced through the broken blinds. Emma jolted awake.

She dragged herself to the filthy bathroom. She checked her underwear. No blood.

She collapsed against the toilet bowl, letting out a ragged breath of pure relief.

She looked in the cracked mirror. She looked like a corpse. Her skin was translucent, her lips blue.

But she had to go to the office. Diego was fighting a war because of her. She couldn't abandon him.

She slathered thick foundation over her face and applied a bright red lipstick to fake a pulse. She forced herself to stand.

At nine o'clock, Emma dragged herself to the lobby of Diego's building. She made it exactly three steps past the revolving doors when a massive wave of vertigo hit her brain.

She fumbled for her phone, managing to hit Diego's speed dial before the world went black. Her legs gave out, and she pitched forward toward the hard marble floor.

Before she hit the ground, strong arms caught her. Diego, who had rushed down from the elevators, dropped his files and caught her waist. He felt how terrifyingly light she was, and how her skin felt like ice.

"Emma!" he yelled, panic in his voice. As her sleeve rode up, he saw the massive, ugly purple bruise covering her inner arm from the forced blood draw.

Rage and heartbreak flooded Diego's eyes. He knew someone had hurt her.

He scooped her up into his arms, turning toward the elevators to take her to the hospital.

Emma's eyes fluttered open. She weakly grabbed the lapel of his suit.

"No," she rasped, shaking her head frantically. "Don't... no hospitals. Please."

Outside the glass doors of the office, a man in a gray jacket raised a long-lens camera.

The shutter clicked rapidly.

Within seconds, the high-resolution photo was transmitted directly to Denton Chaney's phone.