The next morning, the penthouse was quiet. Bronson had left for the New York office early.

Eloise knelt on the rug and pulled the baby shoe box from beneath the sofa. She smiled, her fingers brushing the silver ribbon.

She walked into her closet and put on a fitted burgundy dress. She applied a light coat of lipstick and headed out the door.

The driver dropped her off at the towering glass headquarters of Ortega Technologies. Eloise took the private executive elevator straight to the top floor.

The elevator doors chimed open. Alex Cole looked up from his files, his polite smile stiffening for a fraction of a second when he saw Eloise. He immediately stood up, his body language projecting a courteous but firm barrier.

"Good morning, Mrs. Ortega," Alex said smoothly, though his eyes briefly flicked toward the closed doors of Bronson's office. "The boss is in a highly classified video conference right now. I'm afraid I cannot let you in."

Eloise noticed his tension but assumed it was just corporate stress. "That's fine, Alex. I'll just wait in his private study."

Alex stepped into her path, his hands twitching. But he was just an employee. He couldn't physically restrain the CEO's wife. Defeated, he rigidly opened the heavy oak door to the study.

Eloise walked in and placed the gift box squarely in the center of Bronson's massive mahogany desk.

She needed a pen and paper to write a card. She scanned the pristine desktop. Nothing.

She walked around the desk and pulled open the bottom drawer.

Instead of office supplies, there was a small, biometric steel safe bolted to the inside of the drawer. It had a digital keypad.

Driven by a strange impulse, Eloise typed in their wedding anniversary: 0512.

The safe emitted a sharp beep. The light turned green. The heavy steel door popped open.

Inside, there was no corporate data. Just a thick manila envelope bearing the logo of a premier reproductive medical facility.

Eloise frowned. She pulled the envelope out and slid the thick stack of papers onto the desk.

The bold, black letters on the first page screamed at her: COMMERCIAL SURROGACY NON-DISCLOSURE AGREEMENT.

Eloise's lungs forgot how to process oxygen. Her eyes locked onto the signature at the bottom of the page. Bronson Ortega.

Her hands began to shake violently. She flipped to the second page. It was a medical profile.

Surrogate: Joni Blake.

Attached was a photo. It was the blonde woman from the paparazzi picture.

Eloise flipped to the third page. A black-and-white ultrasound printout fell onto the desk. The date was printed at the top. The medical notes read: Gestation: 7 Weeks. Fetal heartbeat strong.

The air in the room turned to lead. A sharp, agonizing cramp twisted Eloise's lower abdomen. She grabbed the edge of the mahogany desk to keep from collapsing.

Seven weeks. He had been building a child with another woman while holding her, while watching her cry over negative pregnancy tests, while swearing his absolute loyalty last night.

Acid burned the back of her throat. She wanted to vomit.

Heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway outside. Bronson's voice, deep and commanding, drifted through the wood. The meeting was over.

Adrenaline flooded Eloise's veins. She shoved the ultrasound, the profile, and the contract back into the envelope. She jammed it into the safe, slammed the steel door shut, and kicked the drawer closed.

She stumbled backward, collapsing onto the leather sofa just as the brass doorknob turned. Her hands flew to her lap, her fingers digging so hard into the burgundy fabric of her dress that her knuckles turned white.

The heavy oak door swung open. Bronson walked in, a relaxed, confident smile on his face.

He walked straight toward the sofa, leaning down to press a kiss to her cheek.

Eloise jerked her head away.

Bronson's lips met empty air. His jaw clenched for a fraction of a second, but he quickly smoothed his expression. He stood up, his eyes landing on the silver-ribboned box on his desk.

He let out a soft, patronizing chuckle. "Are you reading those ridiculous fertility guides again, Eloise? I told you to stop stressing yourself out."

Eloise stood up. Her legs were shaking, but she locked her knees. She stared directly into his dark eyes.

"Joni Blake," she said. Her voice was a dead, hollow sound.

Bronson's smile vanished. The temperature in the room dropped to freezing.

His eyes darted to the bottom drawer of his desk, then back to her. The mask of the perfect husband shattered, replaced by cold, calculating machinery.

He took a step toward her, reaching for her shoulders. "Eloise, listen to me. I did this for you."

She slapped his hands away with a vicious strike. "Don't touch me!" Tears finally spilled over her cheeks. "You lied to me! You bought a woman to carry your child behind my back!"

Bronson's voice rose, echoing off the walls. "Your body is too weak! The doctors said IVF could ruin your health. I am protecting you! It's our genetic material, Eloise. I didn't touch her. I solved the problem."

"You stripped me of my right to know!" Eloise screamed, her chest heaving. "You played God with our marriage!"

Bronson adjusted his watch, his posture rigid with arrogance. "I spared you the pain of another failure."

Eloise wiped her face, her breathing ragged. "If I tell you to terminate that contract right now. Will you do it?"

Bronson stared at her. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

"No," he said coldly. "The contract is legally binding. And the fetus is healthy."

The fetus is healthy.

The words were a physical blade twisting into her chest. She looked down at her own flat stomach. She had a healthy fetus inside her, too. But looking at the monster standing in front of her, she realized he didn't want a child out of love. He wanted a blood tie to lock her in his cage forever.

She swallowed the truth of her pregnancy, burying it deep.

Eloise took a deep breath, her spine straightening. "I want a divorce."

Bronson let out a harsh, mocking laugh. "You're having a tantrum, Eloise. You'll calm down."

Eloise didn't argue. She raised her left hand. She gripped the massive pink diamond ring on her ring finger and pulled it off.

She slammed the ring down onto the mahogany desk. It landed with a heavy, final thud, sounding like a judge's gavel striking the block to condemn their marriage to death.

Bronson's face turned violently pale. His eyes darkened to pitch black. "If you walk out that door, Eloise, don't expect to come crawling back easily."

Eloise turned her back on him. She grabbed her purse and walked out the door, ignoring Alex Cole's terrified stare in the hallway.

She stepped into the elevator.

Inside the study, Bronson walked to the floor-to-ceiling window. He watched the street below until he saw her figure emerge from the building. He picked up his desk phone and hit a speed-dial button.

"Alex," Bronson said, his voice dripping with venom. "It's time to teach my wife how the real world works."

Eloise bypassed Moira in the penthouse foyer, ignoring the housekeeper's fake, polite greeting. She marched straight into the master closet.

She ignored the racks of Chanel, Dior, and custom gowns Bronson had bought her. She pulled out a battered, scuffed suitcase from the very back-the one she had brought with her from Los Angeles three years ago. She threw in jeans, plain sweaters, and basic toiletries.

As she dragged the suitcase toward the bedroom door, Moira stepped into the frame, blocking her path.

"Mrs. Ortega," Moira said, her tone perfectly even but laced with a hard edge. "Mr. Ortega has not authorized your departure."

Eloise stopped. She looked at the woman who had pretended to care for her for years. "Move, Moira. Or I will call the NYPD right now and report you for false imprisonment."

Eloise's eyes were feral. Moira swallowed hard, intimidated by the sudden shift in the docile wife. She took a half-step back.

Eloise pushed past her, dragging the wheels of the suitcase over the marble floor, and rode the elevator down to the garage.

Miles away, in the Ortega Technologies tower, Bronson sat in his leather chair. He listened to Moira's report over the phone.

"Let her go," Bronson said, his eyes fixed on the city skyline. He hung up and pressed the intercom. "Alex. Get in here."

Alex rushed in.

"Freeze every credit card attached to her name," Bronson ordered, his voice devoid of emotion.

Alex hesitated. "Sir, she doesn't carry cash. She'll be on the street."

Bronson smirked. "She's too fragile for the street. She'll last forty-eight hours before she's crying on her knees in this office. Next, call CAA, WME, and every major casting director in Hollywood. Tell them if Eloise Mendoza gets so much as an audition, Ortega Tech pulls all funding from their studios."

He leaned back in his chair. He was going to cut off her air supply.

In Midtown Manhattan, the sky broke open. Freezing rain poured down on the concrete.

Eloise dragged her suitcase into the lobby of a mid-tier chain hotel, her hair plastered to her face. She walked up to the front desk and handed the clerk her black Amex.

"One room, please," she said, her teeth chattering.

The clerk swiped the card. The machine beeped aggressively. "I'm sorry, ma'am. This card is declined."

Eloise frowned. "Try this one." She handed over a Visa.

Declined.

She handed over a Mastercard.

Declined. Account frozen.

The people in line behind her began to sigh and mutter. Heat rushed to Eloise's cheeks. A crushing wave of humiliation washed over her. She grabbed her cards, mumbled an apology, and walked back out into the freezing rain.

She stood on the curb, the cold seeping into her bones. A sharp cramp hit her lower abdomen. She pressed her hand against her stomach, terror gripping her. The baby. She couldn't freeze out here.

She ripped open her wallet. Tucked in the back were a few crumpled hundred-dollar bills-tip money she kept for valets.

She flagged down a beat-up yellow cab. "Queens," she told the driver. "The cheapest motel you can find."