Corbin's eyes locked onto Fallon's face.

His gaze dropped to the raw, red scrape on her arm. It lingered there for less than a second. Then, his eyes flicked away, his upper lip curling slightly. It was a micro-expression of pure revulsion, as if looking at her for one more second would physically contaminate him.

He didn't walk toward her.

He adjusted his left cuff, his long legs carrying him in a straight, aggressive line toward the two bodyguards blocking the hallway.

"Status," Corbin demanded.

His voice was a low, gravelly rumble. It carried the heavy exhaustion of a long flight and the tight, vibrating frequency of suppressed rage.

One of the bodyguards immediately straightened his posture, lowering his voice respectfully. "Miss Berger is stable, sir. But she is in severe shock. The doctors say-"

Corbin raised a single hand. The bodyguard snapped his mouth shut.

Corbin turned his head slightly, his dark eyes scanning the swarm of reporters pressing against the invisible boundary. The deep crease between his eyebrows deepened.

His executive assistant, who had materialized from the elevator right behind him, instantly stepped forward.

"Mr. Mcgowan will not be taking any questions at this time," the assistant announced loudly to the press, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Please maintain your distance."

Corbin didn't wait for the reporters to back off. He took long, purposeful strides directly toward Ashely's hospital room.

He walked right past Fallon. He didn't turn his head. He didn't acknowledge her existence.

Fallon stood frozen against the wall. She felt like a ghost. An invisible, weightless thing. A giant, invisible hand reached into her chest and squeezed her heart so tightly she couldn't pull air into her lungs.

He hadn't asked.

He hadn't looked at her torn clothes and asked, Are you okay?

Corbin reached out, his large hand wrapping around the brass handle of Ashely's door.

"Corbin."

Fallon finally found her voice. It wasn't loud, but it was sharp enough to slice through the ambient noise of the hallway.

Every single person in the corridor stopped moving. The reporters held their breath. The bodyguards stiffened.

Corbin's broad back went completely rigid. He stood there for three agonizing seconds, his hand still on the doorknob. Slowly, he turned around.

The disgust on his face was no longer hidden. It was entirely exposed, raw and brutal.

"What more do you want, Fallon?" he said, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper that somehow carried across the space. "Haven't you made things ugly enough?"

The words hit her like a physical slap across the face. Her cheeks burned. Her vision blurred for a second.

Before she could form a single word in response, the door to the hospital room cracked open.

Ashely's manager poked his head out. He looked at Corbin with wide, fearful eyes. "Corbin... Ashely... she heard your voice. She's panicking. Her heart rate is spiking."

Corbin's demeanor shifted instantly. The lethal ice melted into something frantic. He turned his back on Fallon completely and pushed the door open.

As the door swung wide, Fallon heard it.

The sound of Ashely's muffled, breathless sobbing. And then, Corbin's voice.

"Don't be afraid. I'm back. I'm right here."

His tone was soft. Gentle. It was the voice of a man desperately trying to protect the most precious thing in his world.

The heavy door clicked shut, cutting off the sound.

Fallon stood in the hallway. Her husband was on the other side of that wall, whispering the sweetest words in the world to another woman. She felt entirely hollowed out. She was the punchline to a sick, public joke.

The bodyguard closest to her shifted his weight, stepping slightly into her path, silently warning her not to approach the door.

Fallon drew in a deep, shaky breath. The cold hospital air burned her throat. She turned her head and looked at the frosted glass door of the VIP lounge a few feet away.

She walked over and pushed it open.

The lounge was empty. It smelled of leather and stale coffee. The luxurious beige sofas and dark wood tables felt sterile and unwelcoming.

She turned back to the hallway, looking directly at the bodyguard who had blocked her.

"Tell Corbin I am waiting in the lounge," Fallon said. She lifted her chin, channeling every ounce of the cold authority she had been raised with. "Tell him there are things we must discuss. In private."

The bodyguard hesitated. He looked at the closed door of Ashely's room, then back at Fallon.

Fallon didn't blink. Her eyes were hard, carrying the undeniable weight of the Terrell family heir.

The bodyguard gave a stiff nod.

Fallon stepped into the lounge and left the door slightly ajar.

Four minutes later, the door was pushed open violently.

Corbin walked in. He brought a freezing chill into the room with him. He had taken off his suit jacket. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, and the sleeves were rolled up tightly to his forearms. The veins in his arms stood out against his skin. He looked deeply agitated.

He took three long strides into the room, his heavy shoes sinking into the carpet. Every step felt like a boot coming down on Fallon's chest.

He turned and slammed the door shut. The heavy thud sealed them inside, cutting off the flashes, the whispers, and the crying.

They were alone.

The air in the room instantly turned to lead. It was so thick Fallon could hardly breathe.

She looked up at him. She searched his handsome, sharp features. She looked for a single trace of the man she had married, a single drop of warmth or doubt.

She found nothing but harsh, impatient lines.

"You have five minutes," Corbin said.

His voice was completely devoid of emotion. He didn't walk toward the sofas. He didn't sit down. He just stood there, towering over her, looking down at her as if she were a tedious administrative error he needed to correct before he could get back to his real life.

Fallon stared at the man standing before her. He was her husband, yet he felt like a complete stranger. She swallowed hard, forcing the sharp, physical sting in her throat down.

"I didn't hit her," Fallon said. Her voice was steady, anchored by the absolute certainty of the truth. "She ran into my car on purpose."

Corbin's jaw ticked. The corner of his mouth lifted into a slow, mocking sneer. He looked at her as if she had just told the most pathetic joke in existence.

"So, let me get this straight," Corbin said, his tone dripping with venom. "You want me to believe that Ashely risked her own life, threw her body at a moving vehicle, just to frame you?"

His disbelief wasn't just spoken; it was a physical weapon, stabbing into her ribs.

"I don't know why she did it," Fallon insisted, her hands curling into tight fists at her sides. "But I am telling you the truth."

"The truth?" Corbin took a sudden, aggressive step forward.

His sheer physical presence was overwhelming. Fallon's body reacted before her brain did; she took an involuntary step backward.

"The truth," Corbin continued, his voice rising in volume, "is that my legal team is currently pulling every piece of evidence from that street. The truth is that by tomorrow morning, your face will be on the front page of every news outlet in this country, branded as a disgrace to the Mcgowan family!"

Every word hit her like a hammer blow to the sternum.

"Corbin, we are husband and wife..." Fallon whispered, her voice cracking. She was begging, reaching blindly for a sliver of emotional connection that might still exist between them.

The word acted like a match dropped into gasoline.

"Husband and wife?" Corbin repeated the words slowly, tasting them. Then, a harsh, humorless laugh erupted from his chest. The sound was entirely devoid of joy. "Fallon, stop lying to yourself."

He reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket that he had tossed over a chair. He pulled out a sleek leather wallet. His long fingers extracted a folded piece of paper.

He tossed it onto the glass coffee table between them. It landed with a soft, dismissive slap.

Fallon looked down. It was a photograph. It was taken two years ago at New York City Hall, the day they signed their prenuptial agreement. In the photo, they were standing next to each other, staring blankly at the camera. Neither of them was smiling.

"This was a transaction from day one," Corbin said. His voice was as cold and unforgiving as a Siberian winter. "The Mcgowan Group needed the Terrell family's distribution channels in the new energy sector. And your father needed our capital to plug the massive holes in his balance sheets."

He stepped closer, forcing her to look up at him.

"It was a business merger, Fallon. A commercial marriage. We both knew exactly what this was."

All the blood drained from Fallon's face. Her skin turned ice-cold.

She knew the origins of their marriage. She knew the contracts. But she had thought-she had genuinely believed-that over the past two years, the quiet moments, the shared spaces, the brief touches... she thought it had grown into something real.

"So, as your business partner, I am giving you one final piece of advice," Corbin said. He broke eye contact, his posture shifting back into the rigid, highly efficient stance of a CEO. "My lawyers will contact you tomorrow morning. Sign the papers. It will be cleaner for both of us."

Fallon's lungs stopped working. "Sign what?" she asked, her voice trembling so violently she barely recognized it.

"The divorce papers," Corbin said. He spat the four words out with zero hesitation.

Time stopped. The faint hum of the hospital's air conditioning vanished. The world went completely silent.

Fallon felt the floor drop out from beneath her feet. She had expected him to yell. She had expected him to demand an apology, to punish her, to freeze her out. But she never, in her wildest nightmares, expected him to execute their marriage right here, right now.

"Because of her?" Fallon's voice suddenly spiked, sharp and shrill. She pointed a shaking finger toward the wall that separated them from Ashely's room. "You're throwing this away because of that calculating homewrecker?"

Corbin's eyebrows snapped together. "This has nothing to do with Ashely."

"How can it have nothing to do with her!" Fallon yelled, the pain finally tearing through her composed facade. "If it wasn't for her, you would still be in Zurich in a board meeting! We would be-"

"We would be what?" Corbin cut her off, his voice booming off the walls. "We see each other maybe four times a year. Our phone calls last less than two minutes. The last time we had a real conversation was six months ago, and it was about stock options. Is this the marriage you are fighting for?"

Fallon opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Her throat was entirely blocked.

Corbin lifted his left arm and glanced at his Patek Philippe watch. The movement was precise, mechanical.

"Five minutes are up," he said, his tone returning to absolute zero. "I need to get back. Ashely needs me."

He turned his back on her and walked toward the door.

"I won't divorce you."

Fallon spoke the words to his back, pronouncing each syllable with slow, deliberate force.

Corbin stopped. He didn't turn around. His hand rested on the door handle.

"You don't have a choice," he said to the wood. "There is a morality clause in our prenuptial agreement. Attempted vehicular assault is more than enough to leave you with absolutely nothing."

"Then I'll see you in court."

Fallon's voice lost its tremble. The despair hardened into a thick, impenetrable layer of ice. "Until you can prove in a court of law that I hit her 'intentionally,' I am still Mrs. Mcgowan."

Corbin turned his head slightly, looking over his shoulder. His dark eyes locked onto Fallon. The look was heavy, complicated-a violent mixture of raw anger and a sudden, unexpected flicker of scrutiny.

He didn't say another word. He pushed the heavy lounge door open and walked out, his long strides carrying him straight back to Ashely's hospital room. He didn't look back.

Fallon stood alone in the center of the empty VIP lounge. She stood there for a long time, staring at the space where he had just been. She didn't move until a sharp, prickling numbness began to spread up her legs.

She walked slowly toward the floor-to-ceiling window. The sprawling, glittering nightscape of New York City stretched out before her. The vibrant, pulsing life of the city outside stood in brutal contrast to the dead, hollow silence inside her chest.

Deep in her pocket, her phone vibrated.

She pulled it out. The screen lit up with a text from her best friend, Jaxson "Jax" Vance.

Jesus Fallon! I just saw the news alerts! Are you okay? Where are you?

Fallon's thumbs hovered over the keyboard. Her joints felt stiff and uncooperative. She typed back a slow, exhausted reply: I'm fine. At the hospital.

Ten minutes later, there was a soft knock on the lounge door. Corbin's executive assistant stepped inside. His face was a mask of polite, professional distance.

"Mrs. Terrell," the assistant said smoothly. "Mr. Mcgowan has instructed me to take you home."

Fallon felt a bitter taste in her mouth. She knew exactly what this was. It wasn't a ride. It was an eviction notice.

"That won't be necessary," she said, her voice flat. "I can get a car."

The assistant shifted his weight, looking uncomfortable. "Sir's orders were very specific. I must ensure you arrive at your residence safely. There is still a large press presence outside the main entrance."

Fallon closed her eyes for a second. She understood. Corbin didn't care about her physical safety. He cared about the Mcgowan Group's stock price. He was terrified she would walk out the front door, say the wrong thing to a reporter, and cause another PR disaster.

The fight drained out of her. Her bones felt like they were made of lead.

She nodded once. She followed the assistant out of the lounge, down a sterile service corridor, and out through the hospital's underground loading dock, completely bypassing the media circus.

A sleek, black Maybach was idling in the shadows.

The assistant opened the rear door for her. Fallon climbed in. As she settled into the plush leather seat, she looked up at the rearview mirror.

Corbin was in the driver's seat.

Fallon's breath caught in her throat. Her heart gave a pathetic, involuntary flutter, but she quickly crushed it. He was driving himself. That meant he had something to say to her that he didn't want his driver or his assistant to hear.

The doors locked with a heavy, final thunk. The temperature inside the car was freezing.

Corbin shifted the car into drive without a word. The heavy vehicle glided smoothly out of the garage and merged into the Manhattan traffic.

"Our prenuptial agreement states that in the event of a divorce, I retain two percent of the Mcgowan Group shares and remain a permanent beneficiary of the family trust," Fallon said. She stared straight at the back of his headrest, her voice eerily calm.

"Assuming you haven't violated the morality clause," Corbin replied instantly. He kept his eyes fixed on the road, his voice a low, threatening hum.

"I haven't," Fallon repeated.

"Will a judge believe you? Or will they look at the evidence and see a spoiled, jealous heiress who finally snapped and deliberately tried to permanently eliminate her husband's so-called competition?" Corbin asked suddenly. His tone dripped with thick, corrosive sarcasm.

Fallon blinked, her brow furrowing in genuine confusion. She hadn't been to a club. She was sitting right here. How could he-

Then it hit her. He was baiting her. Or worse, he was projecting. He was building a hypothetical profile of the kind of shallow, heartless socialite he believed her to be.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she said, refusing to engage with his trap.

The car fell back into a suffocating silence.

The rhythmic hum of the tires on the asphalt and the soft orange glow of the streetlights passing over her face began to act like a sedative. The adrenaline crash hit her body all at once. An overwhelming, crushing wave of exhaustion pulled her eyelids down. She rested her head against the cool glass, closing her eyes. She wasn't asleep, but adrift in a numb, silent space, too exhausted to think or feel.

Somewhere in the hazy space between sleep and waking, she thought she heard Corbin mutter a low, harsh curse. The car seemed to slow down slightly, the turns becoming less aggressive.

The Maybach rolled to a smooth stop outside her penthouse building on Park Avenue.

The assistant, who had followed in a separate SUV, opened her door and gently woke her. Fallon blinked against the harsh streetlights. She felt disoriented and entirely drained. She dragged herself out of the car, mumbled a quiet "Thank you" to the air, and walked straight toward the glass doors of her building. She didn't look back.

She just wanted to strip off the ruined Chanel suit and submerge herself in a boiling hot bath.

Corbin sat in the driver's seat, his hands gripping the leather steering wheel. He watched her retreating back until she disappeared into the lobby. His eyes were dark and stormy. He shifted the car into gear, ready to pull away.

As he turned his head to check his blind spot, his eyes caught a flash of color in the back.

Sitting perfectly still on the dark leather of the rear seat was a slim, pink smartphone.

It was Fallon's. She had left it behind.