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.

Corbin stared at the pink phone resting on the leather seat.

He reached back and picked it up. The smooth metal casing still held a faint trace of Fallon's body heat. His jaw tightened. His immediate, violent instinct was to roll down the window and hurl the device into the passing traffic.

Instead, he pulled his own phone from his pocket, unlocked it, and hit the speed dial for his assistant.

"Take Mrs. Terrell's phone up to her," Corbin ordered, his voice clipped.

"Sir," the assistant replied through the speaker, his tone hesitant. "I just watched her get into the private elevator. She looked extremely exhausted. She is likely already asleep. Going up to ring the bell now might cause an unnecessary disturbance."

Corbin's fingers drummed a rapid, impatient rhythm against the steering wheel. Throw it away? No, there might be evidence on it-texts, call logs that could prove she hit Ashely intentionally. Send it up? He absolutely refused to step foot in that penthouse tonight and look at her face again.

Suddenly, the screen of the pink phone lit up in his hand.

A text message notification popped up on the lock screen. The sender was Jax Vance.

Are you home yet? I booked the VIP room at Apotheke. Brought some fresh new boys with me. Guaranteed to make you smile! Get your ass over here now!

Apotheke.

Corbin knew the place. It was a highly exclusive, "prescription-drug" themed private club in downtown Manhattan. It was notorious among the city's elite for its absolute privacy and its wild, unhinged parties.

The temperature in the Maybach seemed to drop ten degrees in a single second.

Corbin's eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. His earlier sarcastic comment in the car hadn't just been a hypothetical insult. It was a prophecy.

He could picture it perfectly. He could see Fallon reading that text, shedding her ruined clothes, slipping into a tight dress, and rushing downtown to drown her "guilt" in champagne and men.

A sudden, violent surge of heat erupted in his chest. It was a blinding, irrational anger that he didn't bother to analyze.

He gripped the steering wheel, slammed his foot on the brake, and violently jerked the wheel to the left. The heavy Maybach performed an illegal U-turn in the middle of Park Avenue, the tires squealing against the pavement. He wasn't driving back to the hospital. He was speeding straight toward downtown.

At that exact moment, inside the penthouse, Fallon was standing in her living room.

Her housekeeper, Patty O'Malley, stood nervously by the door. "Madam, Mr. Vance is downstairs in the lobby. He says he's here to take you out to clear your head."

Fallon opened her mouth to say no, to tell Patty to send him away. But before she could speak, the private elevator dinged, and Jax burst into the room.

"You are not sitting here alone in the dark overthinking this!" Jax yelled, marching right up to her. He grabbed a heavy cashmere coat from the sofa and practically threw it over her shoulders. "Come on. I'm taking you somewhere good."

Half an hour later, Fallon found herself sitting in the darkest, most expensive VIP booth at Apotheke.

The heavy bass of the music vibrated through the floorboards, rattling her teeth. The air smelled of expensive gin and burning herbs. Surrounding her in the plush velvet booth were five incredibly handsome, young male escorts.

"See?" Jax yelled over the music, gesturing grandly to the men. "I brought you 'Aspirin', 'Ibuprofen', 'Morphine'... Guaranteed to cure whatever hurts!"

Fallon let out a short, breathless laugh. It was the first time her facial muscles had formed a smile all day.

She leaned back against the velvet cushions. She held a crystal flute of champagne in her hand, but she hadn't taken a single sip. She felt completely detached from her body. She just wanted the noise to drown out the thoughts in her head.

A blonde boy sitting next to her-Jax had introduced him as Cade Ryder-leaned in close. He gently picked up a soft throw blanket from the back of the sofa and draped it carefully over Fallon's bare legs. He smiled at her, his eyes soft, leaning in to ask if she needed water.

Fallon shook her head slightly and offered him a polite, tired smile.

BANG.

The heavy, soundproof door of the VIP booth was violently kicked open.

The deafening roar of the main club floor rushed into the room, followed immediately by a towering silhouette.

Corbin Mcgowan stood in the doorway. The neon lights from the hallway backlit his broad shoulders, casting his face in deep, terrifying shadow.

The air in the booth instantly froze.

Corbin's eyes swept the room like a physical laser. When his gaze landed on the sofa-on Fallon leaning back, surrounded by five male escorts, with one of them intimately adjusting a blanket over her lap-the anger in his eyes solidified into pure, black ice.

Jax was the first to react. He jumped up, stepping between Corbin and Fallon. "Mr. Mcgowan? What the hell are you doing here?"

Corbin didn't even look at Jax. His eyes were locked onto Fallon.

Fallon's breath hitched. Her heart slammed against her ribs. She stared at him, completely paralyzed by the suddenness of his appearance.

Corbin raised his right hand. He was holding her pink phone. His voice cut through the heavy bass of the club music, sharp and deadly cold.

"I came to return your phone," Corbin said. "But it seems you are far too busy to need it."

He flicked his wrist. He threw the phone.

It landed on the plush velvet carpet with a soft, almost inaudible puff, its silence more insulting than any loud noise could ever be.

Corbin stared down at her. His chest heaved once. "You really have absolutely no shame."

Corbin's words hit Fallon like a bucket of ice water thrown directly at her chest.

The sudden shock snapped her out of her paralysis. She stared up at him. The look in his eyes wasn't just anger anymore; it was a deep, visceral disgust. He was looking at her like she was something filthy he had scraped off the bottom of his shoe.

Her stomach plummeted, hitting the floor.

"Let me explain..." Fallon started, her voice barely a whisper, pushing against the heavy bass of the club.

"Explain?" Corbin let out a harsh, barking laugh that held zero amusement. "Explain why, hours after running down a woman with your car, you have the appetite to come here and roll around with a pack of male escorts? Or do you want to explain exactly which clause of our prenuptial agreement you are currently violating?"

Jax lunged forward, his face red with fury. He pointed a shaking finger directly at Corbin's chest. "You're a bastard, Mcgowan! Do you have any idea what Fallon went through today? I dragged her out here! She didn't want to come!"

Corbin slowly shifted his gaze from Fallon to Jax. His eyes then slid lazily over the five escorts sitting frozen on the sofas.

"This is how you help her relax?" Corbin's voice was smooth, dripping with lethal condescension. "Vance, does everyone in the Terrell circle share this kind of... unique taste?"

The insult was a double-edged sword, slashing through Jax and burying itself deep into Fallon's pride.

Fallon's hands stopped shaking. The cold water in her veins turned into solid ice. She stood up. She pushed past Cade, ignoring the blanket that fell to the floor, and walked straight up to Corbin.

She tilted her head up, locking her eyes onto his. Her posture was rigid, her spine straight.

"Are you done?" Fallon asked. Her voice was completely hollowed out, devoid of any pleading or warmth. "If you are done speaking, get out of my booth."

Corbin's eyes widened a fraction of an inch. Her sudden, icy composure caught him off guard.

"Your booth?" Corbin looked around the decadent, dimly lit room, his lip curling in ultimate mockery. "Perfect. I hope you enjoy the rest of your night, Fallon. You will receive a call from my lawyers first thing tomorrow morning."

He didn't wait for a response. He turned on his heel and walked out, the heavy door swinging shut behind him, cutting off the neon light.

The music in the booth continued to pound, but the atmosphere was completely dead.

Jax turned to her, his eyes full of panic and guilt. "Fallon, I... I am so sorry. I didn't know he-"

"I'm tired," Fallon interrupted. She didn't look at him. She reached down, picked up her coat, and walked out of the room without looking back.

The next morning, Fallon was jolted awake by a frantic, continuous buzzing.

It wasn't her alarm. It was the doorbell.

She threw off the covers and walked into the living room. Patty O'Malley was standing by the front door, her hands wringing her apron. "Madam, there are dozens of reporters down in the lobby. Security is trying to hold them back."

Fallon frowned. She grabbed the remote and turned on the massive flat-screen TV on the wall.

Every single financial and entertainment news channel was flashing the same breaking story.

The headline at the bottom of the screen was printed in bold, blood-red letters: MCGOWAN WIFE'S WILD NIGHT OUT: PARTYING WITH MALE ESCORTS HOURS AFTER BRUTAL CRASH.

The screen displayed a grainy, zoomed-in photograph. It was Fallon, Jax, and the five escorts walking through the back entrance of Apotheke. The angle was deliberate, making it look like Fallon was leaning intimately against one of the men. Someone had tipped off the paparazzi. It wasn't Corbin. He hadn't had the time or the petty inclination to call the tabloids. It was someone else-likely the same rat on Ashely's payroll who had orchestrated the perfect camera angles at the hospital.

The broadcast immediately cut to a video of Ashely Berger's manager. He was standing outside the hospital, looking devastated. "Ashely saw the news this morning," he told the cameras, his voice shaking. "She is having a severe panic attack. She cannot understand how someone could be so cruel and heartless."

Fallon's new phone-the backup one she kept in her desk-started ringing incessantly. The caller ID flashed rapidly: her PR team, her father, and Madeleine Mcgowan, her mother-in-law.

She didn't answer a single one.

She stood in the center of her living room, her bare feet cold against the hardwood floor. The pieces clicked together in her mind with terrifying clarity.

This was Corbin's retaliation. He wasn't just going to divorce her. He was going to publicly execute her reputation before the papers were even signed. He was manufacturing the perfect public narrative to trigger the morality clause, ensuring she walked away with nothing.

Fallon sank onto the edge of the sofa. She watched the morning sunlight crawl across the floor. She hadn't slept for more than two hours.

She thought of Corbin's eyes in the club. The absolute disgust.

The misunderstanding was a bottomless pit. Words had lost all their power. Explaining herself to a man who had already convicted her in his mind was a waste of breath.

An hour passed. The sun rose higher.

Fallon stood up. She walked into her massive walk-in closet. She bypassed the soft sweaters and sweatpants. She pulled out a sharp, tailored white dress. She sat at her vanity and meticulously applied her makeup, finishing with a bold, blood-red lipstick.

She grabbed her car keys from the marble counter.

"Patty," Fallon called out, her voice crisp and commanding. "Have the garage prepare my car. I'm going to the hospital."

Patty's eyes widened in horror. "Madam, where are you going? The reporters-"

Fallon's red lips curved into a sharp, freezing smile. "I am going to visit the 'victim'. This play has gone on long enough. It's time she shared the stage."