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."

Fallon stepped out of the elevator onto the VIP floor of the hospital.

She wore a tailored white dress that fit her like armor. Her posture was flawless, her heels clicking sharply against the linoleum. She looked nothing like the broken, dusty woman who had stood in this exact hallway yesterday.

She walked directly toward Ashely Berger's room.

The two Mcgowan bodyguards immediately stepped forward, crossing their massive arms to block the door.

Fallon didn't slow down. She stopped inches from their chests and looked up, her eyes cold and piercing.

"I am here to visit the patient," Fallon said, her voice dropping to a dangerous, silky register. "If Miss Berger's condition suddenly deteriorates because she didn't receive her medication on time, I imagine the first people the police will question are the two men who physically prevented her family from checking on her."

The bodyguards exchanged an uncertain glance. The threat was baseless, but Fallon's absolute authority made them hesitate.

In that split second of hesitation, Fallon reached out, turned the brass handle, and pushed the door open.

She stepped inside.

The room was larger than a five-star hotel suite. Ashely was sitting up in the mechanical bed. She wasn't crying. She wasn't having a panic attack. She was wearing a hydrating sheet mask, casually scrolling through a luxury fashion website on her iPad. Her manager sat in a chair beside her, carefully peeling an apple with a silver knife.

When the door clicked open, both Ashely and the manager froze.

The relaxed, bored expression on Ashely's face vanished. Pure panic flooded her eyes.

She violently ripped the sheet mask off her face, tossing it onto the floor. She grabbed the edge of the blanket and pulled it up to her chin, shrinking back against the pillows. She instantly morphed into a terrified, trembling victim.

"What... what are you doing here?" Ashely stammered, her voice high and breathless.

Fallon reached behind her back. She pushed the heavy door shut and twisted the deadbolt. The loud click of the lock echoed in the quiet room, sealing them in.

Fallon slowly scanned the room, taking in the massive floral arrangements and the expensive medical equipment. The corner of her mouth twitched upward in a dry, humorless smile. "The Mcgowan family health insurance really is top-tier."

"What the hell do you want!" the manager shouted, jumping to his feet. He tried to sound intimidating, but his voice cracked.

Fallon ignored him completely. She walked slowly toward the bed, stopping right at the edge of the mattress. She looked down at Ashely.

"Let's talk," Fallon said.

"I have nothing to say to you! You hit me!" Ashely cried out. Right on cue, large, perfect tears welled up in her eyes and spilled over her cheeks.

"Did I?" Fallon pulled a heavy leather chair closer to the bed and sat down. She elegantly crossed her legs, smoothing the fabric of her white dress. "Let's talk about the physics of the crash. The speed and the angle at which you threw your body at my hood. It was incredibly precise. You're either a trained ballet dancer or a professional stunt double. Which one is it?"

All the color drained from Ashely's face. The tears stopped instantly.

"And the news this morning," Fallon continued, her voice steady and rhythmic. "The photos at the club. The perfectly timed press release. You hired the photographer, didn't you? It's a brilliant strategy. Paint yourself as the tragic, broken angel, and paint me as the heartless, cheating whore."

Ashely bit her lower lip hard. She didn't say a word. She just stared at Fallon, her chest heaving.

"Tell me," Fallon said, leaning forward slightly. "What exactly do you want?"

Ashely stared at her for a long moment. Realizing the victim act was useless behind locked doors, she slowly lowered the blanket. The fake tears dried up. A cold, calculating hardness replaced the fear in her eyes.

"What I want," Ashely sneered, her voice losing its breathy sweetness, "is something you can never give me."

"No," Fallon replied calmly. "What you want is exactly what I currently possess."

A flash of raw, ugly greed and deep-seated jealousy sparked in Ashely's eyes. "I want everything you have. I want the title. I want to be Mrs. Mcgowan."

"Done."

Fallon's answer was immediate.

Ashely blinked, completely thrown off balance. "What... what did you just say?"

"I will sign the divorce papers. I will step aside and let you have him," Fallon said, pronouncing every word with crystal clarity. "But in exchange, you will hold a press conference today. You will tell the media the truth about the crash. And you will publicly apologize to me."

Ashely stared at her, then let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "Are you insane? Why would I ever do that?"

"Because it is the only way you will ever get that ring," Fallon said. She stood up, towering over the bed. "If you don't, I will drag this divorce out. I will fight it in court for one year, two years, ten years. As long as my signature is not on that paper, you will never be anything more than his dirty little secret. How long do you think Corbin's patience will last? How long will the Mcgowan family tolerate a mistress?"

Ashely's face contorted. The smugness vanished, replaced by genuine, panicked rage.

Suddenly, Ashely's phone, resting on the bedside table, began to vibrate. The screen lit up. The caller ID read: Corbin.

Ashely stared at the phone. Then, she looked up at Fallon. A terrifying, psychotic light ignited in her eyes.

She snatched the phone off the table and hit answer.

"Corbin!" Ashely screamed into the receiver. It was a blood-curdling, desperate shriek. "Help me! She's here! She locked the door! She's trying to kill me! Ahhh!"

Before Fallon could even process the words, Ashely lunged forward. She grabbed Fallon's right wrist with terrifying strength.

With her other hand, Ashely reached across and violently raked her own nails down her bare forearm. The sharp movement tore through her skin, leaving four deep, bloody scratches. Before Fallon could pull away, Ashely grabbed Fallon's fingers and deliberately smeared them into the fresh, welling blood.

Ashely let go of Fallon's hand and hurled the phone across the room. It smashed against the wall. Then, she threw herself back against the pillows, screaming at the top of her lungs.