The Rolls-Royce Phantom idled smoothly at the curb outside Darla's Brooklyn apartment building.

Darla and Anson walked up the three flights of narrow, scuffed stairs. Darla unlocked the door and pushed it open.

The apartment was tiny. The living room and kitchen were crammed into one space, but it was spotless. Books were stacked neatly on shelves, and a small plant sat on the windowsill.

Anson stepped inside. His broad shoulders seemed to take up half the room. His dark eyes scanned the cramped space, but there was no pity or disgust in his gaze.

Darla felt a sudden rush of embarrassment. She walked to the tiny fridge and pulled out a bottle of water, handing it to him.

"I know it's not much," Darla said quietly.

Anson unscrewed the cap and took a drink. "It's perfect. It's better than where I used to sleep."

He checked his watch. "I have to take the car back and cover a night shift at the hotel. Will you be okay here alone?"

Darla nodded, forcing a smile. "I'll be fine. Thank you, Anson."

Anson held her gaze for a second longer than necessary before turning and walking out the door. The lock clicked shut.

The silence of the apartment crashed down on Darla. She kicked off her shoes and collapsed onto the cheap fabric sofa. Her muscles felt like lead. She closed her eyes, finally feeling safe.

Her phone buzzed violently on the coffee table.

It was an unknown number.

Darla frowned and hit accept. "Hello?"

"Is this Darla Hammond?" The voice was mechanical, completely devoid of emotion.

"Yes."

"This is Warden Miller from the State Penitentiary. I am calling to inform you that your father, David Hammond, was pronounced dead at 6:14 PM this evening."

The air vanished from the room. Darla's lungs stopped working.

"What?" Darla whispered, her vocal cords paralyzing.

"Preliminary reports indicate suicide by hanging," the warden continued coldly. "You will need to claim the body."

The phone slipped from Darla's numb fingers. It hit the hardwood floor with a sharp crack, the screen shattering into a spiderweb of glass.

Darla's knees gave out. She slid off the sofa and hit the floor hard.

Her father. Her kind, gentle father. He had promised her he would wait for the appeal. He would never kill himself.

Agnes's threat from the morning echoed in her head. Let him rot in that prison.

They killed him. The Mosleys had him killed to break her.

A sound tore out of Darla's throat-a raw, guttural scream of pure agony. She curled into a ball on the floor, clutching her stomach as if she had been stabbed. The grief hit her like a physical weight, crushing her ribs, suffocating her.

Tears poured down her face, soaking into the rug. She was completely, utterly alone.

Down on the street, Anson was walking toward the Maybach when his phone rang.

"Boss," Isaac said, his voice tight. "We just intercepted a report from the prison. David Hammond is dead."

Anson stopped dead in his tracks. His blood turned to ice.

He didn't say a word. He spun around and sprinted back into the building. He took the stairs three at a time.

He jammed the brass key into the lock and shoved the door open.

He saw Darla on the floor, her body shaking violently with sobs.

Anson's chest seized. He crossed the room in two massive strides and dropped to his knees. He reached out and pulled her small, trembling body roughly into his chest.

Darla didn't fight him. She buried her face in his shirt, her fingers digging desperately into his shoulders as she sobbed out her broken heart.

Anson wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight enough to keep her from falling apart. He rested his chin on the top of her head, his eyes staring blankly at the wall, burning with a dark, terrifying promise of violence.

Pale morning light crept across the living room floor.

Darla sat on the sofa, her eyes swollen shut, her face pale and hollow. Anson was sitting right beside her. He hadn't slept. He had held her against his chest for the entire night, his steady heartbeat the only thing keeping her anchored to reality.

The shattered phone on the coffee table buzzed.

Anson reached over with his long arm and picked it up. He handed it to Darla.

Her hands shook as she struggled to swipe the cracked screen, the glass shards snagging painfully on her fingertip, but the message was clear.

It was a text from Bennet.

Heard about your dad. Tragic. This is what happens when you make enemies out of the wrong people. Keep your mouth shut to the press, or things will get worse.

Right below it was a text from Caren.

A dead dad and a broke husband. Karma is a bitch. : )

Darla's breathing hitched. She opened her email app. At the top of her inbox was an unread message from her company's HR department.

Dear Ms. Hammond, due to recent violations of our morality clause, your employment at Apex Media is terminated effective immediately.

Apex Media. The company owned by the Branch family.

Her father was dead. Her family had destroyed her. And now, they had taken her only source of income.

Darla let out a dry, broken laugh. She dropped the phone. Her hands curled into tight fists in her lap. She squeezed her fingers so hard her fingernails pierced the skin of her palms.

Drops of dark red blood welled up and dripped onto her white dress.

Anson saw the blood. His jaw locked.

He reached out and forcibly pried her fingers open. He grabbed a tissue from the table and pressed it hard against her bleeding palms.

Darla looked up at him. Her eyes were completely dead. "I have nothing left, Anson. They took everything."

Anson looked at her torn hands. A storm of pure, unadulterated rage raged behind his dark eyes, but when he spoke, his voice was a soft, deep rumble.

He reached up and cupped her face, his thumbs gently wiping away a stray tear.

"I am here. You are not alone in this," Anson said, his voice vibrating with absolute certainty. "I will handle your father's arrangements. Just focus on getting through this."

Darla stared into his eyes. The exhaustion finally dragged her down. She slumped forward, resting her head against his chest, and fell into a heavy, trauma-induced sleep.

Anson carefully scooped her up in his arms. He carried her into the bedroom, laid her on the mattress, and pulled the blanket up to her chin.

He stood over her for a moment, watching her chest rise and fall.

Then, Anson turned and walked out of the bedroom. He pulled the door shut until it clicked.

The gentle husband vanished. The apex predator took his place.

Anson pulled a heavily encrypted black phone from his pocket. He dialed Isaac's direct line.

"Isaac," Anson said, his voice dropping to a lethal, freezing pitch. "Send the best independent medical examiner in the country to that prison. I want a full autopsy on David Hammond. Nobody touches that body but my people."

"Yes, Boss," Isaac replied instantly.

"And Isaac?" Anson's eyes narrowed as he looked out the dirty window at the Brooklyn streets. "Find out who owns Apex Media."

"It's a subsidiary of the Branch Group, sir."

"Buy it," Anson ordered coldly. "Hostile takeover. I don't care what it costs. I want the papers signed in twenty-four hours. Fire the entire HR department and the board of directors by tomorrow morning. And freeze every single investment fund connected to Bennet Branch."

"Understood, sir."

Anson hung up the phone. He looked back at the closed bedroom door. They thought they could break his wife. They were about to find out what it meant to wake up in hell.