Rory's vision was tunneling, the edges turning dark. She reached a trembling hand for the stack of cash, her only thought to grab it and run.

Corbin's hand shot out, covering the money, his touch cool against the feverish heat of her skin. His gaze wasn't on her face. It was fixed on her hand.

On her finger, she wore a simple, cheap silver ring. It was tarnished and worn smooth from years of constant wear.

He recognized it.

It was the ring he'd bought her six years ago with his first real paycheck from a summer construction job. He'd hidden it in a box of Cracker Jacks. It was their promise. Their future.

The sight of it on her finger, after everything she had done, sent a fresh wave of black, irrational rage through him. A woman who sold her soul, who sent him to hell for a price, had no right to wear a symbol of a love she had so thoroughly destroyed.

"It seems fifty thousand isn't quite enough," Corbin said, his voice dangerously soft. "Take off the ring."

Rory flinched as if he'd struck her.

"Take it off," he repeated, his voice dropping lower, colder. "And throw it in the trash. Then you can have the money."

If drinking the scotch was a physical assault, this was a vivisection of her soul. That ring was the last tangible piece of the boy she had loved, the only thing that reminded her that the monster in front of her had once been a man who cherished her.

"No," she whispered, a reflex. Her hand instinctively curled into a fist, protecting it.

"What's the big deal?" Kade scoffed. "It's a piece of junk. Vance here could buy you a diamond the size of your fist and not even notice."

Julian finally found his voice. "Corbin, that's enough! This has gone too far."

"Stay out of this, Julian," Corbin snapped, his eyes never leaving Rory's.

Rory looked at his face, at the cold, unyielding set of his jaw. There was no mercy there. No room for negotiation.

Her hand was shaking so violently she could barely control it. Slowly, painfully, she worked the ring over her knuckle. It had been on her finger for so long, her skin was indented beneath it.

The moment it came off, she felt a profound sense of loss, as if a part of her had been amputated.

She walked to the ornate trash can in the corner of the room. She opened her palm and looked at the small silver band one last time.

Then she let it drop.

It made a tiny, tinny sound as it hit the bottom, lost amongst discarded napkins and cigar butts. A piece of her heart went with it.

She turned back. Corbin's expression was darker than ever. There was no victory on his face, only a bleak, hollow emptiness that mirrored her own.

He lifted his hand from the money.

Rory snatched the bills, the paper crinkling in her tight grip. She didn't say a word. She just turned and walked toward the door, her only goal to escape.

As her hand closed on the doorknob, his voice stopped her.

"Rory."

She froze but didn't turn around.

"Remember this moment," he said, his voice a low threat. "This is only the beginning."

She pulled the door open and stumbled out into the hallway, leaving the suffocating silence of the room behind her.

Inside the booth, the atmosphere was thick with unspoken tension. Kade opened his mouth to say something, to break the spell, but one look at Corbin's face and he thought better of it.

Corbin was pale, his knuckles white where he gripped the arm of the sofa. Abruptly, he stood and strode to the trash can.

In front of his two stunned friends, he reached inside without hesitation, his hand brushing against refuse until his fingers closed around the small, cheap silver ring.

He pulled it out, wiping it clean on his trousers.

He returned to the sofa, his movements stiff. He stared at the ring lying in the center of his palm. Then, his other hand reached for a clean, heavy crystal glass from the table.

He didn't pour a drink.

He simply closed his fist, the ring and the glass enclosed within his grip. He squeezed.

There was a sickening crunch as the crystal shattered under the force of his hand. Shards of glass bit deep into his flesh. Blood, dark and thick, began to well up, dripping through his fingers and onto the expensive leather.

He didn't even flinch. He seemed not to feel the pain at all, his gaze still locked on the small silver ring now nestled in a pool of his own blood in his palm. His eyes were wild, filled with a terrifying, bottomless agony that no one in the room could understand.

Rory burst out of the club's side exit and into a torrential downpour.

The sky had opened up, releasing a furious, cleansing deluge. The cold rain was a shock to her system, a brief respite from the fire raging under her skin from the allergic reaction. She was soaked in seconds, her thin silk dress clinging to her like a second skin.

She clutched the fifty thousand dollars to her chest, the wad of cash already damp. It felt heavy, dirty. The price of her soul.

She stumbled to the curb, trying to flag down a taxi, but the street was a river of red taillights. No one was stopping. The city, like Corbin, had turned its back on her.

She had to get home. She had to see Willa.

She started walking, her heels sinking into the soft asphalt, the rain plastering her hair to her face. Her throat was closing up, each breath a painful, wheezing struggle. Black spots danced in her vision.

A few blocks away, Corbin's Bentley sliced silently through the rain-slicked streets. Miles Finch was at the wheel. Corbin sat in the back, his face a thunderous mask, while his assistant tried to awkwardly bandage his bleeding hand. Julian and Kade had wisely taken another car. The explosion of glass and blood had left them shaken and silent.

Corbin stared out the window, seeing nothing but the reflection of his own grim face. The image of Rory, her eyes wide with pain as she drank the scotch, was burned into his mind. The tiny, pathetic sound the ring had made hitting the bottom of the trash can echoed in his ears.

Up ahead, Rory reached a crosswalk. She saw the distant headlights of a cab and lurched toward the street, waving her arm frantically.

She didn't see the dark, sleek luxury car approaching from behind.

Miles saw her, a lone, desperate figure about to step into traffic. He instinctively slowed the car. "Sir, there's someone on the side of the road..." Corbin glanced up, his eyes briefly registering a rain-soaked shape before dismissing it as irrelevant. "Why are we slowing down?" he asked, his voice laced with irritation. "Sir, the pedestrian..." "That is not our concern, Miles," Corbin cut him off, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Drive." Miles hesitated, then pressed the accelerator. The Bentley surged forward, its passage through a deep puddle unavoidable. It sent a massive wave of dirty street water arching into the air.

The wave crashed over Rory, drenching her in cold, gritty water. She gasped, sputtering, but she barely registered it. She had finally caught the attention of the taxi.

She scrambled inside, gave the driver her address, and collapsed against the worn vinyl seat, her body shaking from the cold and the allergic reaction.

When she finally made it to her apartment building, the babysitter, a teenager from down the hall, was waiting in the lobby, her face pale with panic.

"Miss Conway! Oh, thank God! It's Willa... she's not doing well! She was having trouble breathing, and then she just got so... quiet."

The world fell away. The alcohol, the allergy, the humiliation-it all vanished, replaced by a pure, primal terror.

Rory bolted up the stairs and burst into their apartment. Willa was lying on her small bed, her face a frightening shade of blue. Her breaths were shallow, almost nonexistent. Her lips were purple.

Her heart. Her tiny, fragile heart was failing.

Rory scooped her daughter's limp body into her arms and ran back out into the storm. She stood on the curb, Willa in her arms, screaming for help, for any car to stop.

Just minutes before, her daughter's father, the only other person on earth who shared her blood, had passed this very spot. He had seen a woman in distress and had ordered his driver to keep going.

A police cruiser, its lights flashing, screeched to a halt beside them. An officer saw the child in her arms and immediately got on his radio, his voice urgent.

Rory clutched Willa, whose eyes were now closed, her body terrifyingly still. Rory's world, which she thought had been destroyed six years ago, was collapsing all over again, this time into an even deeper, darker abyss.

The wail of an approaching ambulance was the most terrifying and beautiful sound she had ever heard.

They placed Willa on a stretcher. Rory climbed into the back of the ambulance, her hand gripping her daughter's small, cold one. As the doors slammed shut, she looked out at the rain-streaked, indifferent city, her heart shattering into a million irreparable pieces.