Ivana didn't speak. She couldn't. Her throat felt like it was stuffed with cotton. She just wanted to pick up her suitcase and vanish.

Aleta took a step closer. The red soles of her Louboutins flashed like warning lights.

Marnie tugged on Aleta's sleeve. "Aleta, come on. We're going to be late for the gala committee meeting."

Aleta shook her off. "Wait. I want to see this."

She walked right up to Ivana, invading her personal space. The scent of expensive perfume-jasmine and tuberose-was suffocating.

"So, the prodigal gold digger returns," Aleta said. She looked Ivana up and down, her gaze lingering on the frayed hem of Ivana's jeans and the scuffed sneakers.

Ivana bent down to right her suitcase. "Excuse me," she whispered.

Aleta kicked the suitcase. It spun on its side.

"Where is all the money, Ivana?" Aleta asked, her voice raising an octave so the nurses at the station could hear. "You took millions from the Sharpe family. Did you spend it all on... this?"

She gestured vaguely at Ivana's outfit.

Ivana stood up. Her hands were shaking. "Please, Aleta. I'm just here for my mother."

"Your mother?" Aleta laughed. "The one you abandoned to go live in Europe with your millions? You are pathetic."

Ivana tried to step around her. Aleta moved to block her path.

"Get out of my way," Ivana said, her voice gaining a fraction of strength.

Aleta shoved her. It was a hard, sharp push to the chest.

Ivana stumbled back. Her lower back hit the handrail along the wall. Her tote bag slipped from her shoulder, spilling its contents. A toothbrush, a travel-sized deodorant, and a tube of toothpaste clattered onto the floor.

Aleta looked at the cheap toiletries with delight.

"Look at you," she sneered. "You're trash. You were trash four years ago, and you're trash now."

Ivana knelt to pick up her things. She reached for the toothpaste.

Aleta stepped on her hand.

Ivana gasped, pulling her hand back. A sharp pain shot through her fingers.

"Oops," Aleta said.

Ivana looked up, anger finally piercing through the shame. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

"Don't I?" Aleta's face twisted. She leaned down and grabbed a handful of Ivana's hair, yanking her head back.

Ivana cried out.

"You ruined him," Aleta hissed. "And you think you can just waltz back here?"

She raised her free hand and slapped Ivana.

The sound was like a whip crack.

Ivana's head snapped to the side. Her cheek burned. Her ear rang.

Silence fell over the hallway. Even the nurses stopped typing.

Ivana touched her lip. It was wet. Blood.

Then, the elevator dinged.

Heavy footsteps approached. Not the scuffling of sneakers or the click of heels. The solid, rhythmic thud of leather on tile.

Aleta released Ivana's hair instantly. She stepped back, her face transforming into a mask of shock and innocence.

Ivana looked up from the floor.

He was standing ten feet away.

Gannon Sharpe.

He was wearing a charcoal gray suit that fit his broad shoulders perfectly. His dark hair was shorter than she remembered, the sides faded with military precision. His jaw was clenched tight enough to snap steel.

But it was his eyes that stopped Ivana's heart.

They were the color of storm clouds, and they were looking directly at her.

There was no warmth. No recognition of the intimacy they had once shared. Just a cold, dead void.

Ivana couldn't breathe. Seeing him was worse than the slap. It was worse than the debt. It was a physical ache in the center of her chest that threatened to collapse her lungs.

"Gannon," Aleta breathed. She rushed to his side, clutching his arm. "Thank god you're here. She... she tried to steal my wallet! I caught her going through my bag!"

It was such a blatant lie that Ivana almost laughed.

Gannon didn't look at Aleta. He didn't shake her off, either. He just kept staring at Ivana, who was still on her knees surrounded by cheap toothpaste and a broken suitcase.

Ivana wiped the blood from her lip with the back of her hand. She slowly stood up. Her legs were trembling uncontrollably.

Gannon's gaze dropped to the blood on her face. His eyes narrowed slightly, a microscopic shift, before returning to their icy indifference.

"Is that true?" he asked. His voice was deep, a rumble that vibrated in Ivana's bones.

Ivana looked at him. She wanted to scream the truth. She wanted to tell him about the NDA, about his grandfather, about the sacrifice.

But she couldn't. The contract was ironclad. And if she broke it, they would stop the payments that had kept Elena alive this long. Even though the money was gone now, the legal threat remained.

"I didn't steal anything," Ivana said softly.

Gannon took a step closer. He loomed over her, sucking all the oxygen out of the hallway.

He looked at her faded hoodie. He looked at the exhaustion etched under her eyes.

"You look like hell, Ivana," he said.

The words were flat. Cruel.

Ivana flinched.

"Is this what the money bought you?" he asked. "A one-way ticket to the gutter?"

Ivana stared at the button on his jacket. She couldn't look him in the eye anymore. The shame was a living thing, eating her from the inside out.

Aleta was smirking behind Gannon's shoulder.

Ivana reached down to grab her tote bag. As she did, the unpaid invoice from Dr. Evans fluttered out from the folder.

It landed right next to Gannon's shoe.

Gannon looked down. He saw the logo of the hospital. He saw the bold text: PAST DUE. And the number: $50,000.

Ivana lunged for it.

Gannon watched her scramble, his expression unmoving. He didn't step on it, but he didn't move out of the way either. He simply looked at the paper as if it were a piece of gum on the sidewalk-something beneath his notice, yet utterly revealing.

Ivana froze, her hand inches from his shoe.

She looked up at him. "Please," she whispered.

Gannon kicked the paper slightly, flipping it over so the total was obscured. It was a dismissive gesture, one that hurt more than if he had trampled it.

"Need money?" he asked. His voice dripped with disdain. But beneath the scorn, his eyes flickered with a dark calculation. If she had taken millions, why was she desperate for fifty thousand? The math didn't add up, and Gannon Sharpe hated unbalanced equations. But his anger was louder than his logic.

Ivana closed her eyes. If he knew she needed money for her mother, he might investigate. If he investigated Elena, he might find out about the time gap. About where Ivana had been. About Cohen.

She had to make him hate her. Hate was safe. Hate kept him away.

She forced her lips into a smile. It felt brittle, like cracked glass.

She pulled her hand back and stood up, dusting off her knees.

"Actually, yes," she said. Her voice shook, but she forced a tone of casual greed. "The millions didn't last as long as I thought. Europe is expensive."

Aleta gasped. "You have no shame!"

Gannon's face hardened. The muscle in his jaw jumped. He scanned her face, looking for the lie, but her mask was perfect.

"So you're back for a refill?" he asked.

Ivana shrugged. One shoulder. A casual gesture that cost her every ounce of her strength. "You have plenty, Gannon. You wouldn't miss a check or two."

The air around Gannon seemed to drop ten degrees.

He stepped back. He looked at her with such profound revulsion that Ivana felt physically sick.

"You are disgusting," he said.

The words slammed into her.

He turned to Aleta. "Let's go."

Gannon turned his back on her. He walked away, his stride long and angry. Aleta shot Ivana a triumphant glare and trotted after him, hooking her arm through his.

Ivana watched them go. She watched the man she had loved since she was twenty-two walk away, believing she was a monster.

She waited until they turned the corner.

Then, her legs gave out. She slid down the wall, clutching the dirty invoice to her chest.

She checked the paper. It was wrinkled, but legible.

She folded it carefully and put it in her pocket.

Her phone buzzed again. An automated text from the hospital billing department.

Payment required within 24 hours to proceed with treatment.

Ivana pulled herself up. She wiped her face. She had to fix this.

She walked back to the room, composing herself before she opened the door.

Elena was awake. Her eyes were cloudy.

"Did you pay?" Elena whispered.

Ivana nodded. She picked up a knife and an apple from the bedside table. "Yes, Mama. I worked out a plan. Don't worry."

Her hands were shaking so badly she almost cut her thumb.

Dr. Evans came back an hour later. He pulled Ivana into the hallway.

"I can't start the full dialysis without the deposit," he said gently. "I need that five thousand, Ivana. Today."

Ivana pleaded. "Give me forty-eight hours. Please."

Dr. Evans sighed. "Forty-eight hours. That's it."

Ivana sat on the bench in the hallway. She opened her banking app again.

$342.

A text came in from Mrs. Higgins, the neighbor she paid to watch Cohen in the motel room.

He needs more formula. And I need my pay for last week.

Ivana stared at the screen. Cohen. Her sweet, innocent boy who had Gannon's eyes and Gannon's allergies.

She couldn't let him starve.

She transferred $300 to Mrs. Higgins.

Balance: $42.

She hadn't eaten in two days. Her stomach cramped, a sharp, twisting pain.

She walked out of the hospital. The midday sun was blinding.

She couldn't afford a car. She couldn't even afford the subway if she wanted to eat something later.

She walked to the bus stop.

The heat radiated off the sidewalk. The air shimmered.

Ivana stood by the metal pole. Her head felt light. Black spots danced in her vision.

She swayed.

A black car pulled up to the curb. It was sleek, silent, and massive. A Maybach.

The window was tinted so dark it looked like a mirror.

Ivana didn't pay attention. She was focusing on breathing. In. Out.

The window rolled down.

The world tilted on its axis. The black spots in Ivana's vision grew larger, merging into a dark tunnel.

She reached out blindly for the bus stop sign, her fingers slipping on the hot metal. Her knees buckled, and she slid down to the curb, sitting on the concrete that was hot enough to fry an egg.

People walked past her. A man in a suit stepped around her legs, muttering about junkies.

Ivana wasn't a junkie. She was a mother. She was a scientist. She was starving.

Inside the Maybach, the air was a crisp sixty-eight degrees. Gannon sat in the back seat, a file open on his lap. He wasn't reading it.

He was watching the woman on the curb through his sunglasses.

She looked like a broken doll. Her face was pale, a stark contrast to the angry red mark on her cheek where Aleta had slapped her.

"Drive," Gannon said.

His driver, a burly man named Thomas, hesitated. "Sir? She looks... not good."

"She's acting," Gannon snapped. "She's a con artist, Thomas. That's what she does."

But he didn't look away.

He saw her hand trembling as she reached into her bag. She pulled out a small tin of mints.

Her fingers were clumsy. The tin slipped. It clattered onto the sidewalk and rolled, falling through the grate of a storm drain.

Ivana stared at the grate. Her shoulders slumped. It was a posture of absolute defeat.

Gannon felt a twinge in his chest. A sharp, annoying prick of conscience.

She put her head between her knees.

"She's going to pass out," Thomas said quietly.

Gannon cursed under his breath. He threw the file onto the empty seat next to him.

"Unlock the doors."

The lock clicked.

Gannon didn't get out. He couldn't. If he touched her, he might strangle her. Or worse.

"Get her," he ordered.

Thomas got out. A wave of heat rushed into the car.

Ivana felt hands on her arms. Strong, firm hands. She was too weak to fight.

"Come on, miss," a voice said.

She was lifted up. The world spun.

Next thing she knew, she was being lowered onto soft leather. The door slammed shut. The noise of the street vanished, replaced by the hum of the engine and the soft whir of the air conditioner.

She blinked, trying to focus.

She was in a car. A very expensive car.

She looked to her left.

Gannon was pressed against the far door, as if her poverty was contagious.

"Drink," he said.

He pointed to a bottle of Evian in the cup holder.

Ivana stared at the water. Her throat was sandpaper.

She reached for it. Her hand shook so much she couldn't unscrew the cap.

Gannon made a noise of impatience. He snatched the bottle from her, twisted the cap off with a sharp crack, and shoved it back into her hand.

She drank. She drank until she choked, water spilling down her chin and onto her hoodie.

Gannon watched her. His expression was unreadable behind the sunglasses.

"Slow down," he said.

Ivana lowered the bottle. She wiped her mouth.

"Thank you," she rasped.

Gannon didn't respond. He looked out the window.

Her stomach let out a loud, prolonged growl. It was a monstrous sound in the quiet cabin.

Ivana wrapped her arms around her midsection, her face burning.

Gannon turned back to her. He lowered his sunglasses.

"Skipping meals to save for your next Chanel bag?" he asked.

Ivana didn't answer. She didn't have the energy to fight him.

Gannon opened the center console. He pulled out a small, rectangular box.

He tossed it into her lap.

"Eat. I don't want you dying in my car. The paperwork would be a hassle."

Ivana looked at the box. La Maison du Chocolat.

Her heart stuttered.

It was the truffle collection. Specifically, the raspberry ganache ones.

They used to buy a box every Friday night. They would sit on his roof deck, sharing them one by one.

She looked at him. Did he remember? Or was this just his standard car snack?

She opened the box. The smell of rich dark chocolate wafted up.

She took one. She popped it into her mouth.

The sugar hit her bloodstream almost instantly. The tart raspberry, the bitter cocoa. It tasted like memories. It tasted like four years ago.

She ate another. And another.

Gannon watched her lips move. He watched a speck of chocolate adhere to the corner of her mouth.

His eyes darkened. He looked away abruptly, shifting in his seat.

"Where are you staying?" he asked.

Ivana swallowed. "A motel. In Bushwick."

Gannon scoffed. "Classy."

He tapped on the partition glass. "Thomas, take us to Bushwick."

Ivana leaned back against the headrest. The sugar was helping. The dizziness was receding.

"Why?" she asked softly. "Why did you pick me up?"

Gannon didn't look at her. "Because you were making a scene. And it reflects poorly on the company if my former... whatever you were... dies on the street."

Whatever you were.

The words stung, but she accepted them.

Her phone rang.

It was loud in the silence.

She looked at the screen. Mrs. Higgins.

Panic surged. If she didn't answer, Mrs. Higgins might leave. But if she answered...

She pressed the green button, intending to put it to her ear quickly.

But her thumb slipped. She hit the speaker button.

"Mommy?"

Cohen's voice filled the car.