Ivana scrambled to fumble with the phone, her fingers slipping on the sleek glass.

"Mommy, are you okay?" Cohen asked again. His voice was small, worried.

Gannon froze. His entire body went rigid.

He turned his head slowly. His eyes were like lasers, burning into the phone in Ivana's hand.

Ivana finally managed to hit the button to turn off the speaker, jamming the phone against her ear.

"I'm here," she whispered, turning her body away from Gannon, curling into the door. "I'm fine. I'll be there soon."

She hung up without waiting for a response.

Silence. Heavy, suffocating silence.

Gannon was staring at her. His expression had shifted from disdain to something dangerous.

"Who was that?" he asked. His voice was dangerously soft.

Ivana's heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.

"Wrong number," she said.

Gannon laughed. A dry, humorless sound. "A wrong number that calls you Mommy?"

Ivana licked her dry lips. "It's... the kid I nanny for. He's very attached. He gets confused sometimes."

It was a terrible lie. She knew it. He knew it.

Gannon studied her face. He was looking for the tell. He was looking for the truth.

But his mind slammed on the brakes. The reports from the private investigator were clear: Ivana had been spotted at galas in Paris, casinos in Monaco. There was no child. Breann had shown him the photos herself. If there was a child, it couldn't be his. And if it wasn't his, then she had moved on. She had started a family with someone else while he was still bleeding.

The thought was so agonizing he physically recoiled from it. He chose to believe the lie because the truth-or his version of it-was too painful to entertain.

"You're a nanny?" he asked, his voice dripping with skepticism. "You threw away a life with me to wipe some other kid's nose?"

"It pays the bills," Ivana said, staring at her knees.

Gannon felt a surge of irrational fury. He hated that she was struggling. He hated that she was serving someone else. He hated that hearing that child's voice had made his own heart stop for a second.

He looked at the chocolate box in her lap.

"That's fifty dollars," he said.

Ivana blinked. "What?"

"The chocolates. You ate half the box. Fifty dollars."

Ivana stared at him. "You gave them to me."

"Nothing is free, Ivana. You taught me that."

She felt the blood rush to her face. She dug into her pocket. She pulled out the crumpled twenty dollar bill and a handful of quarters.

It was all she had left after the transfer.

"I... I only have twenty-two dollars," she whispered.

She held it out to him.

Gannon looked at the pathetic pile of money in her shaking hand.

He felt like a monster. He wanted to take the money and throw it out the window. He wanted to pull her into his arms.

He swatted her hand away. The bills and coins scattered onto the floor of the car.

"Get out," he said.

Ivana looked out the window. "We're not there yet. We're blocks away."

"I said get out!" Gannon shouted.

He slammed his hand against the partition. "Stop the car!"

The Maybach lurched to a halt.

Outside, the sky had opened up. A summer thunderstorm was raging. Rain lashed against the windows.

Ivana looked at him, her eyes wide with shock.

"Gannon, please. It's pouring."

"Get out, Ivana. Before I do something I regret."

He couldn't be near her. He couldn't smell her scent-rain and cheap soap-and not want to destroy everything he had built to forget her.

Ivana grabbed her bag. She opened the door.

The wind caught it, ripping it from her hand. Rain soaked her instantly.

She stepped out into the deluge.

The door slammed shut behind her.

The lock clicked.

Ivana stood on the sidewalk, the rain plastering her hair to her face. She clutched the chocolate box-he hadn't taken it back-to her chest.

The Maybach sped away, tires spraying a wave of dirty puddle water over her legs.

She watched the taillights disappear into the gray mist.

She was alone. She was broke. She was wet. And her money was still scattered on the floor of his car.

She started to walk.

The rain was cold, but Ivana was numb.

She walked with her head down, shielding her face with the tote bag.

Every step was a reminder of four years ago.

Flashback.

The Sharpe Estate study. The smell of old leather and cigar smoke.

Hampton Sharpe, Gannon's grandfather, sat behind the mahogany desk. He looked like a vulture.

He slid two papers across the desk.

"Sign the NDA, Ivana. Leave him. And I will authorize the experimental treatment for your brother."

Ivana was crying. "I can't leave him. He needs me. He's still in the ICU."

"Hampton sneered. "He is in the ICU because of you. Because of your reckless driving. You are poison to this family."

It wasn't true. She had swerved to avoid a deer. She had pulled Gannon out of the wreckage. She had cut her arm to the bone saving him.

But Hampton controlled the narrative. And he controlled the hospital board.

"Sign, or Leo dies."

She signed. She signed away her life to save Leo. And it hadn't mattered. Leo had died six months later, his body rejecting the treatment. The money Hampton sent had evaporated into medical bills and funeral costs. Now, Elena was all she had left. She couldn't fail her too.

End Flashback.

Ivana stepped into a puddle, the water soaking through her canvas sneaker.

She shivered.

A car slowed down beside her.

She didn't look up. She kept walking.

The car honked. A short, polite beep.

She turned. It was a generic black sedan. Not a Maybach. A Toyota.

The passenger window rolled down. An older woman with gray hair looked out.

"Miss?" she called out.

Ivana stopped. "Yes?"

The woman held out a large black umbrella.

"Here," she said. "Take this."

Ivana hesitated. "Why?"

The woman shrugged. "You looked like you needed it."

Ivana took the umbrella. It was heavy. Expensive. The handle was solid wood.

"Thank you," she said.

The woman nodded and the window rolled up. The car drove away.

Ivana opened the umbrella. It was huge, creating a dry sanctuary around her.

She looked at the handle. There was no logo. But near the release button, there was a small, intentional groove carved into the dark wood. It was shaped like a crescent moon.

Ivana's breath hitched. She ran her thumb over it. She had carved this herself, four years ago, while they sat on a park bench in Central Park. It was his umbrella. The one he kept in the foyer of the penthouse.

She looked down the street. The black sedan turned a corner.

He had sent someone.

He had kicked her out into the rain, screamed at her, and then sent a stranger to give her his umbrella.

She didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

She gripped the handle tighter.

He still cared.

And that was the most dangerous thing of all.

Breann Carlson sat in her penthouse living room. The view of Central Park was obscured by the rain.

She held a glass of Pinot Noir in one hand and her phone in the other.

A photo appeared on the screen.

It was grainy, taken through a telephoto lens.

It showed Gannon's Maybach stopped on a street in Brooklyn. It showed a woman getting out.

Breann zoomed in.

She recognized the hoodie. She recognized the posture.

Ivana.

Breann's grip on the wine glass tightened. The stem snapped.

Red wine spilled over her white silk robe and onto the cream carpet. It looked like a gunshot wound.

She didn't flinch.

She dialed a number.

"Silas," she said. Her voice was calm, sweet.

"Hey, Bree," Silas Vance answered. He was Gannon's best friend, and Breann's useful idiot.

"I'm worried about Gannon," she said. She let a tremor enter her voice. "He... he's been acting strange. I think the stress of the wedding is getting to him."

"What happened?" Silas asked.

"I think... I think he went to see her. Ivana."

Silas was silent. "She's back?"

Breann sniffled. "Yes. I'm so scared, Silas. She hurt him so badly last time. If she's back for money..."

"Don't worry, Bree. I'll look into it. I won't let her near you guys."

"Thank you, Silas. You're the best."

She hung up.

Her face went blank. She dropped the broken glass onto the floor.

She typed a message to another number. An unlisted one.

Find out where she is staying. And find out if she brought the brat.

She looked at the photo of Ivana again.

"You should have stayed dead," she whispered.

Back in the motel room, Ivana peeled off her wet clothes. The room smelled of mildew and stale cigarettes. She leaned the black umbrella against the wall. It looked like an alien object in the shabby room.

She went into the bathroom. The tiles were cracked.

She turned on the shower. The water sputtered, then came out lukewarm.

She stepped in.

As she washed the city grime off her skin, she looked at her left arm.

On the inside of her wrist, extending up her forearm, was a scar.

It was jagged. Ugly.

It wasn't a clean cut. It was a tear.

The glass from the windshield had sliced her open as she dragged Gannon's unconscious body through the window of the burning car.

The doctors had stitched it up, but the nerves were damaged. Sometimes, when it rained, it ached.

Like tonight.

She traced the scar with her soapy finger.

Hampton had told Gannon that Ivana had fled the scene. That she had left him to die. That the paramedics found him alone.

Ivana had been in the second ambulance, drifting in and out of consciousness from blood loss. But Hampton had been thorough. He used her vulnerable status-her visa was expiring, and her sponsorship was tied to the company-to erase her presence. He paid off the EMTs, buried the police report, and deported her record before she even woke up from surgery. To the world, and to Gannon, she had simply vanished.

She turned off the water.

She dried herself with a scratchy towel.

She sat on the edge of the bed and opened her laptop. It was an old model, heavy and slow.

She logged into Skype.

Mrs. Higgins answered.

Cohen was eating a bowl of oatmeal. He looked up and beamed.

"Mommy! Look! Bunny is eating too!"

He held up a tattered stuffed rabbit.

Ivana smiled. It hurt her face.

"Hi, baby. Is Bunny hungry?"

"Yes! He likes oats."

Ivana watched him. He had Gannon's nose. The exact slope.

Mrs. Higgins stepped into the frame. "He's been good. But we're almost out of the special lotion for his eczema."

"I know," Ivana said. "I'm working on it."

She hung up after five minutes. She couldn't bear to watch him any longer. Every second she wasn't with him felt like a failure.