The next morning, Emerson walked out of the revolving glass doors of Mount Sinai Hospital.

She pulled her thin trench coat tighter around her body. The biting autumn wind of New York whipped down Fifth Avenue, chilling her to the bone.

She walked aimlessly along the edge of Central Park. Her brain was a frantic calculator, trying to figure out how to legally make two million dollars in thirty days.

She stopped at the red light at the intersection of Fifth and 86th Street.

A sleek, black Maybach with tinted windows rolled to a smooth stop right in front of her.

The rear passenger window hummed as it rolled down halfway.

Emerson glanced over. Her entire body turned to stone.

Finnegan Mcconnell sat in the back seat. Sitting on his lap was a little girl, about five years old, wearing a pink princess dress.

Finnegan was looking down at the girl. His eyes held a level of pure, unconditional tenderness that Emerson had never, ever seen.

The front passenger door opened. Aurore Gordon stepped out onto the curb. She wore the latest Chanel tweed suit.

Aurore smiled brightly and handed a plush doll through the window to the little girl.

"Daddy!" the little girl cheered, taking the doll.

Finnegan smiled. He leaned down and kissed the top of the girl's head.

The scene was a rusty saw blade ripping through Emerson's chest.

She stumbled backward, hiding herself behind the dark shadow of a nearby newsstand. Her hands shook violently.

She did the math in her head. The girl was five.

That meant Finnegan had been sleeping with Aurore while he was still married to Emerson. The timeline was a knife to the gut. It meant he'd been with Aurore at the very same time she was carrying his child. The betrayal was absolute. Her chest constricted, every breath suddenly feeling like she was inhaling crushed glass. She gripped the rough edge of the newsstand, her knuckles turning bone-white as she fought the urge to collapse.

The light turned green. The Maybach accelerated smoothly, disappearing into the Manhattan traffic.

Emerson stood in the exhaust fumes, her eyes burning with unshed tears.

The humiliation of the past and the desperation of the present collided. It pushed her right off the cliff.

She pulled her phone out of her pocket. She took a deep breath and dialed her former agent, Sarah.

"Emerson?" Sarah answered, surprised.

"I want the Mcconnell Group project," Emerson said. Her voice was flat and hard. "The spring collection."

Sarah gasped loudly. "Are you insane? That project is a death trap. It's already driven three top designers to quit."

"I don't care," Emerson said.

"The new CEO is a tyrant, Em. He's a monster. And the breach of contract penalty is ten million dollars."

"I only care about the three million dollar advance," Emerson replied. "Submit my portfolio to their bidding office today."

Sarah was silent for a long moment. "Fine. But you're walking into a slaughterhouse."

Emerson hung up. She turned around and marched straight to the subway.

An hour later, she pushed open the door to her Brooklyn apartment. She walked straight to the corner of the living room.

She pulled the dusty canvas cover off her drafting table.

She tied her hair up in a messy bun, walked to the sink, and splashed freezing water on her face.

She sat down at the table and opened her laptop. She downloaded the Mcconnell Group's design brief.

The requirements were brutal. The core theme was listed as: The Bindings of Power and the Thorns of Rebirth.

Emerson stared at those words. Finnegan's cold face flashed in her mind. Then Leo's pale face in the hospital bed.

She picked up a charcoal pencil. She pressed the tip against the thick sketch paper.

The scratching sound filled the quiet room. She drew the first harsh line. She poured every ounce of her hatred, pain, and desperation into the paper.

At that exact moment, down in the Financial District, on the top floor of the Mcconnell Building.

Alex walked into the massive office and placed a leather folder on the desk.

"Sir, the final list of bidders for the spring collection," Alex said.

Finnegan picked up the list. His eyes scanned the names.

He stopped. His gaze locked onto the name Emerson Sellers.

A dark, predatory smirk curled the corner of his mouth. He picked up a red pen and slowly drew a thick circle around her name.

At three in the morning, the small desk lamp in the Brooklyn apartment cast a harsh, yellow glow.

Emerson's eyes were bloodshot. Dark purple bags hung heavily under them.

The trash can next to her drafting table was overflowing with crumpled balls of sketch paper. More rejected drawings littered the floor around her feet.

She bit down hard on her lower lip. Her right hand was cramping violently from gripping the pencil for ten hours straight.

She shook her hand out, wincing at the pain, and immediately picked the pencil back up.

The sound of the damaged door groaning open broke the silence. Alden walked in, pushing aside the makeshift barricade Emerson had placed there. The hinges shrieked in protest, a harsh reminder of the violence from days ago.

He carried two insulated paper bags that smelled like roasted chicken.

He stopped and looked at the disaster zone around the drafting table. He saw Emerson's pale, exhausted face. His brow furrowed deeply.

He walked over, reached down, and physically pulled the pencil out of her hand.

"Hey!" Emerson protested, reaching for it.

Alden ignored her. He placed a steaming cup of black coffee and a wrapped sandwich right on top of her sketchpad.

"You are going to eat," Alden ordered. His voice left no room for argument.

Emerson rubbed her throbbing temples. She let out a long breath and picked up the coffee. The heat felt good against her freezing palms. She took a large gulp.

Alden pulled up a folding chair and sat next to her. He looked down at the paper.

It was a half-finished sketch of a necklace. Black thorns wrapped tightly around a blood-red center stone.

"It's incredible," Alden said softly. He reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

For a brief second, the apartment felt warm. Safe.

Then, Alden's phone erupted with a shrill, obnoxious ringtone.

It vibrated violently on the table. The screen lit up with the name: Mother.

Alden's face instantly darkened. He reached out to decline the call.

Emerson grabbed his wrist. She shook her head. "Answer it. She's your mother."

Alden gritted his teeth. He pressed the green button and put it on speakerphone, wanting to prove he had nothing to hide.

Beatrice's sharp, commanding voice blasted through the small room.

"You are attending the dinner at Le Bernardin tomorrow night," Beatrice ordered.

"I'm busy," Alden said flatly.

"You will make time," Beatrice snapped. "I have arranged a meeting with Senator Hayes' daughter. She can bring massive political backing to your firm."

Alden closed his eyes. "I'm not going on a blind date, Mother."

"Stop wasting your life!" Beatrice screamed through the speaker. "Stop playing house in Brooklyn with that poor woman and her dying bastard!"

Alden snatched the phone off the table. He turned off the speakerphone.

"I said no!" Alden roared into the receiver.

Beatrice's voice was muffled now, but Emerson could still hear the hysterical crying and the sound of something glass shattering on the other end.

"If you don't go, I will pull my initial investment out of your firm tomorrow morning!" Beatrice threatened.

Alden's face turned pale. He hung up the phone and threw it onto the sofa. His chest heaved.

The apartment was dead silent. The warmth was completely gone.

Emerson set her half-eaten sandwich down. Her stomach churned violently. She felt sick.

She looked at Alden. Her eyes were completely calm, which was worse than if she were crying.

"She's right," Emerson said quietly. "You shouldn't waste your time here."

Alden panicked. He grabbed her arm. "I don't care about the Senator's daughter. I don't care about the money."

Emerson yanked her arm out of his grip.

"I do," Emerson said. Her voice was like ice. "I will not let Leo carry the guilt of ruining your life."

She pointed to the door. "Get out."

"Emerson, please-"

"I need absolute silence to finish this," she said, turning her back to him. "Leave."

Alden stared at her rigid back. He knew he couldn't win this fight tonight. He grabbed his coat and walked out, slamming the door behind him.

The moment the latch clicked, Emerson collapsed over the drafting table.

A single tear slipped down her cheek and landed on the paper.

She wiped it away aggressively. She picked up her pencil.

She channeled all the humiliation, all the anger, and all the pain into the tip of the graphite.

Two hours later, the final draft of the "Crown of Thorns" was complete.