Sunlight sliced through the gap in the heavy drapes, hitting Amaris directly in the face. She groaned, rolling over, but the shrill ring of her phone dragged her out of sleep.

She grabbed it, squinting at the screen. Irma Lewis.

Her first instinct was to decline. Her thumb hovered, but the guilt of a lifetime of obedience made her swipe right.

"What is wrong with you?" Irma's voice was a whip crack, devoid of any maternal warmth. "You've ruined everything. The Hoffman alliance is destroyed. Do you have any idea how much money you cost us?"

Amaris sat up, gripping the phone so hard the plastic creaked. She didn't bother defending herself. It was pointless.

"Stop crying," Irma snapped. "It's pathetic. Listen to me. Silas Vane is in town. His family owns half of Connecticut. You will meet him for lunch today and fix this disaster."

Amaris felt sick. Silas Vane was a pig, notorious for his treatment of women. Irma didn't care about her happiness; she only cared about the price tag on her daughter's head.

"No," Amaris said. The word felt foreign on her tongue.

"Excuse me?"

"I said no. I'm not a piece of meat you can sell to the highest bidder," Amaris said, her voice trembling but firm. "And it doesn't matter anyway. I got married yesterday."

Dead silence on the line. Then, a sharp, mocking laugh.

"Married? To who? You're damaged goods, Amaris. No one of value would touch you after that spectacle. Who is it? Some broke bartender?"

Amaris's jaw clenched. "Cristian Lowe."

The laughter stopped instantly. But Irma recovered quickly, her tone turning vicious. "You're lying. And even if you weren't, I'll freeze your trust fund by noon. You'll come crawling back when you can't pay your rent."

"Go ahead," Amaris shot back. "Try it."

She hung up, her hand shaking so badly she dropped the phone on the duvet. She took a deep breath, fighting the panic. She wasn't broke. She had the prenup. She had Cristian.

But she needed to move fast. She rushed to the desk and opened her laptop, logging into the Aura Inc. server.

Her blood ran cold. A board meeting notification was flagged. Irma had called an emergency vote for tomorrow. The agenda: diluting Amaris's shares, citing "emotional instability."

She was trying to steal the company. Her father's company.

Amaris grabbed her phone and dialed her assistant, Dawna. "Get me everything on the board members. Find out who Irma paid off. We're going to war."

A knock on the door made her jump. She slammed the laptop shut.

Cristian walked in, carrying a mug of coffee. He wore a simple white t-shirt and grey sweatpants, his hair still damp from the shower. He looked less like a ruthless CEO and more like a model in a domestic ad.

He set the coffee on the desk, his eyes lingering on the closed laptop for a second too long. He didn't ask.

"What's on your schedule today?" he asked, leaning against the wall.

"I'm going to Hoffman Group to resign," Amaris said, her chin lifting. "I need to end things properly."

Cristian's brow furrowed. He looked like he wanted to argue, but he just gave a curt nod. "Do you want me to go with you?"

"No," Amaris said quickly. "This is my mess. I need to clean it up myself."

Cristian studied her face for a long moment. Then, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of car keys. He placed them next to the coffee mug.

"It's the Range Rover in the garage. Armored." He pointed to a small red button on the key fob. "If you're in trouble, hit this. It alerts my security team and tracks your location."

Amaris picked up the keys, her fingers brushing against his. A jolt of electricity shot up her arm. She pulled her hand back, her face flushing.

"Thank you," she mumbled.

Cristian just nodded and left the room. Amaris grabbed her bag and hurried downstairs. She needed to get out of there before the walls started closing in.

She drove out the gates, checking the rearview mirror. Cristian was standing on the front steps, his hands in his pockets, watching her leave. His gaze was heavy, intense, and it followed her all the way down the drive.

The Hoffman Group tower loomed over Midtown Manhattan, a giant pillar of glass and steel. Amaris parked the Range Rover on the street and walked through the revolving doors.

The lobby fell silent. The receptionist's eyes widened, a mix of shock and disgust on her face. Amaris ignored her and got into the elevator.

On the 40th floor, the whispers started immediately.

"She actually showed her face..."

"I heard he left her standing there like an idiot..."

"Jalyn is so much prettier anyway..."

Amaris kept her spine straight, her eyes fixed forward. She wouldn't let them see her bleed.

She stepped off the elevator and nearly collided with Perry, Elijah's assistant. The man looked down his nose at her, a sneer twisting his lips.

"He's busy," Perry said, blocking the hallway. "He doesn't have time for your hysterics, Amaris. Go home."

Amaris didn't slow down. She reached into her purse, pulled out the envelope she had written at dawn, and slammed it against Perry's chest.

"Then he doesn't have to see me. That's my resignation. Effective immediately. Tell him to lose my number."

Perry stumbled back, catching the envelope. Amaris walked past him toward her old office.

The door was open. The room was bare.

Her desk was cleared. Her bookshelves were empty. Three cardboard boxes sat on the floor, haphazardly stuffed with her personal items-frames, pens, a dead orchid. They hadn't even packed them properly.

Elijah had erased her completely. Not a single trace of her two years of work remained.

Amaris felt a strange sense of relief wash over her. It was a clean break. No lingering ties. She picked up the boxes, stacking them in her arms.

She took two steps toward the door before the pain hit.

It started as a dull ache in her lower belly, but within seconds, it exploded into a white-hot inferno. It felt like a hand was inside her stomach, twisting her intestines into knots.

Amaris gasped, the boxes slipping from her fingers. They hit the floor with a thud, scattering pens and papers everywhere.

She doubled over, clutching her stomach. Sweat broke out across her forehead, soaking through her blouse. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't stand.

Two coworkers walked by the open door. They glanced at her, crumpled on the floor, then at each other. They quickly looked away and walked faster, their heels clicking hurriedly down the hall.

The pain spiked, a red haze covering her vision. Her knees gave out completely. She hit the carpet, curling into a ball, a low groan escaping her lips.

She was going to die here, on the floor of the office of the man who threw her away.

Suddenly, the world shifted. A pair of strong arms wrapped around her, lifting her off the floor with effortless strength.

The scent hit her first-cedar and cold air, with a faint hint of antiseptic. It was a smell she was beginning to recognize, one that cut through the chaos.

"Amaris!" Cristian's voice was rough, stripped of its usual cool control. He sounded terrified.

She forced her eyes open. His face was inches from hers, his features tight with panic. The icy mask was gone, shattered by raw fear.

He held her against his chest, his grip bruisingly tight. He turned and strode out of the office.

Perry stepped out into the hall, his face pale. "Mr. Lowe, this is Hoffman property-"

Cristian didn't stop. He didn't even look at the assistant. He just threw a glare over his shoulder that made Perry physically recoil, stumbling backward into the wall.

Cristian carried her into the elevator, kicking the emergency button. The doors slid shut.

"NewYork-Presbyterian, now!" he barked into the security camera.

He sank to the floor, keeping her cradled in his lap. He grabbed her hand, squeezing it so hard it hurt, but the pain in her stomach eclipsed everything else.

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat from her forehead, his movements frantic, uncoordinated. He was murmuring something under his breath, a string of curses mixed with prayers.

Amaris's head lolled against his shoulder. The pain was fading, replaced by a heavy numbness. She could hear his heartbeat, fast and erratic, against her ear.

Just before the darkness pulled her under, she felt a warm hand gently brush the hair from her forehead, the touch lingering for a moment longer than necessary.

The beeping was the first thing she heard. A steady, rhythmic pulse that matched the throb in her abdomen.

Amaris opened her eyes. The room was dim, lit only by the glow of medical monitors. She was in a hospital bed, a thin gown replacing her clothes.

She turned her head. Cristian was sitting in the chair beside her bed, a stack of documents on his lap. His tie was loosened, his jaw shadowed with stubble, and dark circles bruised the skin under his eyes. He looked like he hadn't slept in a week.

He saw her move and instantly dropped the papers. He was at her side in a second, his hand reaching for the call button.

"Wait," Amaris croaked, her throat dry.

Cristian ignored her, hitting the button. Then he poured a cup of water from the pitcher on the nightstand. He slipped a straw between her lips, holding the cup steady while she drank.

The cool water soothed her throat. She took a deep breath, wincing at the pull in her stomach. "What happened?"

"Appendicitis," Cristian said, his voice rough. "It ruptured. They had to operate."

Before she could process that, her phone buzzed on the nightstand. The screen lit up. Elijah.

Cristian glanced at the name. His eyes went cold, the softness from a moment ago vanishing. He picked up the phone and held it out to her.

Amaris stared at it. She wasn't ready, but she needed to hear his voice. She needed to know if the reality matched the nightmare.

She swiped to answer, pressing the phone to her ear.

"Where are you?" Elijah snapped, skipping any greeting. "I've been calling you for hours. I need you at the Whitmore dinner tonight. You need to smile and fix this PR mess."

Amaris felt a wave of nausea that had nothing to do with the anesthesia. He didn't ask if she was okay. He didn't even know she was in the hospital.

"I can't," she whispered.

"You can, and you will," Elijah commanded, his tone dripping with entitlement. "I'm not asking, Amaris. Be at my apartment by six."

The sheer audacity hit her like a physical blow. Before she could respond, a sudden wave of heat washed over her body. The room spun, the edges of her vision going black. The phone slipped from her grasp, clattering onto the mattress.

She groaned, her eyes rolling back as the fever spiked.

Cristian moved like lightning. He took the phone from her. His thumb pressed down on the end-call button with enough force to make the plastic creak. He then calmly placed it face down on the table, his jaw set like stone. He slammed his hand on the call button again.

"Her temperature is spiking!" he yelled at the nurse running in.

The next few hours were a haze of ice and fire. The doctor called it a postoperative absorption fever. They packed her in ice packs, trying to bring the temperature down.

But the person holding the ice packs wasn't a nurse. It was Cristian.

He sat on the edge of the bed, a basin of ice water beside him. He wrung out the cloth and ran it over her burning forehead, down her neck, and across her wrists. He did it over and over, his movements incredibly gentle, a stark contrast to the harsh, ruthless man the world knew.

Amaris drifted in and out of consciousness, her body shivering under the cold cloths. She mumbled in her delirium, fragments of pain and fear spilling from her lips.

Cristian leaned in closer, his face inches from hers. His jaw was clenched, his eyes bright with unshed tears.

"Don't be afraid, Amy," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I'm right here."

The name cut through the fog in her brain. Amy. Only one person had ever called her that. Her father. And he was dead.

But the voice was so real, so close. She tried to open her eyes, to find the source, but the fever dragged her back under.

It was dawn when the fever finally broke. Amaris woke up, her body weak but her mind clear. The room was quiet, the morning light painting streaks across the floor.

Cristian was asleep in the chair beside her. His head was tilted back, his breathing deep and even. He still wore the same clothes, his hand resting on the edge of her mattress, as if he was afraid to let go.

Amaris looked at him, a strange warmth blooming in her chest. She reached for her phone on the nightstand, ignoring the cracked screen.

She saw the missed calls from Elijah. Ten of them. The warmth in her chest turned to ice.

She didn't hesitate. She opened her contacts, scrolled to his name, and hit "Block." It was done with a finality that felt like cutting off a limb, but the relief was immediate.

"Amy," she whispered to herself, the word foreign on her tongue. It had to be a dream. A hallucination born of fever and medication.

Cristian stirred. His eyes fluttered open, and for a split second, she saw it again-that raw, desperate look from the office. But in the blink of an eye, it was gone. The shutters came down, and the cold, composed CEO was back.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, his voice perfectly level.

Amaris stared at him, searching his face for any crack in the armor. "Who is Amy?" she asked bluntly.

Cristian didn't flinch. He didn't blink. He just picked up the water pitcher and poured her a glass. "You must have misheard," he said smoothly. "I said Amaris."

He handed her the water, his expression giving nothing away. The mystery hung in the air between them, thick and unsolvable.