Elijah Hoffman sat behind his massive mahogany desk, staring at the resignation letter in his hand. The paper was slightly crumpled, the signature at the bottom sharp and angry.

He pulled out his phone and dialed Amaris's number again. The number you have reached is no longer in service.

He threw the phone against the wall. It shattered into pieces of plastic and glass.

Perry stood in the doorway, trembling. "Sir, she's moved out of the penthouse. The doorman said she took one bag and left the key."

Elijah stood up and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out over the city he owned. A cruel smile touched his lips.

"Let her run," he said, his voice echoing in the empty office. "Where is she going to go? She has no money, no name. Who is going to want a discarded bride?"

He turned back to his desk, straightening his cuffs. "She'll be back. They always come back. I'll just wait until she's desperate enough to beg."

His office phone rang. The receptionist said it was Jalyn on line two.

Elijah's face transformed. The hardness melted away, replaced by a sickeningly sweet concern. "Jalyn, sweetheart, how are you feeling? Did the doctor come? I'll be there in twenty minutes, I promise. Don't move."

He hung up, grabbing his jacket. Amaris was an afterthought, a problem to be dealt with later. Right now, his precious Jalyn needed him.

Across town, in the VIP suite of NewYork-Presbyterian, Amaris was taking her first steps.

Cristian stood beside her, his arm wrapped securely around her waist. She leaned into him, her body weak, her bare feet shuffling on the cold linoleum.

She could smell him-cedar and clean laundry, a scent that was quickly becoming her anchor. She stumbled, her toe catching on the hem of her gown.

Cristian caught her instantly, pulling her flush against his side. His grip tightened, his palm pressing flat against her lower back. The heat of his hand seared through the thin fabric.

"Lean on me," he murmured, his voice low and rough. "Don't fall."

Amaris's heart skipped a beat. The feeling of being completely supported, completely protected, was so foreign she didn't know what to do with it. She nodded against his shoulder.

When they got back to the bed, Cristian pulled the rolling table over. On it was a bowl of steaming congee, a far cry from the bland hospital food.

He sat on the edge of the bed, picking up the spoon. He blew on the porridge, the steam curling around his sharp jaw, before bringing it to her lips.

Amaris stared at him. "I can feed myself."

"Humor me," he said, his eyes daring her to argue.

She opened her mouth. The food was warm and soothing, settling her churning stomach. He fed her slowly, blowing on every spoonful, his focus entirely on her. It felt natural, like they had done this a thousand times before.

She watched his profile as he reached for another spoonful. The word was on the tip of her tongue, burning a hole in her mind.

"Amy," she said quietly.

Cristian's hand froze. The spoon hovered in the air for a fraction of a second. He recovered instantly, bringing the spoon to her mouth. "What about it?"

"My father used to call me that," Amaris said, watching him closely. "How do you know that name?"

Cristian didn't miss a beat. "Jeanne must have mentioned it," he said, his tone casual. "She talks about you a lot."

It was a perfect lie. Smooth, logical, and completely unprovable. Amaris wanted to push, but she was too tired.

Cristian's phone buzzed. He stood up, pulling it out of his pocket. "I have to take this."

He walked out onto the balcony, sliding the glass door shut. Amaris watched him through the glass. His posture was rigid, his gestures sharp and commanding. He was dealing with Lowe family business, and he looked like a man ready for war.

Amaris looked away, staring at her hands. She couldn't afford to get distracted by this man. She had a company to save and a mother to destroy.

Outside on the balcony, Cristian hung up the phone. He turned his head slowly, looking through the glass at the woman in the hospital bed. The cold, hard mask slipped, and his eyes filled with a longing so deep it looked like pain.

He would burn the world down before he let anyone hurt her again.

"Discharge papers are signed," the doctor said, clipping the pen to his board. "Take it easy for the next two weeks."

Amaris nodded, already dressed in the clothes Cristian had brought-simple black leggings and an oversized cashmere sweater that smelled like him.

Cristian stepped out to bring the car around, leaving her to gather her things.

Amaris walked out of the room, heading for the nurse's station to return her wristband. She turned the corner into the main hallway and stopped dead.

The elevator doors at the end of the hall slid open. Elijah stepped out, his arm wrapped tightly around Jalyn's waist.

Jalyn was wearing a thin hospital gown, her face pale and drawn. She leaned heavily into Elijah's side, her eyes wide and innocent, playing the part of the fragile victim perfectly.

Elijah looked up and saw Amaris. His expression hardened, his eyes narrowing into slits.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded, his voice bouncing off the sterile walls. He started walking toward her, dragging Jalyn along.

Jalyn whimpered, shrinking behind Elijah's back. "Elijah, please, I'm scared," she whispered, loud enough for Amaris to hear. "She looks so angry."

Elijah stopped a few feet from Amaris, his face twisted in disgust. "You're harassing a sick woman now? Apologize to her. Your little stunt today stressed her out so much she almost fainted."

Amaris stared at him, then at Jalyn, who was trembling like a leaf. It was so absurd, so utterly ridiculous, that Amaris wanted to laugh.

Instead, she smiled. A cold, sharp smile that made Elijah falter.

"Go to hell," she said softly. "Both of you."

Elijah's face turned red. He lunged forward, his hand shooting out to grab her wrist. "You ungrateful bitch, I'm not done with you-"

Amaris yanked her arm back. The adrenaline, the humiliation, the weeks of betrayal-it all exploded inside her.

She didn't think. She just swung.

The sound of her palm connecting with his cheek was like a gunshot in the quiet hallway. Elijah's head snapped to the side, the force of the blow staggering him back a step.

He stood frozen, his hand covering his red cheek, his eyes wide with shock. No one had ever hit him. No one had ever dared.

Jalyn gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. "Elijah!"

Amaris stepped closer, her finger jabbing into his chest. "We are done," she hissed, every word dripping with venom. "Do not call me. Do not look for me. You are dead to me."

Elijah's shock morphed into rage. He reached out to grab her again, his fingers closing on empty air.

A large hand clamped down on Elijah's wrist, stopping him mid-motion. The grip was so tight that Elijah let out a grunt of pain.

Cristian stood there, his eyes like black ice. He looked like death incarnate, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle feathered in his cheek.

He twisted Elijah's arm, forcing him down to his knees, then let go with a shove that sent Elijah stumbling into the wall.

"Don't touch my wife," Cristian said. His voice was low, barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of a death sentence.

Elijah looked up, his face pale. He recognized the man standing in front of him. The most ruthless capitalist in New York. The man who bought and sold companies before breakfast.

"You..." Elijah stammered, his arrogance evaporating. "You married him?"

Cristian didn't answer. He stepped in front of Amaris, shielding her completely with his body. He placed a hand on her lower back, guiding her toward the private elevator.

Amaris leaned into him, her hand shaking slightly, but her spine was straight. She didn't look back.

The elevator doors closed on Elijah, who was still slumped against the wall, his face a mask of impotent fury.