The Escalade merges onto the Long Island Expressway. The evening rush hour traffic is a dense, crawling sea of red taillights.

The driver taps the brakes, trying to navigate the congested lanes. The massive SUV sways slightly.

In the second row, Blair throws his gaming console onto the floor. He starts screaming, kicking the back of the driver's seat.

Cristina laughs from the front seat. "Look at him, Garrett. So much energy. He's a natural leader."

Blair unbuckles his seatbelt and stands up on the leather seat.

He pulls a heavy, solid metal Captain America shield from his backpack and swings it wildly through the air.

The edge of the metal shield slams into Garrett's shoulder with a sickening thud.

Garrett winces, rubbing his arm, but his voice remains sickeningly sweet. "Careful, buddy. Sit down."

In the third row, a primal sense of danger makes the hairs on Elliana's arms stand up. She grips the plastic safety handle above the door.

"Cristina, he needs his seatbelt," Elliana says. "We're on the highway."

Cristina whips her head around, her eyes flashing with venom. "You are barren. You know nothing about raising a child. Keep your mouth shut."

Garrett glares at Elliana through the rearview mirror. "Stop ruining the mood, Elliana. Be quiet."

Elliana sucks in a breath, clamps her jaw shut, and pulls her own seatbelt tighter across her chest.

Emboldened, Blair climbs onto the center console between the front and second rows.

He swings the heavy metal shield forward, intentionally bashing it against the back of the driver's headrest. The driver flinches, his vision blurring for a split second from the impact. In that exact moment of distraction, a sedan in the adjacent lane abruptly cuts them off to make a last-minute exit. The driver gasps, his hands jerking the steering wheel to avoid a collision. The Escalade's tires screech against the asphalt. A hundred yards ahead, a massive semi-truck loaded with steel pipes slams on its brakes in response to the swerving sedan. "Watch out!" the driver screams, stomping on the brake pedal.

The violent deceleration launches Blair forward. He flies toward the windshield.

Cristina screams, throwing her hands over her face.

Garrett unbuckles his seatbelt. He lunges forward, throwing his entire body weight over the console to grab Blair's legs.

Garrett's shoulder crashes heavily into the driver's right arm.

The driver loses the wheel entirely. The Escalade violently fishtails across the lanes.

The front bumper misses the semi-truck, but the entire right side of the SUV is exposed to the oncoming traffic.

A Ford F-150 pickup truck, traveling at sixty miles per hour, plows directly into the right rear quarter panel.

The sound of tearing metal is deafening. The airbags deploy with the explosive force of a shotgun blast.

The kinetic energy transfers directly into the third row.

The reinforced glass shatters. Thousands of shards explode inward like shrapnel.

As the SUV rolls, Elliana curls into a tight ball. She wraps both arms fiercely around her stomach, protecting the life inside her.

Her head slams against the C-pillar. A blinding flash of white pain rips through her skull, followed instantly by a suffocating, blood-red darkness.

The acrid smell of burnt gunpowder from the airbags and sweet, leaking antifreeze fills the crushed cabin.

Elliana gasps for air. Pain radiates from every nerve ending. She is pinned between the mangled third-row seat and the caved-in roof.

Warm blood drips down her forehead, stinging her left eye.

Panic seizes her. She presses her left hand against her stomach. A dull, heavy ache pulses deep in her pelvis, but she feels no warm rush of blood.

From the front of the wreckage, Garrett lets out a sharp groan of pain. He shoves a deflated airbag off his chest, his left shoulder visibly bruised and bleeding from where it slammed into the center console.

"Garrett," Elliana croaks. Her throat is raw. "Help me."

Garrett freezes. He hears her. His shoulders tense, but he does not turn his head.

Instead, he violently kicks the center console. He rips away the twisted plastic, screaming for Cristina.

Cristina is sobbing hysterically in the front seat, clutching her chest where the seatbelt dug violently into her collarbone, a dark purple bruise already forming beneath her torn silk blouse. "I'm dying! Garrett, I'm dying!"

Garrett kicks the jammed passenger door open. He drags Cristina out of the wreckage, wrapping his arms around her.

He dives back in, grabs a stunned Blair from the floorboards, and sprints away from the vehicle.

Thick black smoke pours from the Escalade's crumpled hood. Orange sparks spit from the engine block.

Elliana lies in the twisted metal cage. She watches her husband carry his sister and nephew to safety, leaving her to burn.

The last shred of hope in her heart turns to ash. She is nothing to him. A decoy. A piece of trash.

Survival instinct overrides her grief. She braces her right hand against the crushed roof pillar and pushes with all her strength.

A sickening snap echoes in the cabin. Blinding agony shoots up her right arm.

Her wrist bones grind together. Her right hand, her drawing hand, falls limp and useless at her side.

Sirens wail in the distance, cutting through the smoke.

Firefighters swarm the vehicle. They use a crowbar to pry open the crushed tailgate.

As they strap her to a backboard and pull her out, Elliana turns her head. Through the flashing red lights, she sees Garrett gently draping his suit jacket over Cristina's shoulders.

Paramedics cut away her bloody trench coat in the back of the ambulance.

The ambulance races to Mount Sinai Hospital, bypassing the waiting room and rushing straight into the trauma bay.

Hours later, Elliana lies on a stiff hospital bed under harsh fluorescent lights.

A female doctor walks in, holding a chart. "It's a miracle, Mrs. Bruce. The fetal heartbeat is strong. The baby is fine."

Elliana covers her eyes with her good left hand. A ragged sob tears from her throat.

"But," the doctor continues, her voice dropping. "Your right scaphoid bone is shattered. Even with surgery, you may never regain the fine motor skills needed for professional drawing."

The words hit her like a second car crash. Her art. Her identity. Gone.

The door bursts open. Garrett rushes in. A small white bandage covers a scratch on his forehead.

He drops to his knees beside the bed. He grabs her left hand, his voice trembling with fake emotion. "Thank God you're alive, Ellie."

Elliana looks down at the man who left her to die. There is no love left in her eyes. Only a bottomless, freezing void of pure hatred.

The next morning, Garrett leaves the hospital to manage the PR fallout and check on Cristina.

Elliana pushes herself out of bed. She wears a thin hospital gown. Her right arm is encased in a heavy white plaster cast, strapped to her chest in a sling.

She shuffles down the quiet VIP corridor, her mind racing with survival strategies. Through the glass walls of the private lounge at the end of the hall, she spots a familiar profile. A man in a razor-sharp Tom Ford suit stands with his back to the door, barking into a Bluetooth earpiece.

"Move the offshore trust to the Cayman accounts by noon. I want her cheating bastard of a husband left with nothing but the lint in his pockets."

Elliana stops. She recognizes that aggressive posture and ruthless tone from the cover of last month's Forbes magazine. Dennis Nixon. The most cutthroat, bloodthirsty divorce attorney in Manhattan.

To fight a monster like Garrett, she needs a shark.

She pushes the heavy glass door open, stepping into the lounge, and taps her knuckles against the glass table.

Dennis spins around. His eyes are cold, predatory. He looks annoyed at the interruption. "This is a private area. Leave."

Elliana doesn't flinch. She looks him dead in the eye. "Garrett Bruce."

Dennis pauses. The annoyance vanishes, replaced by the sharp gleam of a predator smelling blood. The Bruce family is Wall Street royalty.

He ends his call and slowly looks her up and down.

"I want him ruined," Elliana says, her voice steady despite her pale face. "I want to take everything he loves."

Dennis lets out a dry, humorless laugh. "You're a battered wife in a hospital gown. You have no leverage. His lawyers will paint you as a hysterical, mentally unstable woman."

He pulls a matte black card from his inner pocket and slides it across the table. It has only a phone number on it.

"Don't call this number unless you have hard, irrefutable proof of financial fraud or criminal activity. Something that puts him in a cell."

Dennis walks past her, leaving her alone in the room.

Elliana grips the card in her left hand. She walks back to her room, picks up her phone, and dials her best friend, Audrey Keller.

Audrey is old money. She knows every dirty secret in the Upper East Side.

"Ellie? Where are you?"

Elliana quickly explains the crash. Audrey unleashes a string of vicious curses.

"Audrey, I need you to dig into Garrett and Cristina's business dealings. Right now."

"I'm coming to the hospital," Audrey demands.

"No. Garrett will suspect something. Just get the intel."

Elliana hangs up. She walks into the bathroom, tears the black business card into tiny pieces, and flushes it down the toilet. The number is burned into her memory.

That afternoon, Garrett returns. He carries a massive bouquet of lilies.

He sits on the edge of the bed and reaches out to stroke her hair. Elliana rolls her head to the side, pretending to wince in pain to avoid his touch.

Garrett sighs. "The doctors told me about your hand, Ellie. I'm so sorry."

He pulls a thick stack of papers from his briefcase. "To take the stress off you, I had the legal team draft an IP management agreement. My firm will handle The Prairie Fire for you."

Elliana's blood runs cold. He is making his move.

She blinks rapidly, letting tears pool in her eyes. "My head is spinning, Garrett. The words are blurry. I can't read this right now."

Garrett smiles, satisfied by her pathetic state. "Of course, darling. Rest. We have plenty of time."