Eleanor snatched the thick stack of papers from Sharon's hands.

She didn't read a single line of the medical jargon. She flipped straight to the back pages and aggressively scribbled her signature on every single proxy line.

She slammed the clipboard down on the reception desk.

"Listen to me," Eleanor pointed a shaking finger at the hospital administrator standing behind the counter. "If Corrine Ratcliff dies in that room, the Fletcher family lawyers will bankrupt this hospital by morning. Do your jobs."

Two agonizing hours passed.

Eleanor paced the hallway. Finally, the red light above the operating room doors clicked off.

The automatic doors slid open. Dr. Finch walked out. His blue scrubs were covered in massive, dark red bloodstains. He pulled his surgical cap off, looking exhausted.

Eleanor sprang from the plastic waiting chair. She ran over and grabbed his forearm.

"Is she alive?" Eleanor demanded.

Dr. Finch let out a heavy breath. "She delivered twins. A boy and a girl. The boy's weight is barely acceptable, but he's stable."

Eleanor's shoulders dropped. A small, relieved smile touched her lips.

But Dr. Finch's expression didn't change. His jaw tightened.

"The girl suffered severe hypoxia in the womb," he said, his voice grim. "Her lungs are severely underdeveloped. She's in critical condition. We are moving her to the NICU immediately."

Before Eleanor could process the words, the OR doors opened again. Two nurses ran out, pushing a clear plastic incubator.

Eleanor rushed to the glass. Inside the box lay a baby girl. She was the size of Eleanor's hand. Her skin was a terrifying shade of purple. A thick tube was shoved down her tiny throat. Her chest barely moved.

Eleanor's chest seized. It felt like a giant hand was crushing her heart.

She watched through blurred, tear-filled eyes as the nurses pushed the incubator down the hall, rushing toward the intensive care wing.

Eleanor wiped her face and turned back to Dr. Finch. "And Corrine? Can I see her?"

Dr. Finch shook his head slowly. "Corrine suffered uterine atony after the delivery. She lost a catastrophic amount of blood."

Eleanor stopped breathing.

"We managed to save her uterus," Dr. Finch continued. "But the blood loss sent her into deep hemorrhagic shock. She is in the ICU. We are monitoring her for multiple organ failure. It's hour by hour right now."

Eleanor's legs gave out. She slid down the cold, tiled wall until she hit the floor. She buried her face in her hands. A violent sob tore through her chest.

Ding.

A sharp notification sound came from her pocket.

Eleanor pulled out her phone with trembling hands. It was an alert from her special Twitter follows. Cristofer's official PR team had just released a joint statement.

Eleanor stared at the screen. The text was perfectly polished.

Mr. Cristofer Clarke and Ms. Arielle Orozco are longtime friends. They were simply enjoying a beautiful weekend together at a private gathering. We ask the media to stop over-analyzing the situation.

Below the text was a high-quality photo of Cristofer and Arielle clinking champagne glasses in the sun. They were smiling.

Eleanor looked at the words enjoying a beautiful weekend. Then she looked down the hall at the flashing red lights of the ICU, where Corrine was bleeding to death.

A wave of pure, blinding rage shot straight to her brain.

Eleanor stood up. She gripped her phone tightly. She turned and hurled it as hard as she could at a massive, antique porcelain vase sitting in the corner of the lobby.

CRASH!

The vase exploded. Thousands of sharp ceramic shards flew across the floor.

The nurses jumped. The security guards reached for their radios.

Eleanor didn't care. She pointed at the broken pieces on the floor.

"Cristofer Clarke," she whispered to the empty air, her teeth grinding together. "I am going to make you pay for this."

She marched over to the nurses' station. She pulled a solid metal American Express Black Card from her wallet and slapped it on the counter.

"Move Corrine to the highest security VIP penthouse suite on the top floor. Now," Eleanor ordered.

The nurse blinked, intimidated. "Yes, ma'am."

"And tell your security chief," Eleanor leaned over the counter, her eyes completely dead, "if anyone with the last name Clarke steps foot on that floor, I will have them arrested for trespassing."

Once the transfer was initiated, Eleanor walked down to the NICU. She stood outside the large glass window, staring at the tiny, purple baby fighting for every breath.

She pulled a burner phone from her bag. She dialed the encrypted number of her family's private investigator.

He answered immediately.

"I need you to dig into that Hamptons villa," Eleanor said, her voice as sharp as a razor. "Find out exactly what happened last night. I want every piece of dirt you can find on Arielle Orozco."

She hung up the phone. The rain outside the hospital window began to slow, but Eleanor knew the real storm was just beginning.

The morning sun sliced through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows of the Hamptons villa. The bright light stabbed directly into Cristofer Clarke's eyelids.

He groaned. He rolled over on the massive leather bed. A vicious hangover pounded against the inside of his skull like a jackhammer.

He slowly opened his eyes. He reached his hand out across the mattress.

The silk sheets were cold. Empty.

He frowned. His memory of last night was completely fragmented. He remembered drinking heavily with some investors after the charity gala. Then Arielle had offered to drive him to the villa so he wouldn't have to face the paparazzi in the city.

He sat up quickly and threw off the duvet. He was still wearing his suit trousers. There were no signs of intimacy. He let out a slow breath, his chest relaxing slightly.

Cristofer reached blindly toward the marble nightstand. He wanted to check his phone. He needed to see if Corrine had texted him to check in.

His hand swiped across the cold marble. Nothing.

He frowned deeper. He lifted the pillows. He leaned over and checked the floor under the bed. The private phone-the one with the dedicated line for his wife-was gone.

A surge of irritation flared in his chest. He rubbed his temples, stood up, and walked out of the bedroom.

He walked down the spiral glass staircase toward the open-concept kitchen.

The smell of frying bacon filled the air. Arielle Orozco stood by the stove. She was wearing one of his oversized white dress shirts. Her bare legs shifted as she hummed a soft tune.

She heard his footsteps and turned around. A flawless, sweet smile spread across her face. She picked up a mug of black coffee and walked toward him.

"Morning, sleepyhead. I made this for your hangover," she said softly.

Cristofer didn't take the mug. His eyes swept over the shirt she was wearing, his expression turning cold.

"Where is my phone?" he demanded, his voice thick with sleep and annoyance.

A flash of panic crossed Arielle's eyes, but it vanished instantly. She replaced it with a look of pure, innocent guilt. She bit her lower lip.

"Last night, you were throwing up over the edge of the master balcony. I tried to pull you back, and your arm jerked. You accidentally knocked your phone over the railing. It fell three stories and smashed directly onto the stone patio below. The screen was completely shattered, and the internal battery casing split. It wouldn't even turn on."

Cristofer's jaw locked. His left hand instinctively reached for the Patek Philippe watch on his wrist, twisting the dial.

That phone had highly classified financial documents on it. More importantly, it was the only way Corrine could reach him.

"I already took care of it," Arielle added quickly, stepping closer. "I had my assistant drive it straight to the Apple IT department in the city. They promised to recover the data. Nothing will leak."

Cristofer let go of his watch. He ran a hand through his messy hair. He didn't have the energy to argue.

He walked past her into the living room. He picked up the landline phone from the side table and dialed his Manhattan penthouse.

It rang six times before Patty Doyle, the senior nanny, picked up. She sounded out of breath.

"Put Corrine on the phone," Cristofer ordered.

There was a long silence on the other end.

"Sir," Patty stammered. "Mrs. Ratcliff... she left the apartment late last night. She hasn't come back."

Cristofer's stomach dropped. His heart skipped a beat. But the brief moment of panic was quickly swallowed by a rising tide of anger.

"She is nine months pregnant," Cristofer yelled into the receiver. "Where the hell did she go in the middle of the night?"

"I don't know!" Patty cried, her voice trembling. "She's been acting so strange lately. She doesn't tell me anything. Maybe she went to a friend's house?"

Cristofer slammed the phone down onto the receiver.

He paced across the living room. He knew exactly what this was. Corrine must have seen some garbage gossip blog online. She was throwing a tantrum. She was using this childish "running away" tactic to force him to come crawling back and explain himself.

It was pathetic.

He pulled his secondary work phone from his suit jacket pocket. He dialed his chief of staff, Cole Bishop.

"Cole," Cristofer barked the moment the line connected. "Pull the credit card records for Corrine. All of them. And check the garage security footage at the penthouse."

"Right away, sir," Cole said.

"Send a security detail to those little art galleries and coffee shops she likes," Cristofer continued, his tone turning ruthless. "When you find her, put her in a car and take her straight back to the apartment."

He hung up the phone. He walked back into the kitchen and grabbed the mug of black coffee from the counter. He drank it in one gulp. His eyes were hard, filled with the absolute arrogance of a man who controlled everything.

Arielle stood behind the kitchen island. She watched him issue the orders. When he turned his back to put the mug in the sink, the sweet smile melted off her face.

The corners of her mouth curled up into a wicked, victorious smirk.

Cristofer set the empty mug down and walked back upstairs to shower off the smell of alcohol.

The moment he disappeared into the master suite, Arielle's smile vanished.

She moved quickly. She walked into the guest bathroom next to the kitchen and locked the heavy wooden door behind her. She turned the sink faucet on full blast. The loud rushing water would cover any sound.

She unzipped her fifty-thousand-dollar Hermes Birkin bag. She reached deep into a hidden zipper compartment at the bottom.

She pulled out Cristofer's private phone.

It was completely dry. It had never touched the pool water.

She pressed the power button. The screen lit up instantly. The lock screen was flooded with notifications.

47 Missed Calls.

12 New Voicemails.

Every single one of them was from the contact pinned at the top of the screen: Corrine.

A toxic wave of jealousy burned in Arielle's chest. She hated that name. She hated that some orphaned nobody had managed to marry the most powerful man in New York.

Arielle unlocked the phone. She tapped the voicemail icon. She pressed play on the first message.

The speaker crackled. Then, Corrine's voice filled the bathroom.

"Cris... my water broke... there's so much blood... please help me..."

Corrine was gasping for air. She sounded like she was dying.

Hearing the agonizing pain in her rival's voice didn't make Arielle feel pity. It sent a thrilling shiver down her spine.

She tapped the next message. And the next.

She listened as Corrine's voice went from panicked, to desperate, to a weak, broken sob.

"Poor little rich wife," Arielle whispered to her reflection in the mirror. She let out a dark, cruel laugh.

She tapped the 'Edit' button in the top right corner of the screen. She selected every single voicemail.

Her finger hovered over the red 'Delete' icon.

She didn't hesitate. She pressed it.

A prompt popped up: Are you sure you want to permanently delete these messages?

Arielle hit Confirm.

In less than three seconds, every trace of Corrine fighting for her life was erased from existence.

To be safe, Arielle went into the call log. She swiped left on all forty-seven missed calls, deleting them one by one. She cleared the text message inbox.

When the phone was completely wiped clean, she held down the power button and shut the device off. She shoved it back into the hidden compartment of her bag.

She splashed some cold water on her face. She patted it dry with a towel and adjusted her messy bun. She looked perfectly innocent again.

She unlocked the bathroom door and walked out.

Cristofer was coming down the stairs. He was wearing a fresh pair of slacks and a black polo shirt. He was holding his work phone to his ear. His face was pale with fury.

"What's wrong, Cris?" Arielle asked, rushing over to him. She placed a gentle hand on his chest.

Cristofer ended the call. His jaw muscles twitched.

"Cole checked her cards," Cristofer said, his voice dangerously low. "She hasn't spent a single cent since yesterday. And the garage cameras showed her getting into a random yellow cab. She didn't even take the family driver."

Arielle gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. "Oh my god. She took a dirty cab by herself? At nine months pregnant? That is so irresponsible!"

The word irresponsible hit Cristofer like a lit match in a room full of gasoline.

He was obsessed with the safety of his heir. The idea that Corrine was risking his child's life just to play games made his blood boil.

"Irresponsible?" Cristofer shouted, slamming his fist against the back of the leather sofa. "She's insane!"

He paced the floor. He was convinced Corrine was doing this on purpose. She was cutting off all financial tracking to hide from him. She wanted to humiliate him. She wanted to force him to issue a public apology for the TMZ photos.

The thought of being manipulated by his own wife disgusted him.

He grabbed his phone and hit redial. Cole answered immediately.

"Freeze all of her supplementary Black Cards," Cristofer ordered, his voice echoing through the massive villa. "Lock her out of the trust accounts. Right now."

"Sir, are you sure?" Cole asked hesitantly.

"Did I stutter?" Cristofer roared. "Call every luxury hotel and private club in Manhattan. Tell them if they give her a room, they are making an enemy of the Clarke empire."

He gripped the phone so hard the plastic case creaked.

"Let's see how long a woman with zero dollars in her pocket can survive in this city," Cristofer sneered.

He hung up the phone. He dropped heavily onto the sofa, rubbing his eyes. He was so tired of this marriage.

Arielle sat down next to him. She wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her head on his shoulder. She gently massaged his tense neck muscles.

Behind his back, her eyes gleamed with absolute triumph.