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.

A black private helicopter descended from the gray Manhattan sky. The massive rotors whipped the wind into a frenzy as it landed on the helipad of the midtown skyscraper.

Cristofer stepped out of the chopper. His face was like thunder. He walked straight to the private elevator and pressed the button for his penthouse.

The silver doors slid open.

The penthouse was dead silent. The air felt cold. The usual scent of Corrine's citrus candles was gone.

Cristofer threw his suit jacket onto the velvet armchair. He marched toward the kitchen.

"Patty!" he yelled. His voice bounced off the high ceilings.

Inside the servant's quarters, Patty Doyle jumped. She had been frantically deleting photos from her phone-pictures of her drinking at a bar in Brooklyn last night with her boyfriend.

She smoothed down her gray uniform and practically ran into the living room. She kept her head bowed, terrified to look at her boss.

"I pay you one hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year to watch my wife," Cristofer said, his voice dangerously quiet. "Where the hell were you last night?"

Patty's stomach dropped. She knew the rules. If Cristofer found out she had abandoned her post while his pregnant wife was home alone, she wouldn't just be fired. She would be blacklisted from every wealthy household on the East Coast.

She had to protect herself. She had to blame the wife.

Patty dropped to her knees on the hardwood floor. She forced tears into her eyes.

"Mr. Clarke, please! It's not my fault!" Patty sobbed, burying her face in her hands. "It's Mrs. Ratcliff! She... she's lost her mind!"

Cristofer stopped pacing. He looked down at the weeping nanny. He twisted the watch on his left wrist.

"Lost her mind?" he repeated coldly. "Explain."

Patty swallowed hard. She pointed a shaking finger toward the kitchen.

"Her pregnancy hormones have made her completely unstable," Patty lied smoothly. "She has terrible paranoia. She thinks the private chef is trying to poison her!"

Cristofer's eyes narrowed.

"She took the organic salmon and the caviar we prepared for her yesterday and threw it all down the garbage disposal!" Patty cried.

Cristofer's chest tightened. He paid a fortune for that diet plan to ensure his heir got the best nutrients possible.

She scrambled to her feet. "I can show you! Please, follow me." Patty led him swiftly down the hall toward Corrine's master suite. She bypassed the pristine bedroom and went straight into Corrine's walk-in closet. Patty dug deep into a small, hidden wicker trash can tucked behind a row of unused designer shoes. She pulled out a crushed, yellow cardboard box.

She turned and held the box up to Cristofer's face. It was a cheap, two-dollar box of microwaveable Macaroni and Cheese.

"This is all she will eat!" Patty said, shaking the box. "She refuses to let me buy fresh vegetables. She locks herself in her room and eats this garbage. When I try to stop her, she throws things at me!"

Cristofer stared at the greasy, processed food box. A muscle in his jaw twitched violently.

"Last night, she just snapped," Patty continued, tears rolling down her cheeks. "She ran out the front door. I tried to physically stop her, but she threatened to have me fired if I told you!"

The lies were perfectly crafted. Patty used Corrine's quiet, isolated nature against her.

Cristofer looked at the box again. He thought about Corrine's pale skin. Her constant silence. He had always thought she was just introverted. Now, looking at this trash, he saw something else.

Sickness.

In the world of old money, a mother's mental stability was everything. It dictated the quality of the bloodline.

A deep, sickening feeling of disgust washed over him. He had been tricked. He had married a crazy woman.

"She is unfit to be a mother," Cristofer spat. The words tasted like poison in his mouth.

He turned away from Patty. He walked down the long hallway, heading straight for Corrine's master closet. He needed to see this for himself. He needed to find the proof of her insanity.

Patty stayed on her knees. As soon as his back was turned, she let out a long, silent breath of relief. She had survived.

Cristofer's phone buzzed in his pocket. It was Cole.

"Sir, we found a hotel registry under her name at a cheap motel near Central Park," Cole reported.

Cristofer sneered. "Call off the cars. Don't pick her up."

"Sir?"

"She's a lunatic," Cristofer said coldly. "Let her sleep in the dirt. When she gets hungry enough, she'll crawl back here on her own."

He hung up the phone. He stood in front of the heavy double doors of Corrine's closet. He grabbed the brass handles and shoved them open.

The motion-sensor lights flickered on, illuminating the massive, hundred-square-foot walk-in closet.

Cristofer stepped inside. The space immediately made him angry. It was too empty.

On his side, rows of custom Italian suits and expensive watches lined the walls. But on Corrine's side, there were only a few plain, cheap maternity dresses hanging limply on the racks. The high-end designer gowns his mother had sent over were shoved into a dark corner, the price tags still attached.

To Cristofer, this wasn't modesty. It was an insult. It was a silent rebellion against his wealth.

He walked deeper into the closet, his eyes scanning the shelves like a detective looking for a murder weapon.

His gaze landed on a large velvet storage bench pushed against the back wall. The lid was slightly ajar. A strange, bright yellow color peeked out from the gap.

Cristofer walked over. He grabbed the edge of the velvet lid and ripped it open.

His pupils shrank. His breath hitched in his throat.

The bench wasn't filled with winter coats or blankets. It was packed with crushed, empty boxes of Macaroni and Cheese. There were dozens of them-easily a month's worth of hidden meals. He knew Corrine occasionally went out for coffee with Eleanor, and it was obvious now that she had been using those rare, unchaperoned hours to smuggle this garbage back into the penthouse.

The faint, artificial smell of powdered cheese and preservatives drifted up into his nose.

Cristofer's brain short-circuited. Patty's words echoed in his ears. This is all she will eat.

"She is actually feeding my child this toxic waste," Cristofer whispered. His hands curled into tight fists. His fingernails dug into his palms.

He didn't know the truth. He didn't know that Corrine suffered from hyperemesis gravidarum. He didn't know that every time she tried to eat the rich, heavy food the chef made, she threw up until her throat bled. He didn't know that this cheap pasta-the same food she ate growing up in the orphanage-was the only thing her stomach could keep down.

And he certainly didn't know that Patty had been pocketing the grocery money and forcing Corrine to eat the cheap meals.

Cristofer's vision went red. He didn't see a struggling mother. He saw a malicious woman intentionally starving his baby.

He lifted his leg and kicked the velvet bench as hard as he could.

The heavy bench tipped over. Hundreds of empty yellow boxes spilled out, cascading across the expensive Persian rug.

Cristofer stepped forward. His leather dress shoe crushed one of the cardboard boxes. The loud crunch echoed in the quiet closet. It sounded like bones breaking.

He pulled his phone out again. He dialed Cole's number.

"Change of plans," Cristofer barked. His voice was devoid of any human emotion.

"Yes, Mr. Clarke?"

"Call the NYPD commissioner. Activate our private investigators and the cyber team. I want this city torn apart brick by brick until you find her."

"Understood," Cole said, his voice tight with stress.

"Check every underground clinic, every shady hospital, and every homeless shelter in the five boroughs," Cristofer ordered.

He stared down at the crushed boxes at his feet.

"When you find her, do not bring her here. Send a medical transport helicopter. Take her directly to the Clarke family's private psychiatric facility in upstate New York."

Cole gasped quietly on the line. "Sir... the psychiatric facility?"

"I want a full toxicology panel and a complete psychological evaluation forced on her," Cristofer said, his tone brutal. "If those doctors find out she has caused even a fraction of a percent of damage to my child's development..."

Cristofer paused. He twisted his watch dial again.

"Have the legal team draft the papers to strip her of all parental rights. She will spend the rest of her life locked in a padded room."

"I will get it done immediately, sir," Cole said.

Cristofer ended the call. He looked at his reflection in the full-length mirror. His face was a mask of pure, aristocratic cruelty.

He turned around and walked out of the closet. His shoe stepped on a box with a cartoon smiley face on it, grinding it flat into the carpet.

He had just sentenced his wife to hell. But miles away, another group of vultures was already circling her hospital bed.