The garden was cold and bathed in moonlight.

Beatrix's heels clicked on the stone path.

She found him by the fountain.

The water feature was turned off for the winter, the stone basin dry and full of dead leaves.

Carlyle was smoking.

He stood with his back to her, his shoulders hunched against the wind.

"Go back inside," he said without turning around. "Go plan the nursery with the old bats."

Beatrix stopped three feet away from him.

"I got the check from your mother," she said.

Carlyle turned slowly.

The tip of his cigar glowed orange in the dark.

"Of course you did. You played the part well."

"I did what I had to do," she said. "You froze my accounts, Carlyle. My mother needs medication."

He paused. The smoke curled around his face.

"Medication?" he asked. "I thought you were buying shoes."

"You think I'm that shallow?"

"I don't know what you are anymore," he admitted quietly. "But I know a lie when I hear one."

Beatrix's heart stuttered. "What are you talking about?"

"Mark," he said, his voice flat. "He doesn't exist. You're a terrible liar, Beatrix. Your eyes give you away every time."

Beatrix felt the heat rise in her cheeks.

"We need to set a date," she said, changing the subject. "For the signing. The real signing. Not just the preliminary papers."

She reached into her clutch and pulled out a small pocket calendar.

She stepped closer, holding it out.

"Monday," she said. "City Hall opens at nine."

Carlyle looked at the calendar.

He looked at the date circled in red.

"I'm busy Monday," he said.

"Tuesday then."

"Busy."

"Carlyle!" she snapped. "Stop playing games. Do you want this divorce or not?"

"I want you out of my life," he snarled.

He slapped the calendar out of her hand.

It flew sideways, landing in the dirt of a flowerbed.

Beatrix gasped.

She knelt down to retrieve it.

Her dress-the expensive black silk-brushed against the wet soil.

"Dammit," she muttered.

Carlyle made a noise in his throat. A growl of frustration.

He bent down.

"Leave it," he ordered.

He reached for her arm to pull her up.

She reached for his hand to steady herself.

Their palms met.

Zap.

A static shock, loud and sharp, snapped between them.

It wasn't just a spark. It was a jolt that traveled up Beatrix's arm and settled in her chest.

She gasped, trying to pull away.

Carlyle didn't let go.

He gripped her hand tighter, pulling her up until she was standing inches from him.

He didn't wipe his hand.

He didn't look disgusted.

He looked... entranced.

He looked down at their joined hands.

His thumb brushed over her knuckles, tracing the bandage on her finger.

"You're hurt," he whispered.

"It's just a broken nail," she breathed.

She couldn't move.

The way he was touching her-reverent, desperate-it shattered her defenses.

He lifted his gaze to hers.

His eyes were dark, the pupils blown wide, swallowing the blue.

He leaned in.

Beatrix's breath hitched.

He was going to kiss her.

He tilted his head, his gaze dropping to her lips.

Beatrix closed her eyes, her body leaning toward him like a flower to the sun.

"Sir!"

The voice came from the terrace.

Henderson, the butler.

"Sir, Ms. Golden is on the phone. She says it's an emergency."

Carlyle froze.

The spell broke.

He dropped Beatrix's hand like it was burning coal.

He stepped back, his chest heaving.

He looked at her, then at the house.

He looked torn.

"Monday," he rasped, his voice sounding like it was dragged over broken glass. "I have a board meeting. Wait for my call."

He turned and walked away, almost running.

Beatrix stood alone by the dry fountain.

She looked at her hand.

It was still tingling.

The Sloan Kettering Cancer Center smelled of bleach and despair.

Beatrix walked down the corridor, the check from Eleanor burning a hole in her pocket.

She had deposited it via mobile app that morning.

It had cleared.

She walked to the nurse's station.

"I want to upgrade her room," she told the head nurse. "And call Dr. Evans. I want the experimental treatment he mentioned."

The nurse looked at her sympathetically.

"Ms. Anderson, Dr. Evans is in with a patient. And the private rooms are fully booked."

"Please," Beatrix begged. "I have the money now."

"It's not about money, dear. It's capacity."

Beatrix felt the tears welling up.

She walked to her mother's room-a shared room with a curtain divider.

Her mother, Martha, lay there, pale and small. The oxygen mask covered half her face.

The monitor beeped rhythmically.

Beep... beep... beep.

Beatrix pulled up a plastic chair and sat down.

She took her mother's hand. It felt like dry parchment.

"I'm here, Mom," she whispered. "I'm going to get you better."

Suddenly, Martha's chest heaved.

The monitor began to wail. A high-pitched, continuous tone.

"Mom?" Beatrix screamed. "Nurse!"

A team of doctors rushed in.

"Code Blue!" someone shouted.

"Get her out!" a doctor ordered.

Beatrix was pushed into the hallway.

The door shut in her face.

She slid down the wall, burying her face in her knees.

She rocked back and forth, sobbing silently.

She was useless. All the money in the world, and she was still useless.

"Beatrix?"

The voice was familiar.

She looked up.

Carlyle was standing there.

He was wearing a black turtleneck and a long wool coat. He looked like the angel of death.

Behind him was a phalanx of doctors in white coats.

"What are you doing here?" she choked out.

Carlyle didn't answer her.

He turned to the man next to him.

"Dr. Stein," Carlyle said. "Is this the best you can do? A shared room?"

The man, clearly the Chief of Medicine, looked terrified.

"Mr. Spears, we didn't know she was... related to you."

"She is my mother-in-law," Carlyle said, his voice cold as ice. "Move her to the VIP suite. Now. And get the oncology team from Zurich on a video call."

"Yes, sir. Immediately."

The doctors scrambled like ants.

Carlyle reached down and grabbed Beatrix's arm, hauling her to her feet.

"Get up," he said. "Don't sit on the floor. It's filthy."

Beatrix pulled her arm away.

She dragged him toward the stairwell door, pushing him inside.

The concrete stairwell echoed with their breathing.

"I don't need your charity," she hissed. "I paid the bill."

"With my mother's money," he countered.

"It's a loan. I'll pay it back."

"Beatrix, stop," he said, rubbing his temples. "Your mother is dying. This isn't the time for your pride."

"Why do you care?" she yelled. "You're divorcing me! You're marrying Gene!"

"Because she's your mother!" Carlyle shouted back. "And despite what you think, I'm not a complete sociopath."

Beatrix stared at him.

"Is this for Gene?" she asked quietly. "Are you trying to buy good karma so your new marriage doesn't fail?"

Carlyle laughed. It was a bitter, sharp sound.

"Karma," he muttered. "If karma existed, I wouldn't be here."

He turned to leave.

"Where are you going?"

"To make sure they don't kill her," he said.

He opened the door, then paused.

"There's food at the nurse's station for you," he said without looking back. "Congee from that place on Canal Street. The one with the red awning."

Beatrix froze.

That was her favorite comfort food. She hadn't been there in four years.

"How did you know?" she whispered.

But the door had already closed.

She walked back to the station.

A thermal bag sat there.

She opened it. The smell of ginger and scallions wafted up.

She took a spoonful.

It was warm. It tasted like home.

She ate, tears streaming down her face, mixing with the porridge.

Martha Anderson opened her eyes three hours later.

She was in a private suite with a view of the East River.

Beatrix was holding her hand.

"Mom," she sobbed. "You're okay."

Martha smiled weakly. She pulled the oxygen mask down.

"Bea," she rasped. "Where is he?"

"Who?"

"Carlyle. I heard his voice."

Beatrix hesitated. "He's... he's outside."

"Bring him in."

"Mom, you need to rest."

"Bring him in," Martha insisted, her grip surprisingly strong. "Please."

Beatrix went to the door.

Carlyle was sitting on a plastic chair in the hallway, reading emails on his phone.

He looked up.

"She wants to see you."

Carlyle stood up. He buttoned his coat.

He walked into the room.

His demeanor changed instantly.

The arrogance vanished. The coldness melted.

He walked to the bed, his gaze fixed on Martha. Beatrix saw his hand clench into a fist at his side, just for a second, before he forced it to relax. He took Martha's hand gently, his touch careful, deliberate.

"Hello, Martha," he said softly.

"Carlyle," she whispered. "You came."

"Of course I came."

Martha looked at him, her eyes cloudy but serious.

"I know I don't have long."

"Don't say that," Beatrix interrupted.

"Hush, Bea." Martha looked at Carlyle. "I need to know... I need to know she'll be safe."

She squeezed his hand.

"The people who hated her father... they are still out there. Promise me, Carlyle."

Beatrix's eyes widened.

She shook her head frantically at Carlyle.

Don't do it. Don't lie to her.

Carlyle saw Beatrix's panic.

He looked back at the dying woman.

"Promise me you will take care of her," Martha begged. "Promise me you won't let her fall."

Carlyle took a deep breath.

He gripped Martha's hand with both of his.

"I promise," he said, his voice steady and solemn. "As long as I breathe, no one will hurt her. She will always be under my protection."

Martha let out a long sigh of relief.

"Good," she whispered. "My good boy."

She closed her eyes and drifted back into sleep.

Beatrix felt like she couldn't breathe.

She followed Carlyle out into the hallway.

"How could you?" she hissed. "We are getting divorced next week! Why would you give her false hope?"

Carlyle leaned against the wall.

He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

He put one in his mouth but didn't light it.

"Would you rather she died worrying?" he asked.

"It's a lie!"

"Is it?" Carlyle looked at her. "I said I'd protect you. I didn't say I'd stay married to you."

"You're playing word games with a dying woman!"

"I'm giving her peace," he said. "Something you seem incapable of doing."

His phone rang.

Beatrix saw the screen. Gene.

Carlyle looked at it.

He silenced it.

Then he powered the phone off.

Beatrix stared at him.

"She's calling you."

"I know."

"Why did you turn it off?"

Carlyle sat back down on the uncomfortable plastic chair.

"Because I promised your mother I'd stay," he said. "And I don't break promises."

"You're staying?" Beatrix asked, stunned. "Here? All night?"

"Go to sleep, Beatrix," he said, closing his eyes. "I'm not going anywhere."

Beatrix watched him.

He looked exhausted.

He looked... noble.

It was confusing. It was infuriating.

She went back into the room and curled up on the visitor cot.

But she kept the door cracked open, watching the sliver of his shadow on the hallway floor.