Gene grabbed her black Hermès Birkin bag and followed Alvie's path. Her high heels clicked against the cold concrete floor of the underground parking garage, a steady, rhythmic sound like a ticking metronome.

The driver opened the door of the black Bentley. Gene slid into the backseat. She moved all the way to the opposite side, pressing her shoulder against the door panel, putting as much physical distance between herself and Alvie as the leather seat allowed.

Alvie got in a second later.

During the two-hour drive to Long Island, the silence in the car was suffocating. Alvie shifted uncomfortably. He cleared his throat three times, attempting to start a conversation to smooth over the disastrous morning.

Every time he opened his mouth, Gene simply closed her eyes and tilted her head toward the window. Her absolute, freezing indifference choked the words right out of his throat.

The Bentley finally slowed down, turning through the massive wrought-iron gates of the Gallagher family estate in the Hamptons. The tires crunched over the gravel before stopping smoothly in front of the grand fountain.

Gene pushed her own door open before the driver could reach it.

She stepped out and inhaled a deep breath of the crisp, salty ocean air. She straightened her spine, pulling her shoulders back. She walked toward the heavy oak front doors-the same doors that had represented nothing but humiliation in her past life.

The butler pulled the doors open.

Inside the sprawling, opulent living room, Eleanor Gallagher sat on a velvet sofa. The matriarch was surrounded by a circle of wealthy socialites, sipping tea from delicate porcelain cups.

Blair, Alvie's younger sister, was leaning against the marble fireplace. The moment she saw Gene walk in wearing the sharp black suit, Blair let out a loud, exaggerated scoff.

Eleanor placed her teacup on the saucer with a sharp clink. Her brows pulled together in a deep frown. Her eyes dragged up and down Gene's outfit with pure disdain.

"You look like a black widow heading to a funeral," Eleanor snapped, her voice carrying across the room. "Is this how you dress for a family gathering?"

The socialites sitting around the coffee table raised their silk handkerchiefs to their mouths, hiding their cruel little smiles. They waited for the poor, commoner daughter-in-law to cower.

The old Gene would have stammered an apology and run upstairs to change.

The new Gene stopped in the center of the room. She met Eleanor's harsh glare head-on. A slow, mocking smile spread across her face.

"I am dressed for a funeral, Eleanor," Gene said. Her flawless Upper East Side accent-a polished remnant of the elite Swiss boarding school she had attended on a full scholarship-was sharp and precise, her tone dripping with ice. "I'm mourning the rapid decline of the Gallagher family's taste."

The living room went dead silent.

Eleanor's eyes widened in absolute shock. Her mouth parted slightly. She couldn't believe the weak, pathetic woman standing before her had just spoken back.

Blair pushed off the fireplace, her face twisting with rage. She pointed a manicured finger right at Gene's face.

"You ungrateful gold digger," Blair spat. "You're nothing but a leech! You're only allowed in this house because of that ironclad prenup!"

Gene didn't flinch. She took one step forward, closing the distance. Her eyes were sharp as scalpels.

"A leech?" Gene tilted her head. "That's an interesting word coming from someone who maxed out three credit cards last month and had debt collectors calling the corporate office."

Blair's face flushed a violent, blotchy red.

The socialites shifted in their seats, their eyes darting between Blair and Gene, hungry for the scandal.

Eleanor slammed her hand down on the glass coffee table. She shot up from the sofa.

"Shut your mouth!" Eleanor shrieked. "Apologize to your sister immediately and go to your room!"

Gene let out a dark, humorless laugh. She looked around the room at the sea of fake, horrified faces.

"The only people who need to apologize are the parasites living off a name they do nothing to build," Gene said coldly.

Blair let out a furious scream. She lunged forward on her stilettos, raising her right hand high in the air, aiming a vicious slap right at Gene's cheek.

Gene's eyes narrowed. Her muscles coiled instantly. She planted her feet, ready to dodge and strike back.

But before she could move, a large, powerful hand shot out from her periphery.

The hand clamped down around Blair's wrist in mid-air, stopping the slap dead in its tracks.

Gene turned her head in surprise. It was Alvie. He had been standing silently near the entryway the entire time.

Alvie's jaw was clenched so tight the muscles ticked. The veins on the back of his hand bulged as he shoved Blair's arm away with brutal force. Blair stumbled backward, her heels skidding on the rug.

"Are you out of your mind? !" Eleanor gasped, clutching her chest. "You're attacking your own sister for this outsider?"

Alvie's breathing was erratic. The terrifying images from his dream-the stock plummeting, his life ruined after Gene left him-flashed behind his eyes.

"She is my wife," Alvie yelled, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. "She is not an outsider!"

Eleanor and Blair stared at him like he had lost his mind.

Gene narrowed her eyes. Her internal alarms were blaring. This wasn't love. This was a sick, twisted form of control.

Alvie turned to Gene. He reached out, trying to place his hand on the small of her back, attempting to play the role of the protective husband in front of the crowd.

Gene sidestepped him immediately. She didn't try to hide her revulsion.

Alvie's hand hung suspended in the empty air. His face flushed with a mix of deep embarrassment and rising anger. He gritted his teeth and shot a lethal glare at Blair.

Blair cradled her wrist, her eyes welling with angry tears. She opened her mouth to scream again.

Suddenly, the heavy, measured sound of footsteps echoed from the grand entryway.

The chaotic living room instantly fell into a suffocating silence. It was as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. Everyone froze, their eyes fixed on the arched doorway.

The heavy footsteps stopped. A tall, imposing figure stepped out of the shadows and into the light of the living room.

Donte Gallagher.

He wore a perfectly tailored charcoal suit that emphasized the broadness of his shoulders and the lean, predatory grace of his movements. He was the undisputed head of the Gallagher empire.

His piercing, hawk-like gaze swept over the frozen room. The temperature in the space seemed to drop ten degrees.

Eleanor instantly dropped her furious posture. She pasted on a strained, overly polite smile and hurried forward.

"Donte," she greeted him, her voice tight with forced respect.

Blair shrank back against the sofa, trying to make herself as small as possible. The spoiled brat vanished, replaced by a terrified child.

Alvie straightened his spine the moment he saw his uncle. A flash of deep-seated fear, mixed with bitter jealousy, crossed his face.

Gene stood her ground. She didn't look away. Her eyes met Donte's across the room. His deep, fathomless gaze felt like it was stripping away her armor, seeing straight into the core of her anger.

Donte's eyes flicked over her sharp black suit. For a fraction of a second, a dark gleam of approval flashed in his eyes, so fast Gene thought she imagined it. His face remained an unreadable mask.

He walked slowly to the main armchair and sat down. He crossed his long legs, resting his large hands casually on his knee.

"What is all this screaming about?" Donte's voice was a low, resonant rumble that demanded absolute submission.

Eleanor immediately seized the opportunity. "It's Gene," she lied smoothly. "She has no respect for the rules of this house. She insulted Blair and then tried to physically attack her."

Alvie opened his mouth, wanting to defend Gene to prove his new devotion, but one cold glance from Donte made him snap his jaw shut. He swallowed hard and looked at the floor.

Donte ignored Eleanor completely. He shifted his gaze to Gene.

"Do you have anything to say?" he asked, his tone flat.

Gene held his stare. "Blair insulted me first. Then she tried to slap me. I was simply defending myself."

Blair, feeling emboldened by Donte's neutral tone, decided to play the victim.

"That's a lie!" Blair cried out. Just as a maid approached with a silver tray to refill Eleanor's cup, Blair reached out and snatched a freshly poured cup of scalding hot black tea right off the platter. "I was just trying to offer her some tea to calm her down!"

Blair took two steps toward Gene, holding the hot porcelain cup. As she got close, she deliberately twisted her ankle. She thrust the cup forward, aiming the boiling liquid directly at Gene's arm.

Gene's senses, heightened by the trauma of her past life, caught the malicious glint in Blair's eyes a second before she moved.

Gene didn't step back. She stepped in.

Her left hand shot out, her fingers wrapping like a vice around Blair's wrist. Using Blair's own forward momentum, Gene twisted her wrist and shoved it downward.

The scalding tea splashed violently out of the cup. It missed Gene entirely and soaked directly into the expensive silk of Blair's dress, right over her thigh.

Blair let out a blood-curdling shriek. She dropped the cup-it shattered on the floor-and collapsed onto the rug, clutching her red, burning leg. Tears streamed down her face.

Eleanor screamed and dropped to her knees beside her daughter. The maids rushed in with cold towels. The room erupted into chaos.

Alvie stared at Gene, his mouth slightly open. He was too shocked by her brutal efficiency to even move.

Gene released Blair's wrist, letting her arm drop. She looked down at the sobbing girl.

"Next time you try something," Gene whispered, loud enough only for Blair to hear, "it won't just be hot tea."

Gene turned around, fully expecting the wrath of the family patriarch to crash down on her.

But Donte wasn't angry. He was staring at her. His dark eyes were locked onto her face, and his Adam's apple bobbed once against his throat.

He stood up slowly. The sheer physical presence of the man made the air in the room feel heavy. He walked toward Gene, stopping only when he was inches away. She could smell the sharp, clean scent of cedarwood radiating from his skin.

He looked down at her.

"Good reflexes," Donte murmured. His voice was low, rough, and completely devoid of reprimand.

The words hit the room like a bomb. Blair stopped sobbing. Eleanor froze with a towel in her hand. They stared at Donte in absolute disbelief.

Alvie's face turned a sickly shade of pale. The fact that his terrifying uncle was praising his wife made his stomach twist with a sickening insecurity.

Gene frowned slightly. She looked up at Donte, her guard instantly rising. This man was dangerous.

Donte didn't look at anyone else. He ordered the butler to call the family doctor, then turned and walked toward the grand staircase leading to his study.

As his foot hit the first step, Donte turned his head slightly. From the corner of his eye, he looked back at the woman standing tall amidst the chaos. A faint, hidden smirk touched the corner of his mouth before he disappeared upstairs.

The wind howled against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the dining room. A violent storm had rolled in off the Atlantic, hammering the Hamptons estate with sheets of freezing rain.

Dinner had been agonizing. Donte sat at the head of the long mahogany table. Gene and Alvie sat on opposite sides. The only sound in the room was the scraping of silver forks against porcelain plates.

As soon as the meal ended, the butler stepped into the room.

"Sir, Madam," he bowed slightly. "The storm has flooded the main roads. The police have closed the highway. Everyone must remain at the estate for the night."

Gene's chest tightened. She stood up immediately, leaving her napkin on the chair, and walked briskly up the sweeping staircase. She headed straight for the large guest bedroom at the end of the hall.

She stepped inside and grabbed the edge of the heavy oak door, ready to throw the deadbolt.

A black leather dress shoe wedged itself into the gap.

Alvie shoved his weight against the wood, forcing the door open. He stepped inside and slammed it shut behind him. His eyes were wild, filled with a frantic, possessive energy.

Gene backed away instantly. "Get out," she ordered, her voice cold. "I am not sleeping in the same room as you."

Alvie thought about the way Donte had looked at Gene during dinner. The masculine intuition that another predator was circling his property made him lose his mind.

He took a heavy step toward her. "You are my wife," he snarled, his voice thick with desperation. "We are not divorced. I have every right to be in this room."

He lunged forward. His hand clamped down hard on her wrist. He yanked her toward the massive four-poster bed, his grip bruising her skin.

The forced physical contact sent a violent shockwave through Gene's system. The memory of being tied to the pillar, unable to move, crashed into her brain. Her breathing turned shallow and rapid.

But she didn't cry. She didn't beg.

Gene planted her left foot, twisted her hips, and drove her right knee straight up into Alvie's stomach with everything she had.

Alvie let out a choked gasp. The air rushed out of his lungs. He dropped her wrist and stumbled backward, clutching his abdomen, his face contorted in pain. He looked at her like she was a monster.

Gene didn't stop. She spun around, grabbed the heavy, solid brass base of the bedside lamp, and lifted it high above her head.

Her eyes were wide, feral, and completely devoid of fear.

"Take one more step," Gene hissed, her knuckles white around the brass, "and I will smash your skull open."

Alvie froze. The sheer, murderous intent in her eyes terrified him. But his fragile ego wouldn't let him back down. He gritted his teeth, preparing to rush her again.

Three sharp, heavy knocks echoed from the oak door.

The sound wasn't rushed, but it carried an undeniable weight of authority.

"The walls in this house are thin," Donte's deep, icy voice bled through the wood. "And you are interrupting my work on the European merger."

The casual complaint hit Alvie like a bucket of ice water.

The anger drained from his face, replaced instantly by dread. Everyone in the family knew what happened when Donte was interrupted during a major deal. It was corporate suicide to cross him.

Alvie shot Gene a look of pure venom. He lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. "This isn't over."

He turned, unlocked the door, and yanked it open.

Donte stood in the dimly lit hallway. He was wearing a dark silk robe, his hands shoved casually into the pockets. His expression was completely blank, but his eyes were lethal as they swept over Alvie's hunched posture.

Donte's gaze bypassed his nephew entirely and landed squarely on Gene. She was still standing by the bed, her chest heaving, the heavy brass lamp raised like a weapon.

Seeing that she was untouched, the rigid tension in Donte's jaw relaxed by a fraction of a millimeter.

"Go sleep in the east wing guest room, Alvie," Donte ordered. It wasn't a suggestion. "Your temper is too loud for this floor."

Alvie's fists clenched at his sides. His face burned with humiliation. But under the crushing weight of Donte's stare, he bowed his head. "Yes, Uncle Donte."

Alvie walked away quickly, his footsteps heavy on the carpet.

Donte remained in the doorway. He looked at Gene through the open frame. The sound of the torrential rain battering the windows filled the silence between them.

Gene slowly lowered the brass lamp. Her muscles ached from the adrenaline crash. She swallowed hard, her throat dry.

"Thank you," she said, her voice rough.

Donte didn't acknowledge the gratitude. His dark eyes roamed over her face, reading the lingering panic she was trying so hard to hide.

He turned to walk toward his own room right next door.

"Lock the door, Gene," Donte said over his shoulder, his voice dropping an octave.

He shut his door. Gene stood in the quiet room, her heart hammering against her ribs.