Evelyn walked out of the hotel lobby, the cold morning air hitting her face as she navigated the crowded sidewalks of Fifth Avenue.

She pushed open the heavy oak door of an exclusive, underground speakeasy hidden beneath the city streets.

Her best friend and art dealer, Amiya Hunt, was already sitting in a dark leather booth in the corner, waving her over.

Evelyn walked over, dropped her designer bag onto the seat, and collapsed into the booth, her muscles aching.

Amiya signaled the bartender and immediately ordered two strong, dry martinis.

Amiya stared at the white gauze on Evelyn's forehead, her brow furrowing as she asked about the crash and the divorce papers.

Evelyn shook her head, the exhaustion settling deep in her bones. She told Amiya she had signed the papers and walked away with nothing.

Amiya let out a sharp scoff. She unzipped her leather briefcase and pulled out a confidential document stamped with the Penguin Random House logo.

Amiya slid the thick paper across the table, leaning in close and whispering the name "E. A. Nightfall."

The financial statement showed that the latest quarter of overseas royalty payments had successfully cleared into Evelyn's offshore accounts.

Evelyn stared at the massive, seven-figure number printed in black ink. A bitter, mocking smile twisted her lips.

She picked up her martini glass and tipped her head back, swallowing the liquor in one long gulp. The alcohol burned a hot trail down her throat.

The liquor hit her bloodstream fast. The hard edges of the room began to blur, her eyes growing heavy and unfocused.

She ordered three more drinks, downing them back-to-back. The crushing weight on her chest finally shattered under the weight of the alcohol.

She dug into her purse and pulled out her phone. The bright screen hurt her eyes in the dim lighting of the bar.

Her thumb slipped twice before she found the contact saved as "Iceberg" in her phone.

Amiya realized what she was doing and lunged across the table to grab the phone, but the call was already connecting.

Miles away, Carter was sitting at the head of the massive mahogany table in the Finley Group's top-floor boardroom, leading a tense executive meeting.

His phone buzzed against the wood. The screen lit up with Evelyn's name.

Carter's jaw tightened. Wanting to prove his absolute control over his emotions to the room, he picked up the device and pressed it to his ear, explicitly choosing not to use the speakerphone.

The faint, chaotic bass of the speakeasy leaked from the earpiece. Evelyn's drunk, breathy laugh drifted to him, mocking his pathetic display of anger in the hotel room that morning.

She didn't stop there. Through the private line, she loudly insulted his performance in bed, claiming he had severe psychological issues.

She told him, clearly and directly, that he lacked the basic physical capability to satisfy a woman.

The dozen senior executives in the room collectively sucked in a breath, their eyes dropping to their notepads, terrified to even breathe as they watched the blood drain from Carter's face.

His expression became a mask of pure ice, the muscles in his jaw bulging as he ground his teeth together, offering only a freezing, dead silence in response.

He pulled the phone away from his ear to hang up, but Evelyn had already ended the call.

The dial tone beeped loudly in his hand. Carter slammed the device down onto the table so hard the glass screen shattered into a spiderweb of cracks.

Back in the bar, Evelyn tossed her phone onto the table. She buried her face in her arms and laughed hysterically, while hot tears soaked into her sleeves.

The shattered phone lay dead on the boardroom table. Carter stared at it, his voice deadly quiet as he ordered everyone out.

The executives scrambled out of their leather chairs, fleeing the room as fast as their legs could carry them.

Carter turned to his executive assistant, Ricky, and ordered him to immediately pull Evelyn's credit card records and mobilize the Finley Group's security detail to sweep every high-end bar's surveillance network within a five-mile radius of her last known hotel.

Ten minutes later, three black SUVs and a sleek Maybach violently boxed in the entrance of the underground speakeasy.

The heavy oak doors were shoved open by massive bodyguards. The loud music was instantly cut off by the bartender.

Carter walked through the terrified crowd, his suit jacket unbuttoned, radiating a dark, suffocating violence as he headed straight for the corner booth.

Amiya jumped to her feet, stepping firmly in front of the table to block Carter from reaching the heavily intoxicated Evelyn.

Carter didn't even look at Amiya. He gave a sharp nod, and two bodyguards immediately grabbed Amiya by the arms, dragging her out of the way.

He leaned over the table, his large hand wrapping around Evelyn's upper arm, yanking her up from the leather sofa.

Evelyn stumbled, her legs weak from the alcohol, and crashed hard against Carter's solid chest.

She pushed against his shoulders, screaming at him to let her go and not to touch her.

Carter didn't say a single word. He bent down, threw her over his broad shoulder, and marched toward the exit.

A few patrons pulled out their phones to record, but the bodyguards immediately blinded their cameras with high-powered tactical flashlights.

Carter reached the Maybach, yanked the heavy door open, and threw Evelyn onto the wide leather backseat.

He climbed in right behind her. The door slammed shut, and the central locks engaged with a heavy, final click.

The driver slammed on the gas. The convoy sped out of Manhattan, heading straight for the Finley estate in Long Island.

Inside the dark cabin, Evelyn kicked out wildly, the heels of her shoes slamming repeatedly into the back of the front seats.

Carter lost his patience. He grabbed both of her wrists, pinning her arms above her head, and pressed his body weight against her legs to hold her still.

They both breathed heavily in the tight space, their eyes locked in a violent, silent war in the dark.

An hour later, the tires screeched to a halt in front of the massive stone fountain of the Long Island estate.

Carter dragged her out of the car, ignoring the rain, and pulled her up the steps into the grand foyer.

The blinding light of the crystal chandelier hit Evelyn's eyes, sobering her up slightly.

She ripped her arm out of his grip, taking two steps back, and pointed at the front door, demanding to leave.

Carter tore off his wet suit jacket, throwing it onto a velvet chair, and yelled that this was her home.

Evelyn let out a cold, sharp laugh. She looked around the massive room and called it nothing but a prison for his breeding stock.

She reached out and grabbed a Ming dynasty antique vase resting on the entryway console.

Without a second of hesitation, she hurled it down onto the marble floor right at Carter's feet.

The deafening crash echoed through the massive house as millions of dollars shattered into jagged porcelain dust.

The veins in Carter's forehead throbbed. He took a heavy step toward her.

Suddenly, all the color drained from Evelyn's face. She doubled over, clutching her stomach, and collapsed onto the bottom step of the grand staircase, gasping in pain.

Carter watched Evelyn curl into a tight ball on the stairs, cold sweat instantly breaking out on her pale forehead. The rage in his chest evaporated, replaced by a sharp spike of panic.

He didn't hesitate. He bent down, scooped her up into his arms, and took the stairs two at a time toward the master bedroom.

He kicked the bedroom door open with his foot and laid her gently onto the center of the massive mattress.

Evelyn kept her eyes squeezed shut. Her hands dug deeply into her stomach as a low, pained whimper escaped her throat.

Carter grabbed the thick down comforter and pulled it up to her chin, tucking the edges tightly around her shivering body.

He turned and practically ran down the stairs, heading straight into the cavernous, stainless-steel kitchen.

He stripped off his ruined suit jacket, tossing it onto the marble island, and quickly rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt.

He dug through the massive pantry until his fingers closed around a box of prescription stomach medication.

Then, he pulled open the refrigerator. He grabbed a knob of fresh ginger and brown sugar, his knife skills clumsy but intensely focused as he sliced the root.

He turned on the gas stove. The blue flame flared to life as he stood there, personally boiling a pot of warm ginger soup.

He placed the pills and a steaming bowl of the dark liquid onto a silver serving tray.

Carrying the tray upstairs, he paused outside the slightly open door of the master bedroom, taking a deep breath to steady his racing heart.

Just as his fingers pushed against the wood, his phone vibrated violently in his pocket.

The screen lit up with Brianna's name, accompanied by that same, customized ringtone.

Carter's jaw locked tight. He answered the call, keeping his voice to a harsh whisper as he asked what was wrong.

Brianna's voice was shaking with sobs. She claimed she had just received a terrifying anonymous phone call from someone who perfectly described the layout of her private hospital room, and her medical monitors were suddenly acting up. She was convinced someone had bribed a nurse to tamper with her IV, and she was having a severe panic attack.

Carter looked through the crack in the door. Evelyn was still clutching her stomach, her face twisted in pain. He was torn in half.

But the deep, rotting guilt over the avalanche years ago forced his hand. He gritted his teeth and told the phone, "I'm on my way."

He set the silver tray down on the hallway console table, turned on his heel, and walked away.

Downstairs, the heavy front door slammed shut, followed immediately by the loud roar of a car engine starting.

The noise jolted Evelyn awake. The sharp pain in her gut twisted harder.

She forced herself to sit up just as the bedroom door opened. Martha, the head housekeeper, walked in carrying the silver tray.

Evelyn stared at the steam rising from the bowl. Her throat was incredibly dry as she asked who had made it.

Martha remembered Carter's strict orders to never tell Evelyn what he did for her. The older woman looked at Evelyn's pale, suffering face, a deep pang of pity tightening her chest. But she knew Mr. Finley's unquestionable temper all too well, and perhaps his cruel directives were meant to protect something she didn't understand. To keep her job and prevent the volatile situation from spiraling further, Martha's eyes darted to the floor. She swallowed her guilt and lied, saying she had heard the commotion and went to the kitchen to make it herself.

The tiny, fragile spark of hope that had just ignited in Evelyn's chest was instantly snuffed out, replaced by a freezing emptiness.

She let out a bitter laugh, mocking herself for actually believing that cold-blooded animal would care if she lived or died.

She threw off the heavy comforter. Without bothering to put on shoes, her bare feet hit the cold hardwood floor.

She pushed past Martha, ignoring the housekeeper's panicked shouts, and ran down the stairs, sprinting straight out into the pouring rain.