Eleanor sat on the gravel. Her tears had dried into tight, itchy tracks on her cheeks. The violent shaking in her chest had stopped, leaving behind a hollow, numb cavern.

She didn't pick up the shattered phone. She just stared at the dirt.

A pair of blinding headlights cut through the gathering dusk.

Eleanor shielded her eyes. She grabbed the guardrail and pulled herself up, her legs stiff and aching. She thought it was Stella.

But as the vehicle rolled to a stop, the sleek, heavy grill of a black Bentley came into view.

It wasn't Stella.

The driver's side window rolled down smoothly. Victor Kowalski sat behind the wheel. His face was a blank, emotionless slate, exactly as it always was.

"Mrs. Montgomery," Victor said. "Please get in."

Eleanor didn't move. The cold wind whipped her hair across her face. She stared at Victor, her voice scraping out of her dry throat. "Did he send you?"

Victor nodded once. "Mr. Montgomery instructed me ，he is handling an emergency situation, so let me take you home first."

Emergency.

Eleanor let out a short, hollow laugh. The sound was brittle enough to snap. His emergency was his dead lover.

She wanted to scream at Victor to drive away. She wanted to wait for Stella. But the sky was turning a bruised purple, and the temperature was dropping fast. Survival instinct overrode her pride.

She bent down, picked up her shattered phone, and opened the heavy rear door.

She slid onto the leather seat. The heater blasted warm air against her frozen skin, a sickening contrast to the ice in her veins.

The Bentley pulled away. The cabin was dead silent. Eleanor turned her head, pressing her forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching the darkness swallow the trees.

Miles away, the smell of industrial bleach and rubbing alcohol burned Alistair's nostrils.

He stood in the sterile hallway of St. Catalina Hospital, right outside the VIP suite. Through the rectangular glass window of the door, he stared at the hospital bed.

Cordelia lay there. She looked impossibly fragile, her skin translucent against the white sheets. She was sleeping.

The doctor had just left. Severe malnutrition. Post-traumatic stress. Extreme physical exhaustion.

Alistair pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, rubbing hard. A crushing weight pressed down on his chest. Guilt. It was a suffocating, toxic guilt. Five years ago, he had pushed her to run away with him. If he hadn't, she never would have been on that boat. She never would have suffered for five years in a fishing village.

He dropped his hand. He remembered the phone call in the car. He remembered the look of absolute terror on Eleanor's face when he shoved the door open and ordered her out.

A sharp, unexpected spike of irritation flared in his gut.

He knew he had crossed a line. He knew leaving a woman on a dirt road was unacceptable. But his brain had short-circuited. He couldn't process two realities at once.

Alistair reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He stared at the screen.

He didn't call Eleanor. He couldn't face the sound of her voice right now.

He dialed Victor's number.

"Did you get her?" Alistair asked the second the line connected.

"Yes, sir," Victor's voice came through the speaker. "We are currently on route back to the estate."

Alistair let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "Make sure she gets inside safely."

He hung up. He stared at the black screen of his phone. His heart was beating too fast. Why was he so anxious about Eleanor? She was safe. She was fine.

The realization that he cared made the irritation in his gut burn hotter.

He shoved the phone back into his pocket. He pushed the heavy door open and walked into Cordelia's room, forcing his mind to focus on the fragile woman in the bed. The woman he owed his life to.

Back in the Bentley, Eleanor's broken phone vibrated in her lap.

The cracked screen lit up with Stella's name.

Eleanor swiped to answer. "Stella."

"Ellie! I'm almost at the pin, where are you?"

"I'm in Victor's car," Eleanor said quietly. Her voice was completely devoid of emotion. "Alistair sent him. I'm going back to the estate. You can turn around."

"Are you okay? Do you want me to come to the house?"

"No," Eleanor said. She looked at her reflection in the dark window. Her eyes looked dead. "I'm fine, Stella. I'll call you tomorrow."

She hung up before Stella could argue.

She leaned her head back against the headrest and closed her eyes. The tears were gone. The panic was gone.

Alistair had made his choice. He had drawn the battle lines on that dirt road.

Eleanor took a deep, slow breath. When she opened her eyes, the dead look was gone. It was replaced by a cold, hard clarity.

She was going back to the Montgomery estate. But she wasn't going back as a victim.

The war was about to begin.

Two days later, Alistair had Cordelia transferred from the hospital. The private recovery villa on the outskirts of the city smelled of expensive lilies and old money.

Alistair pushed the heavy oak door open and stepped inside. He expected to find Cordelia in bed. Instead, the room was empty.

A soft, melancholic melody drifted from the corner of the massive suite.

Alistair turned. Cordelia was sitting on the bench of a black Steinway grand piano. She wore a floor-length white silk nightgown. Her bare feet barely touched the pedals. She looked like a porcelain doll that would shatter if touched too hard.

It was the exact same Steinway he had bought for her six years ago.

Her slender fingers danced over the keys, playing Chopin's Nocturne. It was the song she used to play for him when the world got too loud.

The music wrapped around Alistair's throat, pulling him backward in time.

The final chord echoed through the room and faded into silence.

Cordelia slowly turned around. Tears spilled over her lower lashes, tracking down her pale cheeks.

"Alistair," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Do you remember this song?"

Alistair's Adam's apple bobbed. He swallowed hard. He gave a single, stiff nod.

Cordelia stood up. She walked toward him, her bare feet silent on the Persian rug. She stopped inches from his chest. She tilted her head up, her tear-filled eyes locking onto his.

Then, her gaze dropped.

She looked at the stiff collar of his charcoal suit. She reached up. Her index finger traced the edge of his collar, lightly brushing against the skin of his neck.

Right over the faint, reddish-purple bruise Eleanor had left there that morning.

Her touch was as light as a feather, but it felt like a needle stabbing into Alistair's skin.

Cordelia's hand dropped. A flash of deep, agonizing hurt crossed her eyes, followed instantly by a dark shadow of jealousy. She blinked rapidly, forcing the innocent, broken expression back onto her face.

"She..." Cordelia's voice cracked. "She must love you very much."

The words hit Alistair's chest like a physical weight. A sudden, violent wave of suffocation gripped his lungs. The air in the room felt too thin.

He took a sharp step backward, physically putting distance between them. He reached up and adjusted his left cufflink, his fingers moving with frantic, nervous energy.

"You need to rest," Alistair said. His voice was rough, almost a bark. "I have to go back."

Cordelia didn't reach for him. She stood perfectly still, her arms hanging limply at her sides.

As Alistair turned his back and walked toward the door, she spoke. Her voice was so quiet it was almost a ghost.

"I'll wait for you."

It was past midnight when the front door of the Montgomery estate clicked open.

Alistair walked into the grand foyer. The house was pitch black, save for a single lamp glowing in the main living room. He unbuttoned his suit jacket, rolling his shoulders to release the crushing tension in his muscles.

He froze.

Eleanor was sitting on the velvet sofa. She was still wearing the beige dress from this morning. A cup of untouched, cold tea sat on the glass table in front of her.

She stood up. She didn't yell. She didn't cry. She walked slowly toward him, her face completely unreadable.

Alistair's stomach tightened. He braced himself for the screaming, for the tears, for the accusations about the dirt road.

Eleanor stopped exactly one step away from him.

She reached her hand out.

Alistair flinched slightly, expecting a slap.

Instead, Eleanor's hand landed softly on the lapel of his suit jacket. She smoothed the fabric, brushing away an invisible piece of lint. It was the gesture of a dutiful, loving wife.

But as she leaned in, her nose flared slightly.

The scent hit her instantly.

It wasn't the smell of a hospital. It was a perfume. White tea mixed with heavy musk. It was cold, expensive, and aggressively territorial. It was clinging to the fabric of his suit, right where a woman's head would rest during a hug.

Eleanor's hand stopped moving.

She lifted her chin and looked directly into Alistair's dark eyes.

Alistair felt a cold sweat break out on the back of his neck. The absolute stillness in her eyes was terrifying.

"I..." Alistair started, his voice faltering. He didn't even know what he was going to say.

Eleanor didn't let him finish. She pulled her hand back and took a step away.

A slow, chilling smile curved the corners of her lips. It didn't reach her eyes. It was a smile of pure, unadulterated mockery.

"Welcome home, Alistair," she said softly.

She turned around and walked up the grand staircase. Her spine was perfectly straight. She didn't look back once.

Alistair stood frozen in the foyer. The silence of the house pressed in on him, heavier than it had ever been.

He looked down at his sleeve. He lifted his wrist to his nose and inhaled.

The white tea and musk. Cordelia.

He had thought he was in control. He thought he could handle the situation. But Eleanor's calm, mocking smile had just ripped the floor out from under him. Her nose was too sharp. Her intuition was lethal.

That night, Alistair walked into the master bedroom, but Eleanor wasn't there. She had moved her things to the guest room down the hall.

Alistair lay on his side of the massive, cold bed. He stared at the ceiling. For the first time in five years, the absence of Eleanor's body heat next to him made his chest ache with a hollow, buzzing panic.

He didn't sleep a single minute.

The sun bled through the curtains of the guest bedroom, painting the floor in pale, sickly light.

Eleanor sat in the armchair by the window. She hadn't slept. She had spent the entire night staring at the wall, feeling the last remaining threads of her marriage snap one by one.

She had to fight. Not for Alistair. For Ethan. She couldn't let Evelyn keep her son, and she couldn't let a woman who wore white tea and musk dictate her life.

She stood up, her joints popping in the quiet room. She walked downstairs.

The house was silent. Alistair's bedroom door was still shut.

Eleanor walked into the living room. On the glass coffee table, right where Alistair had been standing last night, sat his private cell phone. He had forgotten it in his exhausted, panicked state.

As Eleanor walked past, the screen lit up.

A text message notification popped onto the lock screen.

C: I can't sleep, Alistair.

Eleanor stopped. A sharp, physical pain stabbed behind her ribs. She forced her eyes away from the screen. She wouldn't let it break her. Not today.

Suddenly, the phone began to vibrate violently against the glass table.

It wasn't a text. It was a phone call.

Eleanor looked down. The caller ID read: Unknown Number.

She frowned. Alistair was still upstairs. If the office was calling his private cell this early, it had to be a massive emergency.

She reached out and picked up the phone. She swiped the green button and pressed it to her ear.

"Alistair is currently unavailable," Eleanor said, keeping her voice professional.

The line was quiet for a second.

Then, a soft, breathy voice spoke.

"Alistair?"

Eleanor's blood turned to ice.

It wasn't his secretary. It was Cordelia Blackwood. She had somehow acquired his private cell phone number, bypassing all his secretaries.

Cordelia paused, realizing a woman had answered. "Who is this? Put Alistair on the phone."

Her tone wasn't weak or fragile anymore. It was sharp, entitled, and dripping with ownership.

Eleanor's grip on the phone tightened until her knuckles ached. She kept her voice dead calm.

"I am his wife," Eleanor said. "If you need to leave a message for my husband, you can tell me."

A soft, mocking laugh echoed through the speaker.

"His wife?" Cordelia's voice was venomous. "Oh... you're the placeholder. The one they forced him to marry."

Eleanor pressed her thumb into her palm.

"He doesn't love you," Cordelia whispered into the phone. "He never did. He spent five years waiting for me. You are nothing but a temporary inconvenience."

Across the city, inside the glass-walled boardroom of Montgomery Corp.

Alistair sat at the head of the long mahogany table. He had left the house before dawn, unable to stand the quiet of the bedroom. He was currently leading a high-stakes video conference with the London branch, trying to drown his racing thoughts in corporate numbers.

The heavy boardroom doors suddenly burst open.

Victor Kowalski practically ran into the room. His usual robotic composure was completely shattered. He rushed to Alistair's side and leaned down, whispering urgently into his ear.

"Sir. Miss Blackwood is in the emergency room."

Alistair's heart stopped. "What?"

"She slit her wrists in the hospital bathroom," Victor said, his voice tight.

Alistair slammed his hands onto the table and pushed himself up. His chair crashed backward onto the floor. He didn't excuse himself to the executives on the screen. He sprinted out of the room.

Twenty minutes later, Alistair tore through the double doors of the emergency room at St. Catalina Hospital.

Victoria Blackwood, Cordelia's mother, and Beatrice, her younger sister, were standing outside the trauma room. Beatrice was sobbing hysterically.

When Beatrice saw Alistair, she lunged at him. She shoved a hospital phone into his chest.

"This is your fault!" Beatrice screamed, tears streaming down her face. "She was fine! Then she made one phone call to your office, and five minutes later we found her in a pool of blood!"

Alistair looked down at the phone. The call log showed a dialed number. It was his private cell phone. The one he had left on the coffee table at home.

The blood drained from Alistair's head.

He snatched his own work phone from his pocket and dialed his private number.

Back at the estate, Eleanor was still holding the phone, staring blankly at the wall. The device vibrated in her hand. She answered it.

"It's me," Eleanor said calmly.

Alistair's vision went red. A roaring sound filled his ears. The pieces snapped together in his mind, forming a horrific, twisted picture. Eleanor had answered the phone. Eleanor had talked to Cordelia.

"Eleanor Vance!" Alistair roared into the phone. His voice shook the walls of the hospital corridor. "What the hell did you say to her?!"

Eleanor flinched, pulling the phone away from her ear. "What are you talking about?"

"Did you push her to do it?!" Alistair screamed, the veins in his neck bulging. "Are you not satisfied until you drive her to kill herself?!"

Eleanor's breath hitched. A cold sweat broke out over her entire body. "Kill herself? Alistair, I didn't say anything! She called and insulted me, I just told her I was your wife!"

"Shut up!" Alistair cut her off. His voice was a lethal, vibrating blade. "I swear to God, Eleanor, if she doesn't survive this, I will never forgive you. I will destroy you."

Click.

The line went dead.

Eleanor stood in the living room. The dial tone buzzed in her ear like a swarm of hornets.

He didn't ask her what happened. He didn't listen. He just convicted her of murder and sentenced her to death, all to protect the woman who had just mocked her.

The phone dropped from Eleanor's hand, landing softly on the Persian rug.

A physical wave of nausea hit her so hard she had to grab the edge of the coffee table to stay standing. The injustice of it burned her throat like acid. She was entirely alone.