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.

The rhythmic, high-pitched beep of the heart monitor was the only sound in the VIP hospital room.

Cordelia lay on the bed. Thick, white gauze was wrapped heavily around her left wrist. Her face was ashen, her lips completely devoid of color.

Alistair sat in the plastic chair beside the bed. His elbows rested on his knees, his face buried in his hands. He looked exhausted. The manic anger from the phone call had burned out, leaving behind a heavy, suffocating sludge of guilt and manipulation.

Cordelia's eyelashes fluttered. She let out a weak, pained groan.

Alistair's head snapped up.

Cordelia turned her head slowly. When her eyes focused on Alistair, fresh tears immediately welled up and spilled over her cheeks.

"Alistair..." she sobbed, her voice barely a croak. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Did I cause trouble for you?"

She didn't mention the phone call. She didn't mention Eleanor. She played the ultimate victim, turning the blade inward.

Alistair's jaw tightened. He reached out and gently pushed a strand of hair away from her sweaty forehead.

"Don't think about that now," Alistair said, his voice rough. "Just focus on recovering."

Cordelia weakly grabbed his wrist. Her fingers were ice cold.

"I couldn't take it," she cried, her grip tightening with surprising strength. "I came back for you, Alistair. I survived five years of hell just to see your face again. And then I hear... I hear you have a family. A child."

A dark shadow passed over Cordelia's eyes when she said the word child, but she blinked it away instantly.

"Please," Cordelia begged, pulling his hand toward her chest. "Divorce her. Come back to me. I can't live in a world where you belong to someone else."

The heart monitor's beeping accelerated, matching her rising panic.

Alistair stared at her. His chest felt like it was being crushed in a vice. He owed her his life. He felt responsible for her pain.

But the word divorce made his stomach violently reject the idea. The image of Eleanor's calm, mocking smile from last night flashed in his brain. The thought of Eleanor walking out of the Montgomery estate, never coming back, sent a spike of pure, irrational terror through his veins.

He pulled his hand out of Cordelia's grip. The movement was firm and undeniable.

"I won't divorce her," Alistair said. His voice was absolute.

Cordelia's breath hitched. Her eyes widened in genuine shock.

"Cordelia, listen to me," Alistair continued, his tone turning clinical. "I will give you anything you want. I will buy you a house. I will fund your life. I will make sure you never have to worry about money or care ever again. But I cannot give you my marriage."

Cordelia stared at him. The rejection hit her like a physical slap. She had sliced her own skin open, and it still wasn't enough to break his bond with that woman.

A hysterical sob ripped from her throat.

She started thrashing on the bed. She swung her uninjured arm, hitting her own chest, tearing at the hospital gown.

"No! No! Get out! Just let me die!" she screamed.

The heart monitor shrieked a continuous, frantic alarm.

Alistair panicked. He jumped out of the chair. He leaned over the bed and grabbed her flailing arms, trying to pin them down so she wouldn't rip her stitches open.

"Cordelia, stop! Calm down!" Alistair ordered, his voice strained.

She kept fighting him. Left with no other option to restrain her safely, Alistair wrapped his arms around her shoulders and pulled her flush against his chest. He pressed her head into his shoulder, holding her tight until her thrashing subsided into muffled sobs.

It was a clinical hold. A restraint. There was zero passion in his body.

But from the doorway, it looked very different.

Over Alistair's broad shoulder, Cordelia's tear-stained face shifted. The hysterical despair vanished. The corner of her mouth twitched upward into a sharp, victorious smirk.

She flicked her eyes toward the heavy wooden door of the hospital room.

The door was cracked open exactly two inches.

Standing in the hallway, hidden in the shadows, was Beatrice Blackwood.

Beatrice held her smartphone up, the camera lens perfectly aligned with the crack in the door. She tapped the screen.

Click.

The silent shutter captured the image perfectly.

In the photo, Alistair's massive frame completely enveloped Cordelia. His head was buried near her neck. It looked like a desperate, passionate embrace between two tragic lovers.

Beatrice lowered the phone. She looked at the photo, smiled maliciously, and silently pulled the door shut.

Inside the room, Alistair finally felt Cordelia's body go limp. He slowly pulled away, laying her back against the pillows. He was breathing heavily, his suit jacket wrinkled.

"Get some sleep," Alistair said, his voice exhausted.

He turned around and walked out of the room. He didn't notice the smirk on Cordelia's face. He didn't know a weapon had just been forged against his wife.

Alistair stood in the sterile hallway. He pulled his phone from his pocket.

He needed to call Eleanor. He needed to tell her he wasn't coming home tonight. He had to stay here to make sure Cordelia didn't try to kill herself again.

He thought he was doing the responsible thing. He had no idea he was about to drive the final nail into the coffin of his marriage.