Dara placed a reheated bowl of the seafood soup at the head of the long oak dining table.

The double doors of the dining room pushed open. Donavon Monroe walked in, bringing a draft of cold night air with him.

He shrugged off his suit jacket and tossed it carelessly over the back of a chair, his jaw tight with irritation.

Dara stepped forward, reaching out to take his briefcase.

As she got close, a heavy, sweet scent hit her nose. It was a faint trace of expensive perfume. It wasn't hers.

Her right hand trembled slightly as she reached for the leather handle. The movement caused her sleeve to slip back an inch, exposing the edge of the blood-spotted gauze.

Donavon's eyes flicked to the bandage for a fraction of a second.

Then, he looked away. His expression remained completely blank. He didn't ask.

Dara's stomach plummeted. The air in her lungs felt like it had been sucked out of the room. The words she had practiced-the explanation about Keven and the burn-died in her throat.

Donavon pulled out his chair and sat down. He loosened his tie with a sharp tug.

"Get me a glass of ice water," he ordered, not looking at her.

Dara turned to the sideboard. She used her uninjured left hand to grip the heavy crystal pitcher, her muscles straining. She set the glass down in front of him with a dull thud.

Donavon picked up his silver spoon. He took one bite of the soup she had spent three hours making. His face showed zero emotion.

Dara stood across from him, her heart hammering against her ribs. She waited for him to say it. Just a simple 'Happy Birthday'.

Donavon dropped the spoon. He pulled a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his mouth.

He unlatched his briefcase and pulled out a thick manila envelope. He tossed it onto the center of the table.

The envelope slid across the polished wood, stopping right in front of Dara's empty plate.

Dara stared at it, her pulse throbbing in her ears. "What is this?" Dara asked, her voice carrying a faint, barely perceptible tremor as a dark premonition washed over her. The silence in the room suddenly felt heavy and suffocating.

Donavon let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sneer. He crossed his arms over his chest.

"Open it and find out," he said, his voice dropping into the flat, dead tone he used for hostile board meetings.

Dara reached out with a shaking left hand. She tore the flap and pulled out the thick stack of papers.

The bold black letters at the top of the first page burned into her retinas.

Divorce Settlement Agreement.

Dara's pupils dilated. The blood drained from her face so fast she felt dizzy.

She looked up, staring in absolute shock at the man she had loved for three years.

Donavon leaned back in his chair, his eyes hard and unyielding. "The trust fund outlined in section four is more than enough for you to waste for the rest of your life."

"Why today?" Dara's voice cracked. Her chest physically ached. "Why on our three-year anniversary? On my birthday?"

Donavon frowned, a flicker of genuine annoyance crossing his features. "I don't keep track of dates."

He leaned forward, his voice turning vicious. "Don't try to use cheap emotional manipulation to leverage a better payout, Dara. It won't work."

A suffocating wave of pain crashed over her. The burn on her right hand suddenly felt like it was scorching straight through her veins and into her heart.

She searched his cold, chiseled face, desperately looking for a shred of the warmth he had shown her three years ago.

There was nothing. Just the calculated, defensive glare of a ruthless capitalist.

Donavon tapped his knuckles against the table. "Sign it. My lawyers are waiting for the fax."

Dara gripped the edges of the agreement. Her knuckles turned stark white, the sharp edges of the paper crumpling under her tightening fists.

Dara took a slow, jagged breath. She forced the tears burning behind her eyes to stay put.

She slammed the divorce papers down onto the table.

"Tell me the real reason you're in such a rush to do this," she demanded, her voice dropping an octave.

Donavon's eyes narrowed. "It's a restructuring of assets. Nothing more."

Dara let out a bitter, hollow laugh. "Restructuring? Is that what we're calling Baccarat Rouge 540 now?"

She pointed a shaking finger at his collar. "Adalynn Hart flew back from Paris today. That's why you want me out."

Donavon's jaw ticked. The muscles in his neck went rigid. "Leave innocent people out of this."

The way he defended the other woman felt like a physical knife twisting in Dara's gut.

She lost control. She shoved her chair back so hard it screeched against the hardwood floor.

"Innocent?" Dara's eyes were bloodshot. "What about Boston? What about the abandoned warehouse three years ago?"

She slammed her hands onto the table, leaning toward him. "Did you really forget the promise you made to me while we were dodging bullets?"

Donavon's expression instantly morphed into pure, unadulterated disgust.

He stood up, planting his hands on the table, towering over her with a terrifying physical presence.

"I don't have those memories," he snarled, his voice vibrating with rage.

"You used my PTSD from the car crash to spin a massive lie. You fabricated that entire savior complex just to secure a ring."

Dara stumbled back a step, her breath catching in her throat. She looked at him like he was a monster.

She took a step forward, her chest heaving as tears of pure betrayal finally spilled over her lashes. "I bled for you!" she screamed, her voice tearing at the seams. "I put my life on the line and faced danger for you when no one else would!"

Donavon turned his head away sharply. "I have zero interest in looking at the ugly scars you picked up in whatever slum you crawled out of."

The words hit her like a physical blow to the head.

Everything inside Dara shattered. The desperate, clinging hope she had held onto for three years evaporated into thin air.

She went entirely still. The frantic energy drained from her body, leaving her eyes dead and hollow.

She reached for the Montblanc pen resting near the documents and pulled the cap off.

Donavon watched her, expecting her to sign.

Instead, Dara pressed the metal tip of the pen directly against the center of the multi-million dollar trust fund check.

She looked up at him. Her face was completely devoid of emotion.

She pointed her left hand at the bowl of seafood soup sitting in front of him. A thick, unappetizing layer of grease had congealed on the surface.

"I have one final condition," Dara said, her voice eerily calm. "Eat the rest of that soup. Every last cold, disgusting bite."

"Excuse me?" Donavon stared at her.

"Eat it," Dara repeated. "And I will sign this paper right now, and you will never see my face again."

Donavon let out a harsh breath. "You are out of your mind."

"If you don't," Dara said, her grip on the pen tightening, "I will drag this divorce out in court for years. I will make sure your precious Adalynn remains nothing but a dirty little secret."

Donavon ground his teeth together. The muscles in his jaw bulged, and a flash of pure, violent intent crossed his eyes.

He stared at her for ten agonizing seconds.

Then, to get rid of her as fast as possible, he pulled his chair back, sat down, and picked up the silver spoon.

The veins on the back of Donavon's hand bulged as he gripped the silver spoon. He scooped up a portion of the freezing, congealed soup and shoved it into his mouth.

The cold, fishy liquid slid down his throat. His expression remained completely blank, his breathing steady without the slightest disruption, though the disgust and murderous intent in his eyes deepened. The icy, fishy taste was revolting, but he swallowed it down with the absolute, chilling control of a man who refused to show weakness.

Dara stood with her arms crossed tightly over her chest. She watched him with dead eyes. There was no pity in her posture, only a chilling detachment.

Donavon glared up at her, his eyes dark and threatening, silently daring her to call off this absurd humiliation.

Dara didn't blink. She tapped her index finger against the wooden table once. Keep going.

The silence in the dining room was suffocating. The only sound was the mechanical, forced chewing as Donavon forced down the cold, hard vegetables.

Ten minutes later, the spoon scraped against the bottom of the empty bowl.

Donavon shoved the porcelain dish away so hard it clattered against the water glass.

He snatched his napkin, wiping his mouth with brutal force. "Sign it," he rasped, his voice thick with nausea.

Dara didn't hesitate. She pressed the pen to the paper and signed her elegant, looping signature on the bottom of the last two pages.

She slid one copy across the table to him. She picked up the trust fund check and folded it into her pocket.

"I'll be out of the estate first thing tomorrow morning," she said, her voice flat.

She turned and walked toward the grand staircase. She didn't look back.

Donavon stared at her retreating back. A sudden, sharp spike of irritation flared in his chest, but he blamed it on the churning acid in his stomach.

Hours later, the estate was pitch black.

Dara lay on the far left edge of the massive King-size bed in the master bedroom.

She stared blankly at the ceiling. The burn on her right hand throbbed with a relentless, burning rhythm. A single tear slipped out of the corner of her eye and soaked into the pillowcase.

Thirty minutes later, the bedroom door clicked open.

Donavon walked in, radiating the freezing chill of a cold shower.

He pulled back the heavy duvet and lay down on the far right edge of the bed. The physical distance between them was vast enough to park a car in.

The room was dead silent, save for the low hum of the central air conditioning. The tension in the air was thick enough to choke on.

Donavon's stomach rolled violently from the cold seafood. He clenched his jaw, forcing his breathing to remain steady so he wouldn't make a sound.

Dara heard the slight hitch in his breathing. She closed her eyes and turned her back to him. She didn't care anymore.

Outside, the wind began to howl. A rare, violent Long Island summer thunderstorm rolled in.

Thunder shook the glass panes of the windows. Lightning flashed, casting harsh, skeletal shadows across the bedroom walls.

Exhausted by anger, pain, and physical sickness, both of them finally slipped into a heavy, unnatural sleep.

At 3:00 AM, a blindingly bright sphere of ball lightning struck the main transformer just outside the estate gates.

The digital clock on the nightstand instantly went black. A bizarre, heavy static charge flooded the bedroom, making the hairs on their arms stand up.

In her sleep, Dara's brow furrowed. A terrifying sensation of weightlessness hit her, as if her very consciousness was being violently ripped from her spine.

At the exact same moment, Donavon's large body jerked with a sharp, involuntary muscle spasm.

In the pitch-black room, their breathing patterns slowly synchronized, rising and falling in perfect unison.

The storm outside began to die down. The estate's backup generator kicked on with a deep, vibrating hum.

Dawn broke, sending a thin sliver of gray light through the gap in the heavy blackout curtains, landing directly on the two figures in the bed.