The flight was suffocating. Christ sat in a leather armchair, reading a stack of documents, seemingly oblivious to her presence. Calla sat three rows back, staring out the window at the gray blanket of clouds covering the east coast.

When the wheels touched down at Teterboro, the reality of what awaited them settled in Calla's stomach like lead.

Two cars were waiting on the tarmac. A sleek Maybach for Christ, and the family's armored SUV for her. The separation had begun.

Calla stood at the bottom of the airstairs, clutching her purse. She felt she should say something. They were married, after all. Even if it was a nightmare.

She turned back. Christ was gathering his files.

"Thank you," she said, her voice small in the windy expanse of the airfield. "For the clothes. And for... agreeing to wait."

Christ didn't look up. "Hm."

He was back to being the machine. The cold, unfeeling patriarch.

Calla hesitated. She walked back up the stairs, entering the cabin. She approached him slowly.

She leaned down and pecked his cheek. It was quick, dry, dutiful. Like a niece saying goodbye to an uncle.

"I'll see you at the estate... Uncle."

She turned to leave.

Snap.

The sound of a file folder shutting echoed like a gunshot.

"Is that how you say goodbye to your husband?"

Calla froze. She turned around. Christ had taken off his gold-rimmed glasses. Without them, his face looked sharper, younger, more dangerous.

He stood up. The cabin aisle was narrow. He took a step toward her. Calla took a step back.

"The driver is right outside," she whispered, backing until her shoulder blades hit the bulkhead door.

Christ reached past her and yanked the window shade down. The cabin plunged into semi-darkness.

He loomed over her, bracing one hand on the wall beside her head.

"I told you," he murmured, his voice vibrating in her chest. "I hate that word."

"Which one?" Calla breathed.

"Uncle." He leaned in, his nose brushing hers. "Say it again, and I will take you right here. I don't care who is watching."

Calla clamped her hands over her mouth, her eyes wide with terror.

Christ stared at her for a moment, drinking in her fear. Then, a ghost of a smile touched his lips.

He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered on her neck, right over her pulse point.

"Go," he said softly. "Don't keep Francis waiting."

Calla turned and fled. She practically fell down the stairs and scrambled into the SUV.

"Go!" she told the driver. "Just go!"

Inside the jet, Christ watched through the gap in the shade as the SUV sped away.

"Sir?" Zhang, his assistant, stepped into the cabin. "To the office?"

Christ put his glasses back on, masking the fire in his eyes.

"No," he said, buttoning his jacket. "Take me to the estate. I want to see my nephew."

"Stop here," Calla told the driver.

They were still in the city. She couldn't go home yet. She needed armor. She needed Gemma.

She walked into the coffee shop, her legs still feeling like jelly. Gemma was in the back booth, scrolling on her phone.

"Oh my god," Gemma squealed when she saw Calla. "You're alive! I thought he killed you and buried you in the desert."

Calla slid into the booth. "Coffee. Black. Now."

"Spill," Gemma leaned in, her eyes hungry. "What happened? Did you guys actually...?"

"He yelled at me," Calla lied. She picked up a napkin and started shredding it. "He made me sleep in the guest room. It was humiliating."

"That's it?" Gemma looked disappointed. "But the way he looked at you..."

Calla reached for the sugar dispenser. As she did, her sleeve rode up.

The diamond caught the overhead halogen light. It flashed like a supernova.

Gemma gasped. She grabbed Calla's hand.

"Calla Robbins! Is that a Harry Winston?" Gemma shrieked. "That's five carats! Who gave you that?"

Calla tried to yank her hand back, but Gemma's grip was tight.

"It's... it's a prop! For a play!"

"You're not in a play!" Gemma lowered her voice to a harsh whisper. "Did you marry him? Did you marry Christ?"

Calla felt the tears pricking her eyes. She nodded.

"I was drunk, Gem. I thought it was a joke. But he... he has the paper. It's real."

Gemma stared at her, horror dawning on her face. "Francis is going to kill him. Or you. Or both of you."

"I know," Calla put her head in her hands. "I can't get it off. My fingers are swollen from the flight."

"You have to hide it," Gemma hissed. "If Francis sees that..."

Calla grabbed a packet of butter from the table. She ripped it open and smeared the grease on her finger. She pulled. It hurt. Her knuckle turned angry red.

With a final, painful pop, the ring slid off.

Calla breathed a sigh of relief. She unclasped the thin gold chain around her neck-a gift from her parents before they died-and threaded the massive diamond onto it. She clasped it back around her neck and tucked the ring under her shirt.

The cold metal rested right between her breasts, heavy against her heart.

"Don't tell anyone," Calla begged.

"Who am I going to tell?" Gemma whispered. "I like being alive."

Calla's phone rang. It was Joan, the housekeeper.

"Miss Calla? Francis is pacing the foyer. He's been waiting for thirty minutes."

Calla closed her eyes. "I'm five minutes away, Joan."

She hung up and looked at Gemma. "Wish me luck."

"Luck won't save you," Gemma said grimly. "You're walking into a war zone."