Ainsley's knees sank into the damp mulch, the cold seeping through her jeans. She ignored it. She focused on the voices drifting through the slightly open glass door.

"...I wish I could help you, Carson," Kirstie was saying. Her voice was unrecognizable from the shrill tone she'd used with Ainsley. It was liquid honey. "But Ainsley... she's unreasonable."

Carson didn't move. "Did she sign?"

His voice was low. Baritone. It vibrated in the air.

"No," Kirstie sighed. "She said the money was an insult. She said unless you give her shares in the Eaton Group, she's going to the press. She's going to tell them about your... episodes."

Ainsley's jaw dropped. She clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp. The sheer audacity of Kirstie's lies was almost impressive.

Carson's hand tightened on the armrest of his chair. His knuckles turned white.

"That greedy..." He trailed off, disgust choking the words.

"And Julian told me," Kirstie continued, stepping closer to him, "that she's not really amnesiac. It's an act. A strategy to delay the divorce proceedings."

"An act," Carson repeated. A bitter laugh escaped him. "She always was a good actress."

Kirstie placed a hand on his shoulder. It was possessive. Intimate. "Don't worry. I'll handle her. For you. For us."

She leaned down. Her face was inches from his. She was going to kiss him.

Something inside Ainsley snapped. It wasn't logic. It was a primal, territorial roar. That was her husband. Her target. Her territory. She didn't remember him, she didn't know if she loved him, but he was hers, and Kirstie was a liar.

Ainsley stood up. Her legs screamed, but she shoved the pain aside.

She grabbed the handle of the glass door and threw it open.

It slammed against the wall with a crash that sounded like a gunshot.

Kirstie shrieked and jumped back, knocking into the tea table. Hot water splashed onto the stone floor.

Carson spun his chair around. He was fast. His head cocked, his ears orienting to the sound instantly.

"Who is there?" he barked.

Ainsley stepped into the solarium. She smelled like exhaust fumes and hospital soap. She was bleeding through her shirt. But she felt ten feet tall.

"Bravo, Kirstie," Ainsley said. Her voice was raspy but loud. "That was a hell of a performance."

Kirstie's face drained of color. "Ainsley? How did you..."

"Ainsley?" Carson's voice dropped. It was cold. Deadly.

Ainsley ignored Kirstie. She walked straight toward him. Her boots left muddy prints on the pristine floor.

She stopped three feet from him. She looked at his face. The dark glasses hid his eyes, but the lines of tension around his mouth were visible.

"I didn't ask for shares," Ainsley said, staring at his unseeing face. "I didn't threaten to go to the press. And I am not pretending to forget you."

She turned to Kirstie. "She is a liar."

"Security!" Kirstie screamed, backing away. "She's crazy! She broke in!"

Heavy footsteps thundered down the hallway leading to the solarium.

Carson sat perfectly still. He didn't yell. He tilted his head, listening.

"You can call the army," Ainsley told Kirstie, stepping closer to her until she hit the glass wall. "But before they drag me out, I have enough time to pour that pot of boiling tea down the front of that cashmere sweater you stole from my closet."

Kirstie gasped. "You wouldn't."

"Try me," Ainsley said.

Two men in black suits burst into the room. They were massive, like refrigerators with legs.

They grabbed Ainsley's arms. Their grip was bruising.

Ainsley didn't fight. She knew physics. She couldn't win. She just kept her eyes on Carson.

"Oh god, Carson, are you okay?" Kirstie wailed, rushing to his side. "She's violent! Get her out of here!"

One of the guards began to drag Ainsley backward.

"Wait," Carson said.

It wasn't a shout. It was a quiet command that cut through the noise like a scalpel.

The guards froze.

"Let her go," Carson said.

"But sir," one guard started. "She breached the perimeter."

"I said let her go."

They released Ainsley. She stumbled, rubbing her arms.

Carson turned his face toward Ainsley. It was unnerving, being scrutinized by a man who couldn't see.

"You say you didn't ask for shares?" he asked.

"No."

"And you aren't faking?"

"I don't even know who you are," Ainsley said bluntly. "Why would I pretend to be married to a man who clearly hates me?"

Victoria swept into the room then, looking like a storm cloud in pearls.

"What is the meaning of this?" she demanded. She saw Ainsley and her face twisted. "You! Get this trash out of my house!"

Ainsley turned to the grandmother. The fear she had felt in the hospital was gone, replaced by a cold, hard clarity.

"I am Carson's legal wife," Ainsley said. "This is my home. You have no right to remove me."

Victoria pointed a manicured finger at Ainsley's face. "This is the Eaton Estate. Not your trailer park."

"According to New York State law," Ainsley said, the words flowing out of her from some hidden reservoir of knowledge, "even in separation, I have Matrimonial Home Rights until a judge signs a decree. Unless you have an order of protection or an eviction notice signed by a magistrate, removing me is a criminal offense." As the words left her mouth, a part of her mind screamed, Where did that come from? She pushed the thought down. It was a weapon, and she would use it.

Silence.

Victoria's mouth opened and closed. Kirstie looked shocked.

Carson's lips twitched. It was almost a smile. Almost.

"She's unhinged!" Kirstie cried, playing her last card. "Think of the staff! The disruption!"

"I'm staying," Ainsley said, her voice softer but firm, her eyes locked on Carson. "I won't let my life be dismantled by liars."

Carson stood up. He was tall. Taller than Ainsley expected. He unfolded a white cane from beside his chair.

"Since she wants to quote the law," Carson said, "we will follow the law. Where is Preston?"

"En route, sir," the guard said.

Carson walked toward Ainsley. He stopped when he was inches away. He didn't touch her. He inhaled deeply.

Ainsley held her breath. She knew she smelled terrible.

"Give her the guest room," Carson said. "The one in the east wing."

"Carson!" Victoria gasped.

"Keep her away from me," he added.

He tapped his cane against the floor and walked out, his movements precise and practiced.

Kirstie glared at Ainsley with pure venom before chasing after him. Victoria smoothed her pearls, gave Ainsley a look that promised retribution, and followed.

Ainsley was left standing in the solarium, her knees shaking, surrounded by the smell of spilled tea and victory.

The housekeeper, Mrs. Sterling, led Ainsley to a room that felt more like a walk-in freezer than a guest suite. It was in the furthest corner of the house, dusty and cold.

"Dinner is at seven," she said, and closed the door.

Ainsley didn't care about the dust. She checked the room. She looked under the lamps, behind the paintings. She didn't know why she was doing it, but her fingers moved with a practiced paranoia.

Clear.

Ainsley showered in the attached bathroom, scrubbing the hospital smell off her skin until it was raw. She had no clothes, so she wrapped herself in a thick, white bathrobe she found in the closet.

The house was a labyrinth of silence. Under the guise of her amnesia, she had the perfect cover to explore. She needed a layout. She needed to know the security patterns, the staff rotations. She needed to find his office.

She tied the robe tighter and opened the door. The hallway was empty. She moved silently, her bare feet making no sound on the thick Persian runners.

She passed dozens of closed doors. Portraits of dead Eatons stared down at her with cold, judgmental eyes. She found what she was looking for at the end of the west wing: a heavy oak door, slightly more modern than the others, with a small, discreet keypad next to the handle.

Carson's study. The heart of the kingdom.

Ainsley examined the keypad. A standard six-digit system. Too many combinations to guess. But the keys for 2, 5, 8, and 9 were slightly more worn than the others. A start.

As Ainsley leaned closer, a floorboard creaked behind her.

She didn't think. She spun around, her body low, ready to react, her face a mask of vacant confusion.

The piano teacher she'd seen earlier stood there, holding a stack of sheet music. Her eyes widened in surprise.

"Mrs. Eaton," she huffed. "You gave me a fright. Are you lost?"

"Oh," Ainsley said, putting a hand to her chest and letting out a shaky breath. "I'm so sorry. I... I don't know where I am. This house is so big." She looked at the oak door as if seeing it for the first time. "What's in here?"

"Mr. Eaton's private study," the teacher said, her tone clipped and disapproving. "No one is allowed in."

"Oh, of course," Ainsley said, stepping back with a display of meek apology. "I'll just... I'll try to find my way back."

She turned and walked away, her posture deliberately unsteady. But in her mind, she was already mapping the house, logging the teacher's presence, and calculating the odds of cracking that code.

She didn't see the figure standing in the hallway, just out of sight.

Carson stood there, his hand resting on the doorframe of a nearby room. He had heard the entire exchange. The floorboard creak. The teacher's sharp intake of breath. Ainsley's soft, confused voice.

But he had also heard the silence before that. The utter lack of sound from her approach. It was the silence of a predator, not a lost sheep.

His grip on his cane tightened. He stood there for a long time, then turned and walked away silently.