The black Maybach screeched to a halt outside the Hamptons beach house. The tires skidded on the gravel, the sound cutting through the silent night like a scream.

Conrad walked around the hood of the car and yanked the passenger door open. The cold wind, carrying the salty sting of the ocean, instantly flooded the warm interior of the car.

Crista shrank back against the seat. The cramping in her lower abdomen had turned into a dull, constant ache, draining the color from her face. Her hands clutched the seatbelt across her chest, refusing to move.

Conrad didn't care. He reached over, unclicked the buckle, and grabbed her arm, dragging her out of the car. He let go, and she fell hard onto the freezing sand.

It was late autumn in the Hamptons. The temperature was near freezing. The thin evening gown she wore offered no protection against the biting wind. She shivered violently, the cold seeping into her bones.

Conrad stood over her, his shadow looming large against the headlights. His eyes were as cold as the Siberian wind. "Go," he commanded, pointing toward the churning black waves. "Cool your head in the water. Maybe then you'll remember how to behave."

Crista stared at the dark, roaring ocean, terror gripping her heart. She shook her head frantically, scrambling backward on the sand, trying to put distance between herself and the shoreline.

Conrad's patience snapped. He strode forward, his hand shooting out to grab the back of her dress. He hauled her up and began dragging her toward the water.

"No! Conrad, please!" The icy water rushed over her ankles. The cold was a physical shock, like a thousand needles piercing her skin. She screamed, a sound of pure despair.

A wave crashed against her knees. Her footing slipped on the slick sand, and she fell hard, her knees slamming into the sharp shells beneath the surface. Pain shot up her legs.

He didn't stop. He kept pulling her deeper, until the freezing water reached her waist.

Crista's teeth chattered so hard she thought they would crack. The cramping in her abdomen intensified, becoming a tearing, agonizing pain. She twisted, crying out, "Conrad, stop! My stomach... it hurts so much!"

Conrad laughed, the sound harsh and mocking over the roar of the surf. "You're really committed to this act, aren't you? Faking an illness to avoid an apology?" He grabbed her chin, forcing her face toward the sea. "Look at it. Let it wash the greed out of you."

Suddenly, a cry rang out from the shore. A red Porsche was parked near the house. Else, wrapped in a trench coat, was running down the beach, shouting Conrad's name.

She stumbled toward the water's edge. Then, as if on cue, her ankle twisted. She let out a terrified shriek, falling into the shallow water-barely half a meter deep-and began thrashing about. "Help! Conrad, help me!"

Conrad heard her cry. The cold annoyance on his face vanished, instantly replaced by sheer panic.

Without a second thought, he let go of Crista.

A retreating wave caught Crista off guard. The powerful undertow swept her feet out from under her, pulling her under the dark, icy water.

She choked, swallowing a mouthful of salty, bitter seawater. She thrashed, fighting her way to the surface, her vision blurred by the water and the pain. She looked toward the shore.

Under the harsh glare of the house's floodlights, she saw Conrad wading swiftly toward Else. He gathered the unharmed girl into his arms, his face filled with heart-wrenching concern.

A grief far colder than the ocean gripped Crista's heart. A despair deeper than the water under her feet swallowed her will to live.

Another massive wave roared in, slamming into her back. The force spun her around, dragging her down into the swirling vortex of the deep.

She tumbled underwater, the oxygen being ripped from her lungs. Then, a tearing agony ripped through her abdomen, far worse than anything before. A warm wetness trickled down her thighs, instantly diluted by the freezing sea.

Her mind went blank.

She reached out with the last ounce of her strength, her fingers grasping nothing but the empty, cold water.

On the shore, Conrad was taking off his jacket to wrap around Else's shoulders. He didn't look back at the roaring sea.

Crista's vision dimmed. The image of Conrad holding Else was the last thing she saw before the darkness took her. A single tear, lost in the ocean, rolled down her cheek.

Her body went limp, sinking like a dead leaf toward the dark, cold bottom.

The sound of the waves covered everything. The world was nothing but endless cold and the silence of death.

The sharp smell of antiseptic hit her nostrils. Crista forced her eyes open, squinting against the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights above.

Beep. Beep. Beep. The rhythmic sound of the heart monitor filled the room. She tried to move her fingers and felt the tug of an IV line taped to the back of her hand.

The door to the room opened. Dr. Thorne walked in, a medical chart in his hand. He paused, a look of surprise crossing his face when he saw her open eyes.

He walked quickly to the bedside, pulling out a small penlight. He shone it into her eyes, checking her pupils. "Crista? Can you hear me? Does anything hurt?"

Her lips were dry and cracked. She parted them, her voice a rough whisper. "Where... where am I? What happened?"

The doctor sighed, his expression turning serious. "You're at Mount Sinai Hospital. You've been in a coma for a full week. The Coast Guard pulled you out of the water."

A sharp pain lanced through her brain. The suffocating feeling of the water, Conrad's resolute back as he walked away-the memories crashed over her. She squeezed her eyes shut, a groan escaping her lips.

"Crista," Dr. Thorne said, his tone heavy. He flipped open the chart. "There's something I need to tell you. You were pregnant. Eight weeks along."

Her eyes flew open. Her hand flew to her flat stomach, disbelief washing over her face, followed instantly by a rush of tears.

"I'm so sorry," the doctor continued, his voice cutting through her momentary joy like a knife. "The severe hypothermia and trauma caused an inevitable miscarriage. We did everything we could, but the fetus was already gone when the Coast Guard found you."

"No..." She reached out, grabbing the front of the doctor's white coat, her knuckles white. "Please. Tell me you're wrong. Tell me my baby is still there. Please!"

Dr. Thorne gently pried her fingers loose, patting her hand. "We're doing everything we can to help your body recover. I'm giving you medication to prevent infection and stop any further hemorrhaging. But you must stay in bed. Absolute rest is required for your traumatized body." He gave her one last sympathetic look and left the room.

The room fell silent. Crista lay there, her hand resting on her flat stomach. A suffocating wave of grief pressed down on her chest. She had to tell Conrad. Maybe if he knew about the baby they had just lost, the child he had unknowingly killed, he would finally see the truth.

She leaned over, ignoring the pull of the IV, and grabbed her phone from the nightstand. The screen lit up. No missed calls. No messages.

A heavy weight settled in her chest, but she bit the bullet and dialed Conrad's private number.

It rang for a long time. Finally, the line clicked. But the voice that answered wasn't Conrad's.

It was Else. A giggling, laugh. "Hello? Sister?"

Crista's blood ran cold. Her hand tightened around the phone. "Where is Conrad? Let me talk to him."

Else laughed again, a sound full of cruel triumph. "He's right here. He's peeling an apple for me. He's been by my side this whole week, Crista. He doesn't care if you live or die."

To prove her point, Else called out, her voice sickeningly sweet, "Conrad! My sister is on the phone!"

Then, Conrad's voice came through the receiver. It was cold, impatient, and utterly devoid of emotion. "Tell her, unless she signs the divorce papers, don't bother me."

The words hit Crista like a physical blow. The phone slipped from her numb fingers, landing silently on the blanket.

The door to the room burst open. Audrey rushed in, her face flushed, her eyes red and puffy.

"Crista!" Audrey ran to the bed, taking in her friend's pale face. She burst into tears. "That bastard! That absolute bastard!"

Crista grabbed Audrey's hand, tears finally spilling over. "I was pregnant, Audrey," she choked out, her voice breaking into a sob. "And I lost the baby. But he just wants a divorce."

Audrey gasped, her face draining of color. She reached into her handbag and pulled out a crumpled square of glossy paper. "While you were unconscious, I went to your apartment to get your things. I found this ultrasound picture in your bag. You were going to surprise him, weren't you?"

Crista looked at the blurry image and squeezed her eyes shut, unable to speak. Audrey's face then twisted in rage. "I've already contacted my cousin, Caleb Arnold. He's one of the best trauma surgeons here at Mount Sinai. He's going to make sure you get the best care while I go deal with that bastard!" She stood up, rolling up her sleeves. "Where is he? I'm going to go give that son of a bitch a piece of my mind!"

Crista looked up, confused. "What are you talking about?"

Audrey pointed angrily toward the door. "They're in this hospital! Else is in the VIP suite at the end of the hall. 'Severe ankle sprain observation,' my ass. He's been playing nurse with her while you were dying!"

The realization hit Crista like a bucket of ice water. He was right there. Just a few steps away. And he hadn't come.

The grief in her eyes slowly hardened into something cold and sharp. She wiped her face with the back of her hand, her jaw setting. She placed both hands protectively over her stomach.

"Get me a wheelchair, Audrey," she commanded, her voice weak but firm. "I'm not lying here while he plays happy family. I'm going to see him."

Crista threw off the blanket and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Audrey immediately stepped in, her face etched with worry. "Crista, please," Audrey begged, holding her shoulders. "Get back in bed. Think about your recovering body."

Crista shook her head stubbornly. "Get me a wheelchair, Audrey," Crista commanded, her voice weak but firm. "I'm not lying here while he plays happy family."

Audrey hesitated, but seeing the burning determination in Crista's eyes, she quickly fetched a chair from the corner of the room. She carefully helped Crista into it, making sure the IV line wasn't tangled. Audrey pushed the chair out into the hallway, which was brightly lit, the smell of disinfectant stinging her nose. With every bump of the wheels, a sharp pulling pain tugged at Crista's lower abdomen. Cold sweat broke out on her forehead, her hands gripping the armrests tightly, but she signaled Audrey to keep moving.

They stopped in front of the heavy wooden door at the end of the hall. It was slightly ajar. The sound of laughter drifted out.

Crista peeked through the gap. The suite was filled with expensive floral arrangements. And there, sitting on the edge of the bed, was Conrad. He was holding a silver fruit knife, carefully peeling an apple for Else.

The scene was so warm, so intimate. It was a stark contrast to the cold, empty room she had just left. Crista felt a hand clamp around her heart, squeezing it until she couldn't breathe.

Audrey couldn't take it anymore. She reached past Crista and shoved the door open. It slammed against the wall with a loud bang.

The laughter inside stopped abruptly. Conrad paused, the knife hovering over the apple. He turned his head, his eyes narrowing as he saw them at the door.

Else saw Crista and immediately shrank back into the pillows, putting on her best frightened-rabbit act.

Conrad stood up, his tall frame moving to block Else from view. He glared at Crista. "What the hell are you doing here now?"

Crista pushed away Audrey's supporting hand. She leaned against the doorframe, straightening her spine. She took a deep breath and looked Conrad dead in the eye.

She opened her mouth to tell him about the baby they had lost. But before she could speak, Else suddenly clutched her chest, breaking into a violent, hacking cough. "It hurts," she whimpered, tears welling up in her eyes.

Conrad instantly turned his back on Crista. He poured a glass of warm water and held it to Else's lips, his movements incredibly gentle. He completely ignored his wife, who was standing in the doorway looking like she might collapse at any moment.

Crista watched his tender actions. It felt like a wad of cotton was stuffed down her throat. The words about their dead child died on her lips.

Conrad put the glass down and turned back. The warmth was gone, replaced by the familiar icy glare. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the divorce agreement. He threw it at Crista's feet.

"My patience is gone," he said, his voice like gravel. "If you don't sign this today, you'll leave this marriage with nothing."

Crista stared at the paper on the floor. The man standing in front of her suddenly felt like a stranger. The last bit of hope in her heart shattered into dust.

She let out a short, bitter laugh. Her eyes were full of mockery. "Tell me, Conrad. If I sign this, will you marry this lying piece of trash?"

Conrad's face darkened. He stepped forward, his hand shooting out to grip her chin, his fingers digging into her skin. "I told you to never insult Else."

Audrey lunged forward, slapping Conrad's hand away with all her strength. "You blind idiot!" she screamed. "You're being played!"

Conrad's eyes turned dangerous. He took a step toward Audrey, but Crista grabbed Audrey's arm, holding her back.

Crista looked at Conrad, her voice eerily calm. "I will never sign it," she said, enunciating every word. "I will drag this out. I will make your life a living hell."

Without waiting for his reaction, she turned and walked away. Her back was straight, her steps deliberate, but the sight of her retreating figure was utterly desolate.

Back in her own room, Crista locked the door. She slid down the wood until she hit the floor, and the dam broke. She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs.

Audrey held her, crying along with her. "Why didn't you tell him?" she demanded. "Why didn't you tell him about the miscarriage?"

Crista wiped her face with her sleeve. When she looked up, her eyes were clear and hard. "Because he doesn't deserve to know. Not now. Not like this."

She pulled out her phone and dialed a number she hadn't called in years. It was a private investigator she had met during her brief stint in the architecture world, a man known for digging up the dirtiest secrets.

When the call connected, her voice was steady. "I need you to investigate Else Cherry. I want every move she's made in the last five years. Every bank statement. Every flight record. Everything."

She hung up the phone and placed a hand over her stomach. A fierce, protective fire burned in her eyes. She would tear off Else's mask, piece by piece, if it was the last thing she did.