Aubree pressed her hand against the wall. Her legs shook as she pushed herself up from the floor. Every time she swallowed, it felt like she was swallowing crushed glass.

She walked into the master bathroom. She peeled the ruined, wet dress off her shivering body. She turned the shower handle to warm. The water hit the dark purple bruises forming on her neck. She squeezed her eyes shut.

She dried off and pulled on a conservative, high-necked silk pajama set. She buttoned it all the way to the top to hide the marks.

Her throat was painfully dry. She opened the bedroom door and stepped into the hallway to get a glass of warm water from the kitchen.

She picked up her smart-home tablet from the marble counter to check if Eli had returned. The screen flickered, displaying the live security feed from the private underground lobby. The audio icon was unmuted. On the screen, Eleonora and Camilla were waiting for the private elevator.

Camilla's sharp voice echoed from the tablet's speaker. "Did you see her face when she fell in?" Camilla laughed. "She looked like a drowned rat."

Eleonora sneered. "We cannot let that commoner take a single cent from the Wolfe family."

"What about the prenup?" Camilla asked. "Are there loopholes? She might try to claim the Manhattan properties."

Eleonora checked her diamond-encrusted Patek Philippe watch. "It is already handled. I had the lawyers move the majority of Eli's liquid assets into an offshore trust in the Cayman Islands."

In the kitchen, Aubree's fingernails dug into her own palms.

"Once Dayna's doctor fakes the miscarriage report," Eleonora continued, "we will leave Aubree with nothing. She will walk out of here with debt."

Ice flooded Aubree's veins. This wasn't just Eli being blind. This was a coordinated slaughter by the entire family.

The elevator doors on the screen opened. Eleonora and Camilla stepped inside, and the feed cut to black.

Aubree set the tablet down. Her body felt numb. She walked down the opposite side of the hallway, toward Eli's study. The door was cracked open.

Eli stood by the window. He had his phone on speaker. He was talking to Cornelius, the patriarch of the Wolfe family.

"Your actions at the party were reckless," Cornelius's stern voice barked through the speaker. "You embarrassed the family."

"I am done with her," Eli said. His voice was hard. "She is a gold digger who will do anything for money. I am divorcing her immediately."

"She has been quiet for three years," Cornelius warned. "Do not push her to the edge."

Eli let out a harsh, mocking laugh. "Her obedience is just an act. She is just waiting for the trust fund to unlock."

Aubree stood outside the door. Three years of cooking his meals, ironing his shirts, and giving him pieces of her own body, reduced to a Wall Street calculation.

Her heart physically ached. Her chest caved in. She took a step back.

Her elbow bumped the edge of a console table. A heavy antique vase wobbled.

It made a sharp scraping sound against the wood. Aubree shot her hands out and grabbed the cold porcelain, stopping it from falling.

Inside the study, Eli's head snapped toward the door. "Who is out there?" he snapped.

The heavy oak door swung open. Heavy footsteps stepped into the hallway. Aubree stopped breathing. She pressed her back flat against the wall, sliding silently into the deep shadow of the decorative alcove just inches away. Sweat dripped down her forehead.

Eli stood in the corridor, his piercing gaze sweeping the darkness. He pulled out his phone, his thumb flying across the screen. "Leland," Eli's cold voice echoed. "Check the hallway motion sensors on the penthouse floor immediately. Someone is out here."

Aubree squeezed her eyes shut, her heart hammering against her ribs.

"No movement, sir?" Eli repeated, his eyes narrowing. He let out a frustrated breath, glaring at the empty space one last time before he turned around and slammed the study door shut.

Aubree walked back to her bedroom like a ghost. She locked the door behind her.

She pulled her suitcase out from under the bed. She looked at her left hand. She slid the massive, multi-million dollar diamond wedding ring off her finger. She dropped it onto the nightstand. It made a hollow, metallic clink.

Aubree sat on the edge of the bed. She stared at the discarded ring. A sudden, violent shiver ripped up her spine and hit the base of her skull.

She pulled the collar of her silk pajamas tighter. The room wasn't cold. The freezing sensation was coming from inside her bones.

She reached down and pressed her hand against her left side. Beneath the silk, a long, faded surgical scar stretched across her skin.

A dull, throbbing ache radiated from the scar. The pain pulled her mind backward.

Three years ago. A massive blizzard shut down the streets of Manhattan.

Aubree was driving the car. Eli sat in the passenger seat. He had just lost a massive Wall Street merger. He was screaming. He punched the dashboard. He threw his phone against the windshield.

He turned his rage on her. He yelled at her to pull over. He told her that looking at her plain face made him sick.

Aubree tried to tell him the roads were too dangerous. The snow was blinding.

Eli reached over and shoved her door open. He pushed her hard.

She fell out of the car. Her knees hit the snow-covered curb. Eli slid into the driver's seat, slammed the door, and sped away, leaving her in the storm.

She walked for three blocks in negative-degree weather. The freezing wind whipped against her side. Her surgical wound, barely three months old, felt like it was splitting open.

Eli never knew. He never knew that three months before that blizzard, Aubree had utilized a labyrinth of offshore shell companies and a secret charitable foundation to facilitate an anonymous directed donation. She posed as a low-level foundation liaison during the medical screenings, hiding behind an ironclad non-disclosure agreement and a proxy legal team so impenetrable that the name 'Aubree Pratt' was legally and entirely erased from the donor registry.

Aubree's eyes snapped open. She gasped for air. A thick layer of cold sweat coated her forehead.

She tried to stand up to get the fever reducers from the bathroom drawer. Her legs gave out. She crashed to her knees on the thick carpet.

The freezing pool water and the trauma to her throat had destroyed her weakened immune system.

Her vision blurred. The edges of the room turned black. Her breathing sounded like a broken accordion.

She dragged her body across the floor toward the nightstand. She reached up and grabbed her phone from the charging cable.

Her fingers shook violently. She swiped the screen, trying to find her best friend Jax Keller's contact to call an ambulance.

A massive wave of dizziness hit her brain. Her hand went limp. The phone slipped from her fingers and fell onto the carpet.

Aubree collapsed onto her side. The fever spiked, pulling her into a dark, delirious state.

In her mind, she was back in the freezing operating room. She heard the steady beep of the heart monitor.

"Eli," she whispered to the empty room. Her voice was a dry rasp.

Outside the window, Manhattan was alive. Inside the massive penthouse, it was a tomb. No one heard her.

Her body temperature skyrocketed. Her lips cracked and bled. Her cheeks burned with a dark, unnatural red flush.

Hours passed. The pain burned away the last of her love for him. She realized her sacrifice meant absolutely nothing.

The morning sun sliced through the blinds and hit her face. She did not wake up.

Her chest barely moved. Her breaths were shallow and weak.

Heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway outside her bedroom. Angry voices pierced the silence.

The brass doorknob rattled violently.

The door was locked. A second later, a heavy boot kicked the wood.

A sharp, electronic beep echoed through the room. The heavy solid wood door didn't splinter; instead, the high-security smart lock glowed green as Eleonora used her master biometric override. The door swung open smoothly, a chilling contrast to the violence of the two massive bodyguards in black suits who stormed into the bedroom.

Eleonora and Camilla walked in right behind them. They looked down at Aubree's motionless body on the floor with deep disgust.

Camilla stepped forward. She raised her pointed stiletto and kicked Aubree hard in the shoulder. "Stop playing dead," Camilla sneered.

Aubree didn't move.

Eleonora looked at one of the guards. "Go to the bathroom. Get a bowl of cold water. Wake her up."

The guard walked into the bathroom and came back with a glass bowl filled with tap water. He dumped it directly onto Aubree's burning face.

The violent shock of the freezing water made Aubree gasp. Her eyes flew open. She sucked in a jagged breath, waking up from the deep unconsciousness.

Her vision was blurry. She saw dark, twisted shapes standing over her.

Camilla squatted down. She grabbed a fistful of Aubree's wet hair and yanked her head back.

"You cheap murderer," Camilla spat. "You almost killed Dayna's baby."

Aubree's throat was swollen shut. She tried to speak, but only a dry, hissing sound came out.

Eleonora threw a pile of black fabric onto the floor next to Aubree. It looked like a mourning dress. "Put that on," Eleonora commanded. "Eli wants you at the hospital. You are going to kneel by Dayna's bed and beg for forgiveness."

Hearing Eli's name sent a jolt of pure hatred through Aubree's chest. She gathered the last ounce of her strength and shoved Camilla's arm away.

Camilla stumbled backward. Her face twisted with rage. She swung her arm and slapped Aubree across the face. The smack echoed in the room.

The metallic taste of blood filled Aubree's mouth. Her head spun.

Eleonora checked her watch. She sighed, annoyed. "Just grab her."

The two bodyguards stepped forward. They grabbed Aubree by the arms and hauled her up. Her legs were dead weight.

They dragged her out of the bedroom. Her bare feet dragged across the expensive Persian rugs. She didn't even have shoes on.

They shoved her into the private elevator. The sudden drop of the elevator made Aubree's stomach heave. She gagged, fighting the urge to vomit.

In the underground garage, the guards threw her into the back seat of a black Cadillac SUV.

Her forehead slammed against the tinted window. A purple bruise instantly formed. She curled into a tight ball on the leather seat, shivering uncontrollably.

Camilla sat in the front passenger seat. She turned around, lifted her phone, and snapped a photo of Aubree's pathetic state. She typed a message to Dayna.

The SUV sped out of the garage and merged into the Manhattan morning traffic.

The air conditioning in the car was blasting. Aubree was still in her thin, damp silk pajamas. Her teeth chattered.

Thirty minutes later, the SUV slammed on the brakes at the VIP rear entrance of Mount Sinai Hospital.

The guard ripped the door open and dragged Aubree out by her arm.

In the bushes near the entrance, three paparazzi hired by Camilla jumped out. Camera flashes exploded in Aubree's face. Camilla had specifically orchestrated this to capture the narrative of a hysterical, remorseful wife. The guard didn't strike her; instead, he shoved her hard by the shoulders, forcing her to her knees on the rough pavement.

"Look at the camera and show some remorse for what you did to the baby!" Camilla yelled loudly, ensuring the microphones picked up her fabricated outrage. Aubree knelt in the dirt, looking like a broken, deranged woman begging for forgiveness, exactly as Camilla intended.

Eleonora walked up behind her and shoved her forward. Aubree stumbled into the harsh, sterile-smelling hospital corridor.