The hospital smelled of antiseptic and lies.

My arm was encased in a sling, and the second-degree burn on my shoulder throbbed in a violent staccato, syncing perfectly with my heartbeat.

I carried a thermos of bone broth in my good hand.

It was an old recipe, something my mother used to make for the sick and the weary. I told myself that maybe-just maybe-if I played the part of the dutiful wife well enough, the reality would bend to match the performance.

I reached the door to the private suite.

It was cracked open.

I didn't walk in. I froze.

Blake was sitting on the edge of the bed.

Ariana was propped up against a mountain of pillows, looking less like a patient and more like a tragic porcelain doll.

She wasn't burned. She wasn't even singed. The only injury she sported was a microscopic scratch on her cheek and a relentless, gaping need for attention.

Blake held a spoon.

He blew on the soup, testing the temperature against his own lip with a tenderness that made my stomach turn, before offering it to her.

"Eat," he murmured. "You're in shock."

"I lost everything, Blake," she whimpered. "My art. My vision."

"We will rebuild it," he promised. "Better. Bigger."

"I was so scared," she whispered, leaning into his hand. "I thought I was going to die alone."

"I would never let that happen," he said.

His voice was thick with guilt.

I recognized that tone. It was the sound of a debt being paid.

Ten years ago, a hit meant for a Santos soldier went wrong. Ariana was a bystander. She got hurt. Blake, then just a medical student, had saved her life on the pavement.

He decided then and there to become a trauma surgeon. Not to save the city. To save her.

Every surgery he performed, every life he saved, was just him paying penance to the ghost of the girl bleeding on the sidewalk.

I pushed the door open with my hip, intruding on their private little tragedy.

Blake looked up.

His eyes narrowed when he saw me.

"You should be resting," he said, his voice instantly dropping the velvet softness he used for her.

"I brought you dinner," I said, lifting the thermos. "And broth for her."

He waved a hand dismissively.

"She can't keep anything down but clear soup. The cafeteria slop is fine."

He turned back to Ariana. "Open up."

I set the thermos on the side table with a heavy thud.

"The board meeting for the Family Charity is tomorrow," I said, forcing the conversation to business. "I need to review the donor list."

Blake sighed, putting the spoon down with a sharp clatter.

"Caroline, look at her. She's traumatized. She just lost her livelihood."

"And I almost lost my arm," I said flatly.

He glanced at my sling with clinical detachment.

"It's a hairline fracture and a second-degree burn. You'll heal. You're tough."

I hated that word.

Tough.

It was the word he used to justify hurting me. It was the shield he forced me to carry so he didn't have to worry about the weight of his own neglect.

"Ariana needs something to focus on," Blake continued. "Something to give her purpose while the gallery is rebuilt."

I felt a cold pit form in my stomach.

"What are you saying?"

"Give her your seat on the Charity Board," he said.

It wasn't a question.

It was an order from the Underboss.

"That seat manages a five-million-dollar budget," I argued, my voice rising. "It requires strategic planning. Ariana is a painter."

"I understand trauma," Ariana piped up, her voice trembling on cue. "I understand what it's like to be a victim. I can connect with people."

She looked at Blake with wide, watery eyes.

"I just want to help, Blake. Like you help people."

He melted.

I saw the steel in his spine turn to water.

"It's done," Blake said to me, his tone final. "Resign the seat tomorrow. Ariana takes over next week."

"She isn't qualified," I said, my voice tight.

"She is under my protection," he snapped. "That makes her qualified."

Ariana smiled.

It was a small, smug thing, hidden behind a tissue.

"Thank you, Blake," she whispered. "You always know what I need."

I looked at the thermos of broth. I had spent four hours simmering it, skimming the fat, making it perfect.

"I'll send the paperwork," I said.

I walked out.

I didn't go to my room.

I sat in the hallway on a cheap plastic chair and pulled out the ledger.

Minus five points.

Gave my seat to the whore.

Score: 45.

Three years.

That was how long I had been Caroline Santos.

Tonight was our anniversary.

I stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the penthouse, smoothing down the emerald silk of my dress. The fabric felt cool against my skin, a stark contrast to the heat rising in my chest.

Bridget, our housekeeper and the only person in this fortress who looked at me with anything resembling pity, adjusted the hem.

"Why do you stay, Mrs. Santos?" she asked quietly.

She knew about the bag.

Hidden in the back of the guest closet, buried behind the heavy winter coats, was a duffel bag. Inside, there was a passport. Stacks of cash. And the access keys to an offshore account.

"The math isn't done yet," I told her.

"Math?" she asked, her brow furrowing in confusion.

"I need the score to hit zero," I said, turning to look at her directly. "If I leave before zero, I'm the villain. I'm the wife who walked away from a difficult man. But if I leave at zero... I'm just surviving."

The intercom buzzed, slicing through the silence.

"Mrs. Santos? Mr. Santos is waiting on the terrace."

I took a steadying breath.

Then, I put on my smile.

The terrace was breathtaking.

Candlelight flickered against the backdrop of the Chicago skyline, mimicking the stars we couldn't see through the city's haze. A private chef had prepared a seven-course meal, the aroma of truffle and roasted herbs drifting in the air.

Blake stood by the railing, holding two glasses of vintage wine.

He looked devastatingly handsome in his tuxedo. The tailored black wool emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, the sharp line of his jaw.

For a moment, just a second, I remembered why I fell in love with him before the marriage was arranged.

He turned and handed me a glass.

"To stability," he said.

Not to love.

Not to us.

To stability.

The alliance between our families. The merger.

"To stability," I echoed, the wine tasting like vinegar on my tongue.

We sat.

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a black velvet box.

"Happy anniversary, Caroline."

My heart gave a stupid, hopeful little jump against my ribs.

I reached for it.

Suddenly, his phone rang.

The chime. That distinct, piercing notification.

My hand froze in mid-air.

"Don't," I said.

It was the first time I had ever given him an order.

He looked at me, surprised, his eyebrows lifting slightly.

"It could be an emergency."

"It's always an emergency with her," I said, my voice steady. "Tonight is three years, Blake. Let it go to voicemail."

He hesitated.

His thumb hovered over the screen, caught between habit and duty.

Then, slowly, he flipped the phone over.

"You're right," he said. "Tonight is about us."

He pushed the velvet box toward me across the white tablecloth.

"Open it."

I lifted the lid.

Diamond drop earrings glittered under the candlelight.

Exquisite.

Tasteful.

And utterly cold.

"They're beautiful," I said.

"They reminded me of your eyes," he said. "Sharp. Clear."

Suddenly, a commotion at the terrace doors made us both turn.

Security was trying to stop someone, voices raised in protest.

"Let me through! I need to see him!"

Ariana burst onto the terrace.

She was wearing a trench coat over pajamas, her hair wild and tangled around her face.

And pinned to her lapel was the Santos Family Brooch.

The antique silver rose that was supposed to belong to the Underboss's wife. My grandmother's rose.

Blake stood up immediately, his chair scraping back.

"Ariana? What's wrong?"

She rushed past me, knocking into the table. Wine sloshed onto the white tablecloth, staining it like fresh blood.

"I can't breathe, Blake," she gasped, clutching her chest. "The fire... I keep smelling smoke. I'm having a panic attack."

She collapsed into his arms.

He caught her, holding her tight, anchoring her weight against him.

"Shh, breathe," he instructed, slipping instantly into doctor mode. "Count with me. One, two..."

I sat there, the velvet box still open in my hand.

"She's wearing my grandmother's brooch," I said calmly.

Blake didn't hear me.

He was stroking her hair.

"I'm sorry," Ariana sobbed into his tuxedo, muffling her voice against the expensive fabric. "I didn't know where else to go. You're the only one who makes it stop."

She looked up at him, tears streaming down her face.

Then, her gaze shifted. She looked at the box in my hand.

"Oh," she sniffled. "Is that... for me?"

She reached out and touched the diamonds with a trembling finger.

"They're so sparkly. Like the ones I lost in the fire."

Blake looked at her tear-stained face.

Then he looked at me.

He looked at the earrings.

"Caroline doesn't even have her ears pierced," Ariana lied, her voice innocent. "Do you, Caroline?"

I did.

Blake knew I did.

But Blake saw a damsel in distress, and he saw a wife who was 'tough.' He saw a problem he could solve versus a woman who didn't need him.

"Actually," Blake said, his voice tight. "These might be too heavy for Caroline. She prefers... simpler things."

He took the box from my hand.

He gently closed my fingers over empty air.

"Here," he said to Ariana, handing her the box. "To help you feel better. A get-well gift."

Ariana squealed, holding the diamonds to her ears, her panic vanishing instantly.

"Thank you, Blake! You saved me again."

I stood up.

My chair scraped loudly against the stone floor, the sound harsh in the night air.

"I'm going to the powder room," I said.

Neither of them looked at me.

I walked into the bathroom and locked the door with a decisive click.

I stared at myself in the mirror.

The emerald dress looked like a costume now.

I pulled out the notebook I kept hidden in the vanity.

Minus fifteen points.

Regifted my dignity.

Score: 30.

I forced myself to breathe.

I was an architect.

I designed skyscrapers capable of withstanding gale-force winds and seismic shifts.

Surely, I could withstand a dinner party.

Steeling my nerves, I returned to the terrace.

Ariana was lounging in my chair.

She was wearing the diamond earrings.

They caught the candlelight, winking at me in mockery.

"Oh, Caroline," she said, waving a fork airily. "We were just talking about how funny your marriage is. It's so... corporate. Like a merger."

"It is a merger," I said, taking my place by the railing. "That's why the buildings I design for the Family don't collapse. Unlike your gallery."

Her eyes flashed.

"That was arson!"

"It was cheap materials," I corrected coolly. "I saw the wreckage. You pocketed the budget difference, didn't you?"

Blake slammed his hand on the table.

"Enough, Caroline. Stop attacking her."

"I am stating facts," I said. "I am the Architect of Santos Real Estate. I know a load-bearing wall when I see one. And I know a parasite when I see one."

Ariana gasped.

"Blake! Are you going to let her speak to me like that?"

Before he could answer, the world ended.

A concussive boom tore through the building.

The stone floor beneath us heaved upward.

It wasn't a bomb.

It was the gas line in the kitchen below, rigged by the Irish mob.

The shockwave blew out the glass doors in a shower of glittering shrapnel.

The massive iron chandelier above the dining table groaned, its chain shearing like a twig.

Then, gravity took over.

I saw the shadow of the chandelier detach.

It was directly above the table.

Above Blake and Ariana.

I was three feet away.

Blake looked up.

He saw the metal death descending.

He had a choice.

He could dive left, toward me.

He could dive right, toward her.

He didn't hesitate.

Not even for a fraction of a second.

He lunged to the right.

He threw his body over Ariana, shielding her completely, curling around her like a human shell.

The chandelier crashed down.

It missed them by inches.

But the debris-the heavy crystal shards, the twisted iron, the chunks of ceiling-flew outward.

A massive slab of the ceiling beam, dislodged by the impact, swung down.

It slammed into my leg.

I heard the bone snap.

A sickening, wet crunch.

I fell, pinned under the rubble.

Dust choked the air.

Silence followed the roar.

"Ari?" Blake's voice was frantic. "Ari, are you hit?"

He scrambled up, checking her over.

"I'm okay," she coughed, her voice feathery. "You saved me. You covered me."

"Thank God," he breathed.

He helped her stand.

I tried to move.

White-hot agony ripped through my body.

"Blake," I wheezed.

He turned.

He saw me trapped under the beam, blood pooling on the white stone.

He looked at Ariana.

She was coughing, waving a hand in front of her face theatrically.

"The smoke," she whined. "My lungs."

Security burst onto the terrace.

"Boss! We have to move! Secondary explosion risk!"

Blake looked at the guards.

"Get Caroline," he ordered them.

Then he scooped Ariana up into his arms.

"I've got Ariana. She has respiratory issues. I'm taking her down the stairs."

"Blake!" I screamed, the pain in my leg blinding me. "My leg is crushed!"

"The guards have you," he yelled back, already running toward the exit with her.

Two guards lifted the beam off me.

I screamed as the blood rushed back into the shattered limb.

They dragged me up.

I watched him go.

He carried her like she was precious glass.

He left me to be dragged out like a sack of broken cement.

I didn't pass out.

I forced myself to stay awake.

I needed to remember this.

As the guard carried me down the fire escape, jarring my broken bone with every step, I visualized the ledger in my mind.

Minus twenty points.

He became her shield.

I became the casualty.

Score: 10.