Caroline POV

The extraction team needed twenty-four hours to clear the offshore accounts and prep the plane.

That meant I had exactly one day left in this purgatory.

"Get dressed," Blake said the next morning.

He didn't ask about my leg. He didn't ask why I was home from the hospital so early.

He looked worse than hungover. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with exhaustion, and his temper was a frayed wire.

"Where are we going?" I asked, adjusting the strap of my sundress over my bandaged shoulder.

"The cemetery," he said, checking his watch impatiently. "It's the anniversary of your mother's death. You always go."

He remembered the date.

He didn't remember my coffee order, but he remembered the date my mother died.

It was theater. Everything with him was a performance for the Family-the dutiful husband escorting his grieving wife.

We took the black sedan. He drove.

The sky was a bruising purple, heavy with unshed rain.

When we arrived at the cemetery, the wind was already whipping the trees into a frenzy.

I got out. The grass was uneven, and my crutches sank into the soft earth.

I made my way to the headstone.

Elena Rossi.

"I'm going to burn it down, Mama," I whispered to the cold granite. "I'm finally leaving."

Blake waited in the car. The engine was still running.

He was on his phone.

I stood there for ten minutes, letting the wind bite exposed skin.

Then, a horn blared.

Once. Sharp. Impatient.

I turned.

He had rolled down the window.

"Get in," he shouted over the rising wind. "Now."

I hobbled back as fast as my injury allowed.

"What is it?" I asked, yanking open the door.

"Ariana," he said. The name was both a curse and a prayer in his mouth.

"What about her?"

"She has a flat tire," he said, putting the car in gear before I even closed the door. "She's stuck in the South Side. Near the Kings' territory."

I stared at him.

"You're joking."

"She's alone, Caroline. She's panicked."

"Call a soldier," I said. "Call Mark. Call AAA."

"She called me," he snapped. "She only trusts me."

"We are at my mother's grave," I said, my voice rising. "A storm is starting. I have a broken leg."

"I'll call you an Uber," he said.

He reached across me and unlatched my door.

"Get out."

The first drops of rain hit the windshield. Heavy. Fat.

"You are leaving me here?" I asked. "In a cemetery? In a storm? For a flat tire?"

"The dead can't hurt you, Caroline," he said, his eyes hard as cold gray flint. "The Kings will hurt her. Get out."

He shoved me.

Not hard. But enough.

I stumbled out of the car. My crutch slipped on the wet pavement.

I caught myself on the door frame.

"Blake," I said. "If you drive away, don't come back."

"Stop with the ultimatums," he growled. "I'll be back in an hour."

He slammed the door shut.

He peeled out.

The tires spun on the wet asphalt, spraying mud all over my dress.

I watched the taillights disappear around the bend.

The sky opened up.

Rain came down in sheets, icy and relentless.

I pulled my phone out.

No signal.

The cemetery was in a dead zone.

I started walking toward the main road.

My cast was soaked. It felt like a concrete block dragging me down.

The wind howled.

I reached the edge of the highway.

Headlights cut through the gloom.

A truck.

It was moving too fast for the slick road.

I saw it skid.

I tried to step back.

My crutch hit a patch of oil.

I slipped.

I couldn't jump. My leg was an anchor.

The grill of the truck filled my vision.

I didn't scream.

As the metal rushed toward me, I just thought, At least the score is finally zero.

Caroline POV

Pain wasn't just a sensation anymore. It was a universe.

I was floating in it, untethered.

Bright lights scorched my retinas.

"BP is crashing!" someone yelled, voice distorted by panic. "She's hemorrhaging internally!"

"We need blood! O-negative! Stat!"

I tried to speak. I tried to force my name past my lips.

"Mrs. Santos?" A young doctor's face swam into view above me. He looked terrified. "Stay with us."

"Blake..." I whispered. Not because I wanted him. But because he was a surgeon. He controlled the blood bank.

"We're paging him," the doctor said, pressing a mask to my face. "He's the on-call trauma lead for the region. He has the override codes for the shortage."

I drifted out.

I drifted back in.

The doctor was arguing on the phone, his knuckles white as he gripped the receiver.

"Dr. Santos, please! Her hematocrit is critical. We need the reserve units!"

Silence.

Then the doctor's face went deathly pale.

"But sir... it's your wife."

Silence again. A heavy, suffocating pause.

"Understood. Reserving the units for Patient Whitfield in case of shock."

The doctor hung up. He looked at the nurse. He looked sick.

"He refused," the doctor whispered, disbelief coloring his tone. "He said to keep the O-neg on standby for Ariana Whitfield. She has a laceration on her finger and anxiety."

"What about her?" the nurse demanded, pointing at me.

"Saline," the doctor said, his voice cracking. "Push fluids. Pray it's enough."

It wasn't enough.

I felt the cold creeping in.

Not from the rain. From the inside.

Then, I felt a cramping in my lower belly. A deep, twisting agony that had nothing to do with the truck.

"We're losing the fetal heartbeat," the nurse said softly.

Fetal heartbeat?

I blinked, trying to clear the fog.

"Pregnant?" I rasped.

"Eight weeks," the doctor said, tears swimming in his eyes. "Mrs. Santos... without the blood... the body prioritizes the vital organs. It's shunting flow away from the uterus."

I tried to scream.

I tried to tell them to take my heart instead.

But I had no air.

I felt the life slip away.

A tiny spark, extinguished because of a reserve order for a paper cut.

I passed out.

When I woke up, the room was silent.

I was alive.

But I was empty.

My hand went to my stomach. Flat. Hollow.

The young doctor stood by the door. He couldn't look me in the eye.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"Did he come?" I asked. My voice was shards of broken glass.

"No," he said. "He's still with Ms. Whitfield. She's... she's sedated."

I reached for the bedside table.

My purse was there. Bridget had packed it.

I pulled out the ledger.

It was wet. Stained with mud and blood.

I opened it.

Minus five points.

Killed our child for her reserve.

Score: -5.

"Doctor," I said.

"Yes?"

"I need you to witness a signature."

I pulled out the separation papers.

I signed them. The pen tore through the damp paper.

"Call my housekeeper," I said, my voice devoid of emotion. "Tell her I'm ready."

I didn't cry.

Tears were for people who had hope.

I was just a ghost leaving a haunted house.

Blake POV

The penthouse was quiet.

Too quiet.

Usually, there was the low hum of the HVAC, the faint, rhythmic sound of Caroline typing in the study, or the scent of whatever fancy, complex candle she was burning.

Tonight, the air was sterile. It smelled like nothing.

"Caroline?"

I tossed my keys on the console table, the metal clattering loudly in the silence.

My head was pounding. A rhythmic throb behind my eyes.

Ariana had been hysterical. The flat tire had turned into a meltdown about her safety, which had quickly spiraled into a meltdown about the gallery. I had spent four hours calming her down.

I checked my phone.

Zero missed calls from Caroline.

That was odd. She usually called to nag me about being late, or at least to ask when I'd be home.

I walked into the kitchen.

It was spotless. Not a dish out of place.

I walked into the living room.

Empty.

A cold unease started to crawl up my spine.

I went to the master bedroom.

The bed was made. Military precision.

I opened the closet.

My side was full. Suits, shirts, shoes, all lined up perfectly.

Her side was... bare.

Not just messy. Stripped.

The hangers were gone. The shoes were gone. The jewelry box on the island was open and empty.

"Caroline!" I shouted, my voice echoing off the walls.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced my chest.

My phone rang.

The sudden chime made me jump.

I answered it without looking, desperation seizing my throat.

"Where is she?" I barked.

"Blake?" Ariana's voice was small, trembling. "Who?"

"Caroline," I snapped. "Did she call you?"

"No," Ariana said, sniffling. "But... she threatened me earlier. Remember? At the dinner? Maybe she's planning something. Maybe she's trying to hurt me."

"Shut up, Ariana," I said.

I hung up.

I stared at the empty closet, the void where her life used to be.

This wasn't a tantrum.

Caroline didn't throw tantrums. She planned. She calculated.

She was an architect.

She didn't just leave. She demolished.

I ran to the study.

The desk was cleared. Her laptop was gone.

But on the leather chair, sitting squarely in the center, was a white envelope.

And a black book.