The ride home was silent. The kind of silence that precedes a tornado.

When they got inside the estate, Spencer didn't wait. He grabbed Ayla by the hair and dragged her up the stairs.

"Spencer, stop!" Ayla screamed, clawing at his hands.

He threw her into the master bedroom. She fell hard, her knees skidding on the rug. He slammed the door and locked it.

He began to pace, ripping off his tie. "You ungrateful bitch. After everything I've done for you. For your trash family."

"You poisoned her!" Ayla screamed, standing up, her finger double-tapping the side of her phone in her pocket, activating the audio recorder. "I heard you! You and Chloe! You're keeping her sick to control me!"

Spencer stopped. He looked at Ayla, and then he laughed. "So you know. Good. That makes this easier."

He walked over to the dresser and picked up a heavy crystal decanter. "You're never leaving, Ayla. You're going to stay here, be the perfect wife, and wait until I get my trust fund. And if you try to leave... your mother gets an overdose. Accidentally, of course."

"We're divorced!" Ayla yelled. "I signed the papers three years ago! You just never filed them!"

Spencer's face twisted. "Those papers are dust. I burned them."

He lunged at her.

Ayla dodged, but he was faster. He backhanded her across the face. The force of it sent her spinning into the nightstand. Her head cracked against the wood.

Stars exploded in her vision. She tasted copper.

"Who is he?" Spencer screamed, grabbing her throat. He squeezed. "Tell me his name!"

Ayla couldn't breathe. Black spots danced in her eyes.

"J...Julian," she choked out. "It's... Julian."

Spencer froze. His grip loosened slightly. "Sterling? You're sleeping with Julian Sterling?"

He looked terrified for a second. Then, pure rage took over. "You're lying. He wouldn't touch trash like you."

He raised his fist.

CLICK.

The sound wasn't loud. It was the soft, metallic click of the entire estate's power grid being shut down. The lights went out. The air conditioning died. An emergency floodlight from outside cast long, terrifying shadows into the room.

Shouts downstairs, quickly silenced.

Spencer let go of Ayla, turning toward the door. "What the hell is-"

The bedroom door didn't explode. The handle turned with a smooth, silent precision, the lock disengaging with a quiet snick. The door swung inward.

Julian Sterling stood in the doorway.

He wasn't wearing a suit. He was wearing a simple, dark cashmere turtleneck and trousers, looking less like a thug and more like the personification of death itself. Behind him, two men in identical dark attire stood like sentinels.

Julian looked at Ayla. He saw the blood on her lip. The bruise forming on her cheek.

The look on his face wasn't human. It was pure, unadulterated violence.

"Julian," Ayla whispered.

He didn't speak. He crossed the room in a blur.

Spencer tried to put his hands up. "Now wait a minute, Sterling, this is private prope-"

Julian's fist connected with Spencer's jaw with a sickening crack.

Spencer flew backward, crashing into the armoire. He slid to the floor, dazed.

Julian didn't stop. He grabbed Spencer by the collar, hauled him up, and slammed him into the wall. His movements were brutally efficient, a series of precise, devastating strikes to the ribs, the solar plexus, the face.

It was methodical. Brutal.

"Stop!" Ayla cried, crawling forward. "You'll kill him!"

Julian dropped Spencer. Spencer crumpled like a broken doll, wheezing, blood bubbling from his nose.

Julian turned to Ayla. His chest was heaving. His knuckles were split and bleeding.

He knelt down, his demeanor instantly changing from monster to protector. He took off his turtleneck, leaving him in a black t-shirt, and wrapped the soft cashmere around her.

"Did he touch you anywhere else?" Julian asked, his voice shaking with suppressed rage.

"No," Ayla sobbed. "Just... hit me."

Julian scooped her up into his arms. He stood up effortlessly.

Spencer groaned on the floor. "You... you can't take her. She's my wife."

Julian paused. He looked down at the bleeding man.

"She's not your wife," Julian said coldly. "And if you ever come within ten miles of her again, I won't use my fists. I'll use a grave digger."

He carried Ayla out of the room, stepping over the threshold.

"Cleanse it," Julian said to the men behind him as they passed.

"The house, sir?" one asked.

"The evidence," Julian clarified. "Get the servers, the medical files from his study, my team is already inside. Then leave."

They walked out into the cool night air. Ayla buried her face in Julian's neck and wept.

The private room at Lenox Hill was quiet, smelling of lavender and antiseptic-Dr. Thorne's doing, no doubt.

Ayla sat on the edge of the bed, a fresh bandage on her forehead. Julian sat in the chair opposite her, still wearing his blood-spattered shirt. He hadn't let go of her hand for an hour.

"No fractures," Thorne said, checking the chart. "Mild concussion. Soft tissue damage. You'll be sore for weeks, Ayla."

"I'm fine," Ayla whispered.

Thorne looked at Julian. "I'll leave you two."

The door clicked shut.

Julian lifted Ayla's hand to his lips, kissing the knuckles. "I should have killed him."

"Then you'd be in jail," Ayla said. "And I'd be alone."

"I'm never leaving you alone again," he said.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. It looked old, creased.

"My team found this in his safe," Julian said. "Before they left."

Ayla unfolded it. It was the divorce decree. Signed by both of them. Dated three years ago.

"He said he burned it," she said, tracing her signature.

"He lied," Julian said. "He kept it as insurance. In case he wanted out early. But he never filed it."

"So I'm still married," Ayla said dully.

"No," Julian said. A slow, predatory grin spread across his face. "That's the beauty of New York law. Or rather, the beauty of having expensive lawyers. Since the document was signed and notarized, it constitutes a binding contract of separation. We just filed it electronically ten minutes ago. With a timestamp that predates his claim on the trust."

Ayla blinked. "What does that mean?"

"It means," Julian said, leaning forward, "that legally, you've been divorced for three years. The trust fund clause required him to be 'happily married' continuously. He just lost forty million dollars. And since he committed fraud to keep you there... you're entitled to half of what he does have."

Ayla started to laugh. It hurt her ribs, but she couldn't stop. "He's broke?"

"He will be when I'm done with him," Julian promised.

"And my mother?"

"Already moved," Julian said. "She's at my private facility in Westchester. Dr. Evans has been fired. Real doctors are with her now. She's going to be okay, Ayla."

The weight that had been crushing Ayla for three years simply... vanished.

She looked at Julian. The bruises on his knuckles. The fierce intensity in his eyes.

"Why?" she asked again. "Why me?"

"Because," Julian said, standing up and cupping her face. "You're the only person who ever looked at me and didn't see a bank account. You saw a man. And you diagnosed him." He chuckled. "I liked that."

"I don't hate you," Ayla whispered.

"I know," he said. "You love me. You just don't know it yet."

He kissed her, gentle this time. Careful.

"Get some sleep," he said. "Tomorrow, we go home."

"To the estate?"

"No," he said. "To my home. The Hamptons house. It's quieter there."