The underground parking garage of the Guthrie Group tower was damp and smelled of exhaust. Claire stood in the shadows behind a concrete pillar, clutching the warm bento box against her chest.

The VIP elevator chimed. Joshuah stepped out, wearing a sharp navy suit, his eyes scanning the dim garage until he spotted her.

He walked over, his posture stiff. He looked at Claire with a complicated mix of pity and professional distance.

"Mrs. Guthrie," he said formally. "What is this about?"

Claire held out the black bento box. "I need you to take this up to Cooper. It's his lunch."

Joshuah instantly took a half-step back, shaking his head. "Absolutely not. With all due respect, ma'am, if I bring him food from you, he will fire me on the spot. You know he won't touch it."

"I know," Claire said, biting down hard on her lower lip. The sharp sting of pain grounded her. She tasted blood. "That's why you aren't going to tell him it's from me."

Joshuah frowned, confused. "Then who?"

"Tell him..." Claire's throat closed up. She forced the words out past the agonizing lump in her airway. "Tell him Kendall sent it."

Joshuah's eyes went wide. His jaw actually dropped. He stared at her as if she had just lost her mind.

"You want me to lie to the CEO," Joshuah said slowly, "and give his mistress the credit for the food his wife cooked?"

"Yes."

"Why would you do that?" he asked, genuine shock bleeding through his professional facade.

Claire looked at him, her eyes pleading, desperate. "Because his grandfather is watching his health. If he doesn't eat properly, Sterling will find out. Please, Joshuah. Just do it."

They stood in silence for thirty agonizing seconds. Finally, Joshuah let out a heavy sigh, reached out, and took the box.

Ten minutes later, on the 60th floor.

Cooper sat behind his massive glass desk, rubbing the center of his chest with two fingers. A dull ache had been radiating there all morning.

Joshuah knocked twice and entered, placing the sleek bento box on the desk.

Cooper scowled at it. "What the hell is that?"

Joshuah swallowed hard. "Lunch, sir. Miss Kendall Hess had it delivered for you."

The dark storm clouds in Cooper's eyes vanished instantly. The tight lines around his mouth relaxed into a soft, genuine smile.

He reached out and pulled the box toward him. He popped the lid. The steam rose, carrying the delicate scent of the perfectly seasoned fish.

He picked up the chopsticks and took a large bite.

Outside the office, standing in the hallway, Claire peered through the slight gap in the frosted glass blinds.

She watched him chew and swallow. Her chest tightened, her eyes burning with unshed tears, but a massive weight lifted off her shoulders. The heart was getting what it needed. She turned and walked away toward the elevators.

Inside, Cooper swallowed the food. He immediately picked up his phone and dialed Kendall's number.

"Hey, beautiful," he said, his voice dropping an octave, rich with affection. "The lunch is incredible. Thank you."

Across the city, sitting in a velvet chair at a luxury nail salon, Kendall froze. She stared at her manicurist for a full second, her brain racing.

But her survival instincts were elite. She didn't miss a beat.

"Oh, baby," Kendall cooed into the phone, her voice dripping with honey. "I'm so glad you like it. I just want to make sure you're taking care of yourself. Eat every bite for me, okay?"

She hung up the phone. Kendall looked at her own reflection in the salon mirror. A slow, greedy, and utterly triumphant smirk spread across her face.

Back in the office, Cooper looked at the half-empty box, feeling like the luckiest man in the world.

Midnight. The Manhattan sky was violently torn apart by jagged flashes of lightning. Thunder rattled the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse.

BANG.

The heavy front door was kicked open with such explosive force it slammed against the wall, cracking the plaster.

Cooper stormed into the foyer. He was drenched in rain, his hair plastered to his forehead, smelling heavily of ozone and expensive scotch.

In his right hand, he gripped the black Japanese bento box. The veins in his forearm bulged against his skin.

Claire stepped out of the hallway, wearing a thin silk robe, her eyes widening at the sight of him.

Before she could speak, Cooper hurled the bento box directly at the marble floor at her feet.

The plastic shattered. The stainless-steel inner core bounced with a deafening, metallic crash, spraying leftover sauce and rice across Claire's bare toes. She flinched, stumbling backward.

Cooper's eyes were bloodshot, burning with a psychotic level of rage. He looked like a predator ready to tear her throat out.

He lunged forward, backing her up until her spine hit the cold wall of the hallway.

"You think you're clever?" he roared, his voice louder than the thunder outside.

He slammed his hands against the wall on either side of her head, caging her in.

"I took Kendall to Le Bernardin tonight," he spat, his breath hot and smelling of liquor against her face. "I ordered the exact same cod you put in that box. Do you know what she did?"

Claire's breath caught in her throat.

"She screamed," Cooper yelled, his face twisting in disgust. "She panicked because she is deathly allergic to that specific fish! She could have gone into anaphylactic shock! I know you know she's allergic! This was a deliberate attack! You looked it up just to poison her!"

The lie had collapsed. The biological impossibility had exposed the entire charade.

"You set us up," Cooper sneered, his voice dripping with venom. "You cooked that garbage, slapped her name on it, just so you could watch us make fools of ourselves at a Michelin-star restaurant. You manipulative, disgusting bitch."

Claire looked up at him, the lightning illuminating her pale, terrified face.

"No," she whispered frantically. "Cooper, listen to me. I made that for your heart. Your liver enzymes are spiking. You can't process heavy sodium or-"

"Shut up!"

The word heart snapped the last thread of his control.

His right hand shot out and wrapped around her throat. He didn't squeeze hard enough to cut off her air, but the physical degradation of the grip was absolute. His thumb pressed against her pulse point.

"Do not ever use my medical history as an excuse for your pathetic jealousy," he hissed, his eyes black with hatred. "If you ever try to humiliate Kendall again, I will make you wish you were dead."

He shoved her back against the wall, releasing her neck as if her skin had infected him.

He turned on his heel, marched into the master bedroom, and slammed the door. The lock clicked loudly.

Claire slid slowly down the wall until she hit the floor. Her knees pulled up to her chest.

She looked at the ruined bento box scattered across the marble. Slowly, numbly, she reached out to pick up a jagged piece of the shattered plastic lid.

The sharp edge sliced deep into her index finger.

A drop of bright red blood welled up and fell onto the white marble.

Claire didn't flinch. She just stared at the blood. The diet plan was dead. He knew she was watching him. The crisis inside his chest was only going to accelerate, and she was running out of ways to stop it.

At 1:00 AM, Claire's phone buzzed on the nightstand.

It was a text from Joshuah. Just a GPS pin drop and a single sentence: Mr. Guthrie is consuming a significant amount of alcohol.

The location was a hyper-exclusive, underground nightclub in Soho.

Claire remembered the red warning asterisks on the medical report. She didn't bother changing out of her slip dress; she just threw a heavy trench coat over it, shoved her bare feet into boots, and ran out the door.

When she pushed through the heavy, soundproofed doors of the club, a wall of deafening, chest-rattling bass hit her.

The room was bathed in strobing neon lights. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, expensive perfume, and vaporized alcohol. Bodies writhed on the dance floor in a chaotic mass.

Claire pushed her way through the sweaty crowd, taking elbows to the ribs, her eyes scanning the dark perimeter for the VIP booths.

In the deepest, most secluded alcove, she found him.

Cooper was slouched back on a curved leather sofa, surrounded by his wealthy friends. Kendall was pressed tightly against his side.

In Cooper's hand was a massive crystal tumbler filled to the brim with dark, straight liquor. He raised it to his lips, tilting his head back.

Claire's mind went entirely blank.

She lunged across the low glass table. Her hand shot out and clamped around the crystal glass just as the liquid touched his lips.

She yanked it hard.

The whiskey splashed violently out of the glass, soaking the front of Cooper's white dress shirt.

Cormac, sitting across the table, immediately signaled the DJ.

The heavy bass cut out instantly. The sudden, dead silence in the VIP section was deafening.

Every single person in the booth stared at Claire. They looked at her disheveled hair, her coat thrown over a nightgown, panting like a madwoman.

Cooper slowly lowered his empty hand. He looked down at his ruined shirt, then slowly raised his eyes to Claire.

His gaze was murderous.

"Who gave you the right," he asked, his voice dangerously soft, "to walk in here?"

Claire gripped the sticky glass, her knuckles white. "Please," she begged, her voice trembling. "For your grandfather's sake. Put the alcohol down. You can't drink this."

Hearing her use Sterling as a shield again pushed Cooper over the edge.

He leaned back into the sofa, crossing his long legs. A cruel, vicious smile spread across his handsome face.

He pointed a long finger at a young, terrified male waiter holding a tray nearby.

"You want me to stop drinking?" Cooper asked loudly, ensuring everyone in the booth could hear. "Fine. Go kiss the waiter on the mouth. Right now. Do it, and I won't touch another drop tonight."

The booth erupted. The men howled with laughter, whistling and slamming the table.

Kendall covered her mouth with her hand, pretending to be shocked, but her eyes danced with pure, malicious glee.

The young waiter froze, his face turning bright red, looking around in panic.

Claire stood paralyzed. The humiliation washed over her in freezing waves. She stared at her husband, searching for any sign that he was joking. There was none. He wanted to break her.

Cooper casually reached for a fresh bottle of tequila on the table, wrapping his hand around the neck.

Claire closed her eyes. She thought of the erratic green lines on the EKG monitor, and the frail old man in the hospital bed. Her dignity meant absolutely nothing.

She turned around. Moving like a mechanical doll, she walked slowly toward the trembling waiter.

The jeers and whistles grew louder, echoing in her ears.

She stopped in front of the boy. She rose up on her tiptoes.

She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her lips against the very edge of the waiter's cheek for one agonizing second.

The blinding flash of a smartphone camera went off, capturing the exact moment of her total degradation.