Frida bent down and retrieved the paper bag from the floor. "I brought you soup," she said, her voice small. "The spicy one from that place on 5th. Your favorite."

Kalea looked at the bag. Her stomach gave a violent lurch at the thought of food. "I can't," she said softly. "I'll ruin the lipstick. And... I don't think I can keep it down."

Frida set the bag on the unmade hospital bed with a force that made the mattress bounce. She pulled her phone out of her pocket, her thumbs flying across the screen with aggressive speed. "You need to see this. Before you walk into that lion's den."

She shoved the screen into Kalea's line of sight.

It was a paparazzi photo, grainy and taken from a distance, but the subjects were unmistakable. Franco Preston was walking out of the revolving doors of the St. Regis Hotel. His hand was resting possessively on the lower back of a woman in a short, tight dress. Jennie Spence.

Kalea stared at the image. She waited for the jealousy to hit. She waited for the heartbreak. But there was nothing. Just a dull, aching fatigue.

"He was with her this morning," Frida said, her voice rising in anger. "While you were lying here with tubes down your throat, he was at the St. Regis with his uncle's secretary."

"I know," Kalea said. She turned to the bedside table and picked up her clutch, sliding her phone inside.

Frida grabbed Kalea's wrist. Her fingers were warm, a stark contrast to Kalea's icy skin. "You know? That's it? Kalea, you have to dump him. You have to walk away. This isn't a marriage, it's a humiliation ritual."

Kalea looked down at Frida's hand on her wrist. "I have a prenup, Frida. And a merger contract. My signature on that marriage license is worth three hundred million dollars to the Alexander Group. If I walk away now, without cause that holds up in their court, they will bury me. Financially, socially... completely."

"You are a human being, not a commodity!" Frida yelled, tears springing to her eyes. "You are expensive merchandise to them!"

"Yes," Kalea said, her voice hollow. "I am."

Her phone buzzed again inside the clutch. She pulled it out. The screen read: Franco.

Frida reached for the phone. "Don't answer it. Let him rot."

Kalea moved her hand away gently. She took a deep breath, her posture straightening, her face smoothing into a mask of polite detachment. She swiped answer.

"Hello, Franco," she said. Her voice was steady, pleasant, the voice of a well-trained fiancée.

"I'm outside," Franco's voice was impatient, accompanied by the background noise of traffic and a car horn. "The traffic is a nightmare. Come down now. We're already running late."

"I'm just-"

"Ten minutes, Kalea. Don't make me wait."

The line went dead.

Kalea lowered the phone. She looked at Frida and gave a small, helpless shrug.

Frida began to pace the small room, muttering curses under her breath. "He's a monster. They're all monsters. I hate them."

Kalea walked to the chair where her shoes were waiting. Four-inch stilettos. Putting them on felt like stepping into torture devices. Her ankles wobbled, weak from dehydration and stress. She reached into her bag and pulled out a small bottle of painkillers. She shook two into her palm and swallowed them dry, the pills scraping against her throat.

"Kalea..." Frida whispered, watching her. "Why do you endure this?"

Kalea walked to the door. She paused, her hand on the metal handle. She didn't turn around.

"Because I have nowhere else to go," she said.

She stepped out into the hallway. The air was cooler here. She walked to the elevator, the click-clack of her heels echoing in the quiet corridor. She pressed the button for the lobby. The elevator descended, and Kalea watched the numbers count down, feeling like she was sinking into deep water.

When the doors opened, the lobby was bright and busy. She walked out the automatic doors. The evening air was biting.

A black stretch limousine was idling at the curb, looking like a sleek, dark predator. The windows were tinted so dark they were like mirrors.

The driver, a man Kalea recognized as Franco's personal chauffeur, stepped out and opened the rear door. He didn't look at her face.

Kalea bent down and slid into the backseat.

The smell hit her instantly. It wasn't Franco's cologne. It was a sweet, floral scent. Heavy. Cloying.

It was Jennie Spence's perfume.

Franco was sitting in the corner, half-hidden in the shadows. The blue light of his phone illuminated his sharp jawline. He was typing furiously. He didn't look up when she entered.

Kalea pulled the door shut. The heavy thud sealed them in. The air was thick with the scent of betrayal, and the silence was louder than a scream.

The climate control in the limousine was set to a temperature that felt arctic. Kalea suppressed a shiver, wrapping her arms around herself, trying to preserve what little body heat she had left.

Franco finally locked his phone and tossed it onto the leather seat between them. He turned to look at her, his eyes scanning her from head to toe with the critical detachment of an appraiser looking at a piece of furniture.

"That lipstick is too dark," he said. It wasn't a suggestion. "It makes you look severe."

Kalea's hand twitched toward her mouth, an instinctive reaction to apologize, to fix it. She stopped herself. "I'm pale," she said simply. "I needed the color."

"You look fine," Franco muttered, turning his gaze to the window. "Whatever. The hospital pickup was a detour I didn't need. Do you know how much the traffic sets us back?"

Kalea looked out the window. The city lights were blurring into streaks of neon as the car accelerated. The motion made her stomach churn again. She focused on the partition between them and the driver.

Franco reached for the crystal decanter in the built-in bar. As his cuff rode up, Kalea saw it.

On the inside of his wrist, just below the watch band, was a bruise. A small, purple-red mark. A hickey.

It was fresh.

Kalea stared at it. Her heart missed a beat, then slammed against her ribs. It wasn't heartbreak she felt. It was a wave of revulsion so strong she tasted bile. He hadn't even bothered to cover it. He didn't care enough to hide the evidence.

Franco caught her staring. He followed her gaze to his wrist. He didn't flinch. He didn't look guilty. He simply tugged his shirt cuff down, smoothing the expensive fabric over the mark.

He poured a glass of water from a plastic bottle and shoved it toward her. He poured himself a whiskey.

"Drink," he said. "You look dehydrated. I don't need you fainting on the red carpet."

Kalea took the glass. Her fingers brushed against his. His skin was warm, alive. Hers was cold as marble. She pulled her hand back as if she had been burned.

Franco let out a short, derisive laugh. "Still playing the shy virgin? It's a bit late for that act, isn't it?"

He took a sip of his whiskey, the amber liquid swirling in the glass. "The guest list is important tonight. The board members from the merger committee are all attending. I need you to be charming. Smile. Laugh at their boring jokes."

"Is everyone going to be there?" Kalea asked, her voice tight.

"Yes. Everyone who matters."

"Is Jennie Spence going to be there?"

The air in the car seemed to freeze. Franco paused, the glass halfway to his mouth. He looked at her, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"Jennie is my Executive Secretary," he said slowly, enunciating each word as if speaking to a slow child. "She is essential for networking. She knows the details of the merger better than anyone."

Kalea gripped the water glass. The condensation was cold against her palm. "Since when does an Executive Secretary attend a family birthday party for your fiancée's sister?"

"Since I decided she needed to be there to manage the press," Franco snapped. "Don't start, Kalea. You know how hard she works."

Kalea looked into his eyes, searching for a shred of decency. She found only arrogance. He truly believed he was in the right. He believed he was entitled to everything-the wife with the pedigree and the mistress with the ambition.

His phone lit up on the seat. A message notification.

Sender: J

Message: Missing you already. The backseat feels empty without us.

Franco glanced at it. The corner of his mouth quirked up. It was a smile Kalea hadn't seen directed at her in years. A smile of intimacy.

Kalea felt the vomit rising in her throat. She fumbled for the window control, pressing the button. The glass slid down an inch, letting in a blast of exhaust-filled city air. She inhaled deeply, desperate for anything that didn't smell like Jennie's perfume.

"What are you doing?" Franco barked. "Close that. You're ruining the climate control."

Kalea closed her eyes. She started counting backward from ten in her head. Ten. Nine. Eight. She pressed the button, sealing the window.

"Sorry," she whispered.

Franco shook his head, looking at her with open disdain. He saw a broken doll. A boring, sickly woman who was nothing more than a signature on a contract. He thought of Jennie-vibrant, eager, willing to do anything to please him.

The car slowed, turning onto the long, winding driveway of the Alexander estate. Through the tinted windows, the flash of cameras was already visible, a strobe-light effect that cut through the darkness.

Franco set his glass down. He adjusted his tie in the reflection of the window. He transformed. The sneer vanished, replaced by the charming, confident smile of New York's most eligible bachelor.

He extended his arm toward her. "Let's go. And fix your face, Kalea. You look miserable."

Kalea opened her eyes. The emotion was gone from them. They were flat, dark pools. She reached out and looped her arm through his. Her grip was mechanical.

The door opened. The noise of the crowd rushed in.

The red carpet was a gauntlet of blinding lights and shouting voices.

"Franco! Franco! Over here!"

"Kalea! Is it true the wedding date is set?"

"Who are you wearing?"

Franco moved with the ease of a man born to be worshipped. He waved, he smiled, he guided Kalea with a hand on the small of her back. To the cameras, it looked like a protective embrace. To Kalea, it felt like a branding iron.

"Smile," he hissed through his teeth, his lips barely moving. "Show some teeth."

Kalea forced the corners of her mouth up. Her facial muscles trembled with the effort. She felt like a marionette with tangled strings.

"We are very excited," Franco told a reporter from Page Six, stopping briefly. "We're just finalizing the details. It's going to be the event of the season."

His eyes weren't on the reporter. They were scanning the entrance hall of the estate.

Kalea followed his gaze.

Standing near a massive floral arrangement of white hydrangeas was Jennie Spence.

She was wearing a dress that was almost identical in color to Kalea's-a shimmering champagne silk that clung to every curve. But where Kalea's was high-necked and modest, Jennie's was slashed to the hip and plunged deep in the front. It was a deliberate, calculated insult. In high society, showing up in the same color palette as the guest of honor's sister-the fiancée-was an act of war.

Kalea stumbled. Her heel caught on the plush carpet.

Franco's hand tightened on her waist, his fingers digging into her flesh painfully. He hauled her upright effortlessly.

"Clumsy," he muttered in her ear. "Pull it together."

They moved past the press line and into the grand foyer. The moment they were out of direct sight of the cameras, Kalea pulled away. She jerked her arm from his grip and walked briskly toward a large marble pillar that offered a sliver of privacy.

Franco sighed, annoyed, and followed her. He smoothed the lapel of his suit, checking for wrinkles.

"What is wrong with you?" he asked.

Kalea turned on him. Her chest was heaving. "Send her home."

Franco blinked, feigning ignorance. "Who?"

"Jennie. Send her home. Now." Kalea's voice shook, not with tears, but with a rage so hot it felt cold. "Or I leave. Right now. And you can explain to your uncle why the merger asset just walked out the door."

Franco stared at her. Then, a slow, cruel smile spread across his face. He took a step closer, looming over her. He used his height to intimidate, boxing her in against the cold stone pillar.

"You aren't going anywhere, Kalea," he said softly. "You think you have leverage? Your family's stock is tanking. This marriage is the only thing keeping the Alexander Group from being dissolved and sold for parts. You need me. Your father needs me."

He leaned down, his breath brushing her ear. "I love Jennie. She understands me. She makes me feel alive. You? You're a duty. So be a good little wife and tolerate it. Don't make me embarrass you."

He pulled back, looking at her with a mixture of pity and disgust. "Grow up, Kalea."

He turned on his heel and walked away. He walked straight toward the champagne dress. Straight toward Jennie.

Kalea stood frozen against the pillar. The cold of the stone seeped through the thin fabric of her dress, chilling her spine.

I love Jennie.

He had said it. Out loud. To her face.

She reached into her clutch and pulled out her phone. She opened her message thread with Franco. It was a graveyard of unrequited affection. Texts from her saying "Have a safe flight", "Good luck with the meeting", "I miss you". Most were unanswered.

She typed two digits.

99

She hit send.

Across the room, she saw Franco pause. He pulled his phone from his pocket, glanced at the screen, and frowned. He looked around, annoyed, then shoved the phone back in his pocket without replying.

Kalea watched the "Read" receipt appear.

It wasn't a plea. It was a countdown. A metric for her own sanity. When it hit zero, she would be gone. One way or another.

A waiter passed by with a silver tray. Kalea reached out and grabbed a flute of champagne. The doctor had been explicitly clear: No alcohol with your medication. It could cause respiratory depression.

Kalea didn't care. She drained the glass in one long swallow. The alcohol hit her empty, ravaged stomach like a shard of glass. A wave of dizziness washed over her, and she gripped the stem of the flute, her knuckles white, forcing the world to stay upright. The pain was a welcome distraction, a sharp, physical anchor in a sea of emotional torment. It hurt, and the pain was grounding.

She looked up. On the grand staircase, Haleigh was descending, arm in arm with Eleanor. They looked like royalty. Haleigh was beaming, soaking in the applause. The perfect family.

And moving through the crowd, holding a glass of wine, Jennie Spence was walking straight toward Kalea. Her hips swayed. There was a smile on her face that didn't reach her eyes.

Kalea gripped the empty champagne flute until she felt the fragile glass groan under the pressure.