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.

"Kalea! Darling!" Jennie's voice was sugary sweet, pitched just loud enough to turn heads nearby.

She glided to a stop in front of Kalea. Up close, the champagne dress looked even more expensive. Jennie smelled like the inside of the limousine-that heavy, floral scent that made Kalea's head throb.

"I love that dress on you," Jennie said, reaching out as if to touch the fabric, but stopping short. "It's so... vintage. Was that from the Spring collection two years ago? I think I saw it in an outlet."

A few guests nearby chuckled politely, hiding their smirks behind cocktail napkins.

Kalea looked at her. She didn't blink. She looked at Jennie the way one might look at a stain on a silk rug. "And I see you're wearing the 'Ambition' collection," Kalea said, her voice flat. "Tell me, does Franco pay you overtime for this? Or is this part of the 'full service' package?"

Jennie's smile faltered. Her eyes narrowed into slits. She took a step closer, invading Kalea's personal space. She lowered her voice to a whisper.

"He told me about you last night," Jennie hissed. "While he was in my bed. He said touching you is like touching a corpse. Cold. Lifeless."

Kalea felt the blood drain from her face. Her stomach twisted violently. But she didn't step back. She held her ground.

"At least I'm not a rental," Kalea whispered back.

Jennie's face twisted in ugly rage. For a second, the mask slipped completely.

Suddenly, Jennie gasped. She threw her hand to her chest.

"Oh! Please, don't!" Jennie shrieked.

She threw herself backward. It was a theatrical, clumsy movement, but effective. She slammed into the edge of the dessert table behind her.

CRASH.

A silver platter of macarons went flying. Jennie stumbled, catching herself on the tablecloth, pulling it down.

The music stopped. Haleigh stopped cutting the cake on the stage. Every eye in the ballroom turned to the corner where Kalea stood holding an empty glass, looking for all the world like she had just shoved the fragile secretary.

Jennie was panting, looking terrified. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to upset you!" she cried out.

As Jennie scrambled to regain her balance, her beaded clutch bag slipped from her fingers. It hit the marble floor. The clasp popped open.

A small velvet box tumbled out. It hit the floor and bounced open.

Two large, teardrop-shaped emerald earrings rolled out onto the white marble.

They caught the light of the chandelier, flashing a deep, hypnotic green.

The room went silent.

Kalea stopped breathing. Her vision tunneled until all she could see were those green stones.

They were unmistakably the Alexander Emeralds. Her grandmother's earrings. The ones Grandma Rose had worn in her portrait. The ones she had promised to Kalea on her deathbed.

"They are lost," Eleanor had told her three years ago. "The safe was faulty. They're gone."

Jennie's eyes went wide with genuine panic. This wasn't part of her script. She lunged forward, her hand scrambling across the floor to grab the jewels.

"No!" Jennie gasped.

Kalea moved. She didn't think. Instinct took over.

She stepped forward and brought her heel down hard.

Crunch.

She stomped directly onto Jennie's outstretched hand.

"AAAAHH!" Jennie screamed, a high-pitched, blood-curdling sound that echoed off the vaulted ceiling.

Kalea didn't lift her foot. She ground her heel down, pinning the hand to the floor. She bent down, her movements fluid and terrifyingly calm. She picked up the earrings. The metal was cold against her skin.

She turned them over. On the back of the gold setting, barely visible, was the engraving: To My Dearest Eleanor.

Her mother had lied. She hadn't lost them. She had given them away. Or Franco had taken them. It didn't matter. They were in the purse of her fiancé's mistress.

Kalea stood up. She held the earrings tightly in her fist, the sharp edges of the gems cutting into her palm. She lifted her foot off Jennie's hand, which was now red and swelling rapidly.

She looked up. Her eyes swept the room, dark and burning. She locked eyes with Eleanor, who was rushing across the ballroom floor.