Diana didn't know how long she lay on the floor. It could have been minutes; it could have been hours. The cold from the hardwood seeped into her bones, but she barely felt it. She was numb, hollowed out from the inside.

The sound of Curtis's phone buzzing shattered the silence of the dark apartment.

She heard his footsteps pause in the hallway. He must have been on his way to the kitchen for water. The buzzing continued, insistent and sharp.

Diana heard him pick it up. "What?"

A pause. Then, a transformation so sudden it made Diana sick to her stomach.

"Carla?" His voice changed completely. The hard, angry edge was gone, replaced by a softness, a warmth that sounded like it belonged to a different man. "Sweetheart, it's two in the morning. Why are you still up?"

Diana squeezed her eyes shut. The endearment-sweetheart-hit her like a physical blow. He had just kissed her with brutal force, and now he was speaking to another woman with the tenderness of a lover.

She listened as his tone shifted to panic.

"What? Bleeding? Where are you?" Curtis was already moving, his footsteps quick and urgent. "Which hospital? NYU Langone? Okay, okay. Don't move. I'm coming right now. Just stay still, baby. I'll be there in ten minutes."

Bleeding.

The word echoed in Diana's mind, a cruel, twisted joke. She was lying on the floor, bleeding out the life they had created together, and he had called her a liar. But Carla says she's bleeding, and the world stops.

Curtis rushed into the living room, grabbing his car keys from the bowl by the door. He was pulling on his coat, his face pale with worry.

He walked right past Diana. He didn't even glance down at her crumpled form. It was as if she were a piece of furniture, invisible and insignificant.

Something inside Diana snapped. It wasn't anger; it was a desperate, final plea for acknowledgment. A drowning woman reaching for a hand one last time.

"Curtis," she called out. Her voice was hoarse, barely a whisper, but it stopped him.

His hand was on the doorknob. He turned his head, his brow furrowed in annoyance. "What now, Diana? I don't have time for your games."

Diana lifted her head. Her eyes were dry now, the tears all cried out. She looked at him with a terrifying clarity.

"I'm bleeding too," she said.

The words hung in the air.

Curtis stared at her. For a fraction of a second, his expression flickered-confusion, maybe. But then, his face hardened into a mask of absolute disgust.

He let out a short, bitter laugh. "You are unbelievable."

"Curtis, I-"

"You just couldn't stand it, could you?" he interrupted, his voice rising. "You heard me say she was bleeding, and like a jealous child, you have to copy her. You have to make it about you."

"I'm not copying anyone," she said, her voice trembling. "I lost the baby. I'm miscarrying. Right now."

"Shut up!" he roared, taking a step toward her. "Do you have no shame? Carla is in the hospital, genuinely suffering, and you sit there trying to steal her sympathy with a pathetic lie? You make me sick, Diana."

"It's not a lie," she whispered, but he wasn't listening.

"You're a monster," he said, his voice dripping with venom. "A cold, calculating monster who would use a fake pregnancy loss to get attention. I despise you."

He yanked the door open.

Diana watched him, a strange, hollow feeling spreading through her chest. It wasn't sadness anymore. It was the absolute, crushing weight of reality. He would never believe her. He would never love her. To him, her pain was just an inconvenience, a bad performance compared to Carla's perfection.

She started to laugh. It was a broken, breathless sound, tears streaming down her face as she laughed at the absurdity of it all.

Curtis paused in the doorway, looking back at her with horror. "You're crazy," he spat. "Completely insane."

He slammed the door shut. The sound vibrated through the apartment, final and absolute.

Diana lay there on the floor, the silence ringing in her ears. The cramps were still there, a dull, relentless ache, but they felt distant now. She stared at the ceiling, the shadows dancing in the corners.

She thought of her father, sitting in a prison cell, sacrificing everything so she could have this life. She thought of the baby she had just lost, a tiny spark of hope extinguished before it could even begin. And she thought of Curtis, running into the night for another woman, leaving her alone in the dark.

This wasn't a marriage. It was a prison. And she was done being a captive.

Slowly, agonizingly, Diana pushed herself up off the floor. Her body screamed in protest, but she ignored it. She walked, step by painful step, toward the home office.

She sat down at the desk and turned on the computer. The screen glowed in the dark room, illuminating her pale, resolute face.

She opened her email. She didn't hesitate. She didn't second-guess. She typed in the address of Curtis's chief legal counsel, Garold Nash.

Subject: Divorce Proceedings Initiation - Diana Wilcox.

She typed the brief message, her fingers steady. She hit send.

The whoosh of the email leaving the outbox was the loudest sound in the quiet apartment. It was done.

Curtis got back to the apartment and pushed the door hardly.

Diana flinched at the sudden noise, her hand still resting on the computer mouse. She had just hit send minutes ago. She turned in the office chair, watching him pace the living room, his phone now shoved in his pocket, his shirt untucked. He looked frantic, wild-eyed.

"Carla, baby, I'm leaving now," he had just said, his voice thick with panic. "Just hold on. I'm coming."

He finally looked at Diana, sitting in the glow of the monitor. His eyes were hard, his jaw clenched tight.

"Get up," he ordered. "You're coming with me."

Diana didn't move. "Why?"

"Because Carla is in the hospital," he snarled, striding into the office and grabbing her arm, hauling her to her feet. "She had a panic attack. She says it's because of the stress from the dinner tonight. She says you threatened her."

"I haven't spoken to Carla in weeks," Diana said, wincing as his grip tightened.

"I don't care!" he yelled. "She's bleeding, Diana. She might be losing my child, and it's your fault. You're going to come with me, and you're going to apologize to her. You're going to beg for her forgiveness."

The world tilted. Carla was claiming to be pregnant? And bleeding? The lies were so brazen, so perfectly crafted to manipulate him, that Diana could only stare in disbelief.

"I'm not going," Diana said, pulling her arm back. "I'm not apologizing for something I didn't do. And I'm not going to watch you fawn over a liar."

"You will do what I say!" Curtis roared. He didn't wait for her to agree. He grabbed her by the upper arm, his grip like a vise, and began dragging her toward the door. Her feet stumbled on the hardwood floor as she fought to keep her balance.

"Put me down!" Diana screamed, trying to dig her heels in, her free hand clawing at his. The jarring movement sent a stabbing pain through her abdomen, making her vision go white. "Curtis, please! I'm hurting!"

He ignored her. He half-carried, half-dragged her into the elevator, down to the garage, and shoved her into the passenger seat of his Bentley. He slammed the door and locked it from the driver's side.

The car roared out of the garage and onto the streets of Manhattan. It was late, the roads mostly empty, and Curtis drove like a madman, weaving through traffic.

Diana curled into a ball in the passenger seat, clutching her stomach. The pain was getting worse, a constant, throbbing ache that radiated down her legs. She felt weak, lightheaded, and the warmth between her legs was back. She was still bleeding.

Curtis was on the phone again, speaking to Carla's assistant, his voice a low, soothing murmur. "Yes, tell her I'm on my way. Tell her I love her. Make sure the best doctors are there."

Diana listened to him comfort another woman while she bled out beside him. The contrast was so stark, so painful, it was almost funny.

"Curtis," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Please. Take me to a hospital. Not her hospital. Any hospital. I need a doctor."

Curtis glanced at her, his eyes cold in the dim light of the dashboard. "I'm not stopping, Diana. You can drop the act."

"It's not an act," she sobbed, a fresh wave of tears spilling down her cheeks. "I'm losing the baby. Our baby. Please, Curtis, I'm begging you."

"Shut up!" he shouted, slamming his hand on the steering wheel. "I am sick of your lies! You are not pregnant! You are just a jealous, bitter woman who can't stand to see Carla happy!"

The car swerved onto the Long Island Expressway. The lights of the city faded behind them, replaced by the dark, empty stretch of the highway.

Diana's breathing was ragged, each inhale a sharp knife in her chest. "Curtis, please... I'm in so much pain."

"Then suffer!" he yelled. He slammed on the brakes, the tires screeching as the car skidded to a halt on the shoulder of the highway. The force threw Diana forward against the seatbelt, the strap cutting into her neck and abdomen.

Curtis turned to her, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. "I am giving you one last chance. Shut your mouth, stop your crying, and come with me to apologize to Carla. Or get out of my car."

Diana stared at him. The interior of the car was quiet except for the ticking of the engine and her own ragged breaths. She looked past him, out the window. The highway was dark, the only light the harsh yellow of the streetlamps. The wind howled outside, shaking the car.

She looked back at him. His face was hard, unforgiving. There was no love there. There was no concern. There was only a demand for submission.

She didn't have any fight left. She didn't want to fight anymore.

"Okay," she said softly.

Curtis blinked, surprised by her quiet surrender. He had expected her to argue, to cry, to beg. "Okay, what?"

Diana reached for the seatbelt. Her fingers were numb, clumsy, but she managed to press the release button. The strap snapped back.

"I'll get out," she said.

She reached for the door handle. The lock clicked open.

Curtis stared at her, his eyes widening slightly. "What are you doing?"

"You said get out," she replied, her voice flat, devoid of emotion. "So I'm getting out."

She pushed the door open. The cold night air rushed in, biting through her thin dress, making her shiver.

"Don't play games with me, Diana," Curtis warned, his voice tight. "Get back in the car."

She didn't look back. She stepped out onto the asphalt. The ground was unsteady beneath her heels, the wind whipping her hair across her face.

"I'm not playing, Curtis," she said, standing by the car door. "I'm done."

She pushed the door shut with a solid thunk.

Curtis sat in the driver's seat, staring at her through the closed window. He expected her to come crawling back. He expected her to realize how stupid she was being, standing on a highway in the middle of the night.

But Diana just stood there, her arms wrapped around her waist, her face pale and resolute in the glow of the headlights.

He let out a frustrated roar. He was done with her games. If she wanted to freeze, let her freeze.

He floored the accelerator. The Bentley shot forward, the force of the acceleration kicking up gravel that stung Diana's bare legs.

She watched the red taillights disappear into the darkness, the sound of the engine fading until it was just her and the wind.

She stood on the side of the Long Island Expressway, bleeding, freezing, and utterly alone. And for the first time in three years, she felt free.

She reached into her small clutch. Her phone was there. She pulled it out, the screen light blinding in the dark. She opened her email.

Sent: Divorce Proceedings Initiation - Diana Wilcox.

It was real. It was done.

She laughed, a broken sound that the wind stole away. She started to walk, her heels clicking on the asphalt, not knowing where she was going, only knowing she was never going back.

Diana didn't remember the Uber ride back to Manhattan. She didn't remember walking through the lobby of her building, ignoring the night concierge's concerned look, or riding the elevator up to the penthouse.

The only thing she felt was the cold. It had settled deep in her bones, a freezing chill that the apartment's heating couldn't touch.

She walked into the bedroom. The sheets had been changed. The blood was gone. It was as if the nightmare had never happened. But the ache in her body told her otherwise.

She didn't bother taking off her dress. She didn't bother taking off the diamond necklace that still felt like a noose. She collapsed onto the pristine white bed, curling into a tight ball, and let the darkness take her.

The fever started within hours.

One moment she was shivering so hard her teeth chattered; the next, she was burning up, kicking off the blankets, her skin slick with sweat. She drifted in and out of consciousness, trapped in a hazy purgatory between reality and memory.

The dream came for her, pulling her down into the past.

She was twenty-three again. Her hair was longer, her eyes brighter, free of the shadows that lived there now. She was standing in the study of the Wilcox estate, wearing a simple sundress, her architectural portfolio tucked under her arm.

Her father, Authur Wilcox, stood before her. He looked older than she remembered, the lines around his eyes deeper, his shoulders carrying a weight she couldn't see. But his eyes-his eyes were full of a desperate, fierce love.

"Diana, I need you to listen to me," dream-Authur said, his voice grave. "I've made a deal. It's the only way to protect you."

"Protect me from what, Dad?" she asked, but the scene shifted before he could answer.

She was in the Alston estate now, standing in the imposing library. Montgomery Alston sat behind the massive mahogany desk, a cigar in his hand. He looked at her not as a person, but as a problem to be solved.

Authur was there too, standing across from Montgomery. He looked defeated, smaller than she had ever seen him.

Montgomery slid a thick manila folder across the desk. "The terms are agreeable, Authur. The debt will be wiped clean. The Wilcox Group will have our backing. And in return, she marries Curtis."

Diana tried to scream, to tell them she wouldn't be traded like a commodity, but she had no voice in this memory. She was just an observer, watching her own fate being sealed.

Authur reached for the folder. His hand was trembling. He looked at Diana, and a single tear tracked down his weathered cheek. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I'm so sorry."

He took the folder. And then, to Diana's absolute horror, Authur Wilcox-a man who had never bowed to anyone in his life-bowed his head to Montgomery Alston.

"I accept," Authur said, his voice breaking.

The memory fast-forwarded. She was in a white dress, standing next to Curtis at the altar. He looked at her with the same cold indifference he always wore, like she was a business acquisition, a line item on a spreadsheet.

But the dream wasn't done with her yet. It pulled her deeper, into a secret she had tried so hard to forget.

She was a fly on the wall now, watching her father and Montgomery in a private room years before the wedding. The atmosphere was tense, the air thick with unspoken history.

"Montgomery, you owe me," Authur said, his voice hard, devoid of the defeat she had seen later. "Twenty years ago, when the Alston Group was under siege by Castellano's hostile takeover, who stepped in? Who risked everything-his own capital, his own reputation-to back your play?"

Montgomery's face was unreadable, but he nodded slowly. "You did, Authur. The Wilcox Group saved us."

"I didn't just save your company," Authur pressed, leaning forward. "I saved your family from ruin. And I never asked for anything in return. Until now."

"What is it you want?" Montgomery asked.

"I want your word," Authur said, his voice thick with emotion. "If the day ever comes when I can't protect my daughter, you will. You will give her the protection of the Alston name. You will make her family."

Montgomery studied him for a long moment. "And if Curtis objects?"

"He will do as he's told," Montgomery said firmly. "You have my word, Authur. A life for a life."

The dream dissolved into a swirl of color and sound. Diana was back in the bed, thrashing against the sheets, the fever raging through her body.

She understood now. The marriage hadn't been a business deal. It hadn't been a desperate attempt by the Wilcox family to climb the social ladder, as the tabloids claimed. It had been a father's ultimate sacrifice. Authur had cashed in a twenty-year-old debt, a favor that could have saved his own company, to buy his daughter a shield.

He had known what was coming. He had known the walls were closing in on him, and he had used his only lifeline to save her.

The weight of that love was suffocating. It pressed down on her chest, making it impossible to breathe. She was living in a gilded cage, wearing diamonds she hated, enduring a husband who despised her, all because her father had loved her more than his own freedom.

"Dad," she sobbed in her sleep, the tears soaking into the pillow. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

The dream shifted again, the shadows growing longer, the colors fading to gray. A darker memory was rising, one she had buried so deep she thought it would never surface.

She saw her father's office. The day after the wedding. The door bursting open.