The next afternoon, Elaina sought refuge in a SoHo gallery, the stark white walls and abstract art a welcome distraction. She lost track of time. When she stepped outside, the sky had opened up. A torrential downpour was turning the streets into a gray, blurry mess.

She was wearing a thin silk dress, utterly inadequate for the sudden chill. She reached for her phone to call a car, only to find the screen black. Dead. She'd forgotten to charge it in the chaos of last night.

Taxis, their lights hazy in the rain, sped past with passengers already inside. A profound sense of helplessness washed over her. The humiliation of the past twenty-four hours, the physical and emotional exhaustion-it all crashed down on her at once.

She just wanted to be home.

Gritting her teeth, she stepped off the curb and into the deluge.

The rain was instantly, brutally cold. It soaked her dress and hair in seconds, plastering the thin fabric to her skin. By the time she stumbled into the lobby of their building, her teeth were chattering, and a violent shiver had taken over her body.

A long, hot bath did nothing to chase away the bone-deep chill.

She crawled into the bed in the guest room, pulling the covers up to her chin, but the shivering wouldn't stop. A dull ache throbbed behind her eyes. Her thoughts grew foggy. She was getting sick. Really sick.

Late that night, Eleazar returned from a marathon of meetings.

He walked instinctively toward the master bedroom, only stopping when he found it empty. A flash of irritation crossed his face as he remembered. He'd told her to move out.

He turned and strode to the guest room at the end of the hall.

He pushed the door open and was met with a stale, feverish heat.

Flipping on the light, he saw her. Curled in on herself, her face flushed a painful red, her breathing shallow and rapid.

He touched her forehead. The heat radiating from her skin was alarming.

His first instinct was to call their family doctor. He had his phone in his hand when it buzzed with an incoming call.

Kallie.

Her voice was sweet, almost cloying, through the speaker. "Eleazar? Are you coming over? I'm all alone and it's a little scary here."

He looked from the phone to the woman burning with fever in the bed. He was torn, a war waging within him.

Finally, he spoke, his voice strained. "Something's come up. I'll be there as soon as I can."

He hung up, his gaze fixed on Elaina's delirious form. Her lips were parted, a soft, pained sound escaping them.

For a long moment, he just stood there. Then, he turned, walked out, and quietly closed the door.

In the hazy space between consciousness and fever-dream, Elaina thought she felt his presence, a cool hand on her skin. Then, the presence was gone. He'd left her alone in the dark. The silence that followed was a cold, heavy blanket, suffocating her last flicker of hope.

She was going to be left here, to burn up alone.

Thirty minutes later, the door opened again.

It wasn't Eleazar. It was his personal assistant, Leo Vance, flanked by two paramedics in crisp uniforms.

Leo's voice was calm and respectful. "Mrs. Hudson. Mr. Hudson asked me to arrange for your transport to the hospital."

Elaina was too weak to speak, to question.

The paramedics gently moved her onto a gurney, covering her with a thick, warm blanket.

As they carried her out of the apartment, her vision swam. Through the blur, she thought she saw a figure standing in the shadows of the long hallway. A tall silhouette that could only be him.

Then he was gone.

He hadn't abandoned her completely. Not yet. And that contradictory, reluctant care was a poison, seeping into the cracks of a heart she thought had already turned to stone.

Elaina woke up to the quiet, sterile beeping of a heart monitor. The fever had broken, but a profound weakness lingered in her limbs. She was in a VIP suite at NewYork-Presbyterian.

Dr. Julian Adler, her family's physician for years, was reviewing a chart at the foot of her bed. He was a kind-faced man in his fifties.

"Acute influenza, compounded by exhaustion," he said, his voice gentle. "We'll need to keep you for observation." He made a note on the chart. "And given your condition, I'll be adjusting your medication to ensure it's safe for the fetus."

A knot of panic tightened in Elaina's stomach. "Who else knows? About the pregnancy?"

Dr. Adler offered a reassuring smile. "Just myself and my head nurse. Patient confidentiality. Though, as your husband, Mr. Hudson has a right to..."

"No." The word was sharp, cutting him off. "He can't know. No one can. Especially not him."

The doctor's professional smile softened into one of understanding. He'd seen enough of the city's elite to read between the lines.

Elaina pushed herself up, her arm trembling with effort. She found a notepad and pen on the bedside table.

"Julian, I am formally requesting you prepare a non-disclosure agreement regarding my medical status. I am invoking my right to privacy." Her voice was weak but firm. "I am asking you, as a friend of the Frank family, to protect this for me."

He took the note from her, his expression serious. "On my medical license, Elaina. You have my word."

Not long after he left, the door to her room opened.

Eleazar.

He'd changed his clothes, but he carried a faint, cloying scent with him. Kallie's perfume. So he had gone to her last night after all. The thought was a dull, familiar ache.

He stood awkwardly by the door, his eyes scanning her pale face. "How are you feeling?" His tone was stiff, formal.

"I'll live," she replied, turning her head to look out the window.

The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. He pulled a chair to her bedside and, to her utter astonishment, picked up an apple and a small knife from the fruit basket.

He began to peel it, his movements clumsy and inefficient. He was a man who commanded boardrooms, not paring knives. He nicked his thumb, and a single drop of blood welled up on his skin. He swore under his breath.

Elaina watched the small, absurd drama, a confusing mix of emotions churning inside her.

He finished his mangled work and held the apple out to her. She didn't take it. A flicker of frustration crossed his face at her silent rejection. He tossed the mangled apple onto the bedside table with a soft thud.

His jaw tightened. "What did you and Denver Bradley talk about? Was it worth making yourself sick over?"

Back to this. A wave of exhaustion washed over her.

"We talked about art. Nothing more. Believe it or not." She closed her eyes, unwilling to fight.

Her dismissal seemed to fuel his anger. He saw it as defiance.

"Nothing? Is that why he's suddenly so interested in the Frank family's old assets? Don't think I don't know he's been sniffing around your father's bankruptcy case." His voice was a low, furious hiss.

Her eyes snapped open. He was having her investigated.

Before she could form a reply, his phone buzzed on the nightstand. The screen lit up with a smiling picture of Kallie.

He answered it, his back to her, and his voice transformed, becoming softer, gentler. "Yes, I'm still tied up... It shouldn't be much longer."

The hypocrisy was nauseating.

He ended the call and stood, his cold mask firmly back in place. "Get some rest. I'll handle the bills. And stay away from him until you're discharged."

It was an order, not a request. He walked out, leaving the butchered apple on the nightstand, a testament to his brief, failed attempt at care.

Elaina was jolted awake late that night by a commotion outside her hospital room door. She could hear her security detail speaking in low, firm tones to someone.

The door burst open.

Eleazar stumbled in, reeking of whiskey, his face a ghostly white under the dim hospital lights. He shoved past the bodyguard, his eyes wild and unfocused, muttering her name.

He didn't make it far. He collapsed onto the visitor's sofa, curling into a ball, a sheen of cold sweat on his forehead.

Before Elaina could react, her phone rang. It was Mrs. Petrov, their housekeeper, her voice frantic.

"Ma'am, it's Mr. Hudson... he couldn't find you at the apartment. He's been drinking. You know how his stomach gets..."

Acute gastritis. A problem that flared up whenever he was under immense stress.

Elaina looked at the man groaning on her sofa. This wasn't an attack. He was sick.

Her mind screamed at her to call a nurse, to have him removed. But her heart... her heart was a traitor.

"Ma'am, please," Mrs. Petrov begged. "He only ever calms down when you're there. Please."

With a sigh of resignation, Elaina ended the call and swung her legs out of bed.

As she approached the sofa, Eleazar seemed to sense her presence. His hand shot out, grabbing hers with a desperate, childish grip. His skin was fever-hot, but his palm was clammy with sweat.

Her resolve melted.

She sent her bodyguard for anti-spasmodic medication and a glass of warm water.

Getting him to take it was impossible. He was too drunk, too incoherent. Suddenly, his body convulsed. He was sick, vomiting all over his thousand-dollar suit and her clean hospital gown.

The acrid smell of bile and alcohol filled the small room. She fought back her own nausea, her hand steady on his back. He had a pathological obsession with cleanliness; he would be mortified when he sobered up.

She made a decision.

Summoning all her strength, she half-dragged, half-carried his dead weight into the en-suite bathroom. The space was tiny, forcing their bodies into a clumsy, intimate press.

She turned on the shower, aiming the warm spray at him. The water soaked his clothes, making the fine wool and cotton cling to the hard muscles of his body. Her cheeks burned. She tried to focus on the task, to ignore the feel of his skin, the heat of his body.

Her fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt. As she worked it free, her knuckles brushed against his chest. Even in his stupor, his body tensed at her touch.

Her own heart skipped a beat.

Finally, she got him clean. She was soaked to the bone herself.

She maneuvered him back into the main room. The sofa was a lost cause. The only option was her bed.

After settling him under the covers, she changed into a fresh gown. She stood for a long time, just looking at him. His brow was furrowed in pain even in his sleep.

She hated him for his cruelty. But seeing him this vulnerable, this broken... it twisted the hate into something confusing and painful.

How were they ever going to untangle themselves from this mess?