The echo of the slamming door bounced off the sterile walls. Emmie stared at the solid oak wood.

A single, hot tear broke free. It slid down her cheek and splashed onto the pale skin of the back of her hand.

She sucked in a sharp breath. She forced the burning bile down her throat and threw the thin hospital blanket off her legs.

Her bare feet hit the freezing linoleum floor. A wave of dizziness slammed into her brain. She grabbed the edge of the metal nightstand to keep from collapsing.

She reached over and ripped the IV needle out of the back of her hand.

A stream of dark red blood welled up instantly. She grabbed a medical cotton swab from the tray and pressed it hard against the wound.

Emmie dragged her feet toward the small closet. She pulled out a hospital-branded fleece jacket left by a nurse. The paramedics had wrapped it around her when they loaded her into the ambulance—her own nightgown had been soaked through with cold sweat. A nurse must have found her phone on the penthouse floor and placed it in the jacket pocket before the ambulance left.

A harsh, vibrating buzz erupted from the pocket of the jacket.

She pulled her phone out. The screen flashed with the name of Alistair Finch, the Brandt family's lifelong butler.

She swiped the screen. "Alistair?" she whispered, her voice still weak.

"Miss Emmie..." Alistair's voice cracked. He was crying. The sound of his raw panic sent a jolt of pure adrenaline through her veins.

"What is it? What happened?"

"It's Master Silas," Alistair choked out. "He collapsed. His condition deteriorated rapidly. We are at the hospital. They are trying to resuscitate him."

A deafening ringing exploded in Emmie's ears. The cotton swab slipped from her fingers, dropping to the floor.

"Where?" Her voice shot up an octave, thick with pure terror. "Which hospital?"

Alistair gave her the address. Emmie ended the call.

She shoved her arms into the jacket. A sudden, vicious wave of pain hit her abdomen, forcing her to lean heavily against the wall. She gasped, waiting for the agony to recede just enough to move, then forced her trembling legs into a desperate, stumbling run toward the door.

She hadn't even noticed the minutes passing. Unbeknownst to her, Daxton's board meeting had been canceled when the hospital called him about her stable condition. He'd been pacing the corridor ever since, waiting for a chance to secure her signature on the surgical consent form.

She grabbed the handle and yanked it open.

Two massive men in identical black suits stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the hallway. Ellis family bodyguards. They blocked the exit like a brick wall.

Emmie lowered her shoulder and tried to push between them.

A thick, heavy hand shoved her squarely in the chest. She stumbled backward into the hospital room.

"Mr. Ellis gave strict orders," the guard said, his face completely blank. "You are to remain under observation until the transplant. You cannot leave."

"My grandfather is dying!" Emmie screamed, her lungs burning. "Get out of my way!"

The guards didn't blink. They stood in silence.

The sound of heavy, measured footsteps echoed down the corridor. Daxton appeared in the doorway, holding a stack of medical papers.

Emmie lunged forward. She grabbed the lapels of his pristine suit jacket, her fingers twisting the expensive fabric.

"Daxton, please," she begged, her eyes wide and red. "My grandfather is in the ICU. They are losing him. I have to go!"

Daxton looked down at her hands gripping his jacket. Disgust flashed in his dark eyes. He grabbed her wrists and violently shoved her hands away.

"Another trick, Emmie?" Daxton sneered. "You think faking a family emergency will get you out of the surgery?"

Emmie stared at him. The air left her lungs. "I want a divorce."

Daxton froze. The air in the room instantly dropped ten degrees. His eyes narrowed into dangerous, dark slits.

He stepped directly into her personal space. "You have no leverage to negotiate, Emmie. You are nothing but the vessel keeping Hortensia alive."

He lifted the papers in his hand and slapped the surgical consent form hard against her chest.

"Stay in this room and behave," Daxton ordered.

He turned his head to the guards. "If she takes one step out of this room, sedate her and bring her back—but do not harm her body. I need her marrow intact."

Daxton turned and walked away.

Emmie clutched the cold consent form. Her knees gave out. She slid down the wall, hitting the floor, and let out a broken, agonizing sob.

Emmie sat on the freezing linoleum, her hands covering her face. She took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing the panic down into her stomach.

She dropped her hands and scanned the room. Her eyes locked onto the small ventilation window inside the attached private bathroom.

She stood up. Her legs were shaky, but she forced them to move. She walked toward the door.

She grabbed the heavy metal IV stand next to the bed and violently shoved it. It crashed to the floor with a deafening metallic clatter.

The door burst open immediately. Both bodyguards rushed in, their eyes scanning the floor.

Emmie grabbed the heavy glass vase from the nightstand. Instead of aiming at the trained men, she hurled it with everything she had at the metal medical tray behind them. The explosive shatter of thick glass and the deafening clatter of falling metal instruments made both men flinch and turn instinctively. The sudden chaos gave her the exact split second she needed. She shot past them like a bullet, dodging their grasping hands.

One of the guards grabbed for her ankle, ready to yank her back—but she kicked free, her bare foot slamming into his jaw. He staggered, giving her the split second she needed.

She sprinted down the hallway, her bare feet slapping against the tile. She shoved past a stunned nurse and threw her body against the heavy door of the fire exit stairwell.

She flew down the concrete stairs, her breath tearing at her throat.

She burst out of the hospital's side exit and into the blinding Manhattan sunlight. A yellow taxi was just pulling up to the curb.

Emmie ripped the back door open and threw herself inside.

"Presbyterian Hospital!" she screamed at the driver. "Now! Please!"

The cab lurched forward, weaving recklessly through the dense city traffic. Emmie gripped her phone so hard her knuckles ached.

The cab slammed to a halt outside the emergency room. Emmie threw a crumpled hundred-dollar bill at the front seat and sprinted out before the driver could speak.

She ran to the nurse's station, gasping for air. "Silas Brandt. Where is he?"

The nurse typed quickly. "ICU, fourth floor."

Emmie ran to the elevators and slammed her fist against the button.

When the doors opened on the fourth floor, she saw Alistair pacing outside the intensive care unit.

Alistair looked up. His eyes were bloodshot. He rushed forward and caught Emmie by the arms as she stumbled.

Emmie pressed her face against the massive glass window of the ICU.

Her grandfather, the man who had been a titan of industry, looked incredibly small. Tubes snaked out of his mouth and arms. The ventilator pumped his chest up and down in a harsh, unnatural rhythm. The numbers on the monitor were terrifyingly low.

A massive weight crushed Emmie's chest. Her legs gave out. She dropped to her knees right there on the floor.

She pressed her palms flat against the cold glass, tears streaming down her face, silently mouthing his name.

Alistair knelt beside her. He placed a trembling hand on her back.

Minutes passed. Emmie finally pulled enough air into her lungs to stand. Alistair guided her to a hard plastic chair in the hallway.

Alistair took a deep breath. "He has been sick for a long time, Miss Emmie."

Emmie snapped her head toward him, her eyes wide with shock.

"He forbade me from telling you," Alistair said, his voice breaking. "He knew your position in the Ellis family was precarious. He didn't want his weakness to become a weapon used against you."

A physical pain sliced through Emmie's heart. The guilt was suffocating.

Alistair reached into his leather briefcase. He pulled out a thick, heavy manila envelope sealed with red wax.

He placed it gently into Emmie's hands. "Master Silas told me to give this to you the moment he could no longer protect you."

Emmie's trembling fingers traced the wax seal.

The ding of the elevator echoed loudly down the quiet hall.

The doors slid open. Four men in black suits stepped out. Ellis family bodyguards. Their eyes locked onto Emmie instantly. The lead guard held up a sleek tablet, a blinking red dot pulsing on the digital map displayed on the screen. "Your phone has a tracker, Mrs. Ellis," the guard stated, his voice devoid of any emotion. "Mr. Ellis insists on knowing your location at all times."

The men in black suits marched down the hallway. Their heavy footsteps sounded like a ticking clock. They formed a tight half-circle, trapping Emmie and Alistair against the wall.

The lead guard stepped forward. "Mrs. Ellis. Mr. Ellis has moved you to the Long Island estate for closer monitoring. You're coming with us."

Alistair stood up, throwing his frail body in front of Emmie. "Stand down! I am the steward of the Brandt family!"

The guard didn't even blink. He reached out and shoved Alistair hard in the chest. The old man stumbled backward, his shoulder slamming into the plaster wall.

Emmie shot up from the chair. She clutched the heavy envelope to her chest. "Do not touch him!" she snarled.

She looked at the glass window of the ICU. She couldn't let them drag her out screaming. She couldn't let her grandfather hear this.

She gritted her teeth, tasting blood on her tongue. "I will go."

She turned to Alistair, keeping her voice low. "Stay with him. I will handle this and come back."

As the elevator doors closed, one of the guards spoke into his radio. "Mr. Ellis, we have her. The Long Island estate—he says the transplant prep can be done there."

The guards grabbed her upper arms, half-carrying, half-dragging her into the elevator. The doors slid shut, cutting off Alistair's terrified face.

In the back of the black SUV, Emmie sat wedged between two guards. Her hands shook uncontrollably as she ripped the wax seal off the manila envelope.

She pulled out the first document. The letterhead belonged to the Mayo Clinic.

Patient: Silas Brandt. Diagnosis: Stage IV Lung Cancer. Multiple metastases. Terminal.

It felt like a sledgehammer hit the back of her skull. Her lungs stopped working. Huge, hot tears spilled over her lashes, landing on the crisp white paper.

She bit down on her lower lip so hard she tasted copper. She refused to make a sound in front of Daxton's men. Her heart physically ached, twisting into a tight, agonizing knot.

The drive to Long Island was a suffocating blur of gray highways and agonizing silence. Every mile that passed felt like a physical weight pressing down on her chest. Over an hour later, the SUV finally turned through the massive iron gates of the Ellis estate. The tires crunched along the long gravel path before the vehicle stopped smoothly in front of the towering stone fountain.

Emmie wiped her face with the back of her sleeve. She shoved the papers back into the envelope and pushed the car door open.

She stumbled onto the gravel driveway.

A silver Maybach was parked near the grand entrance.

Daxton was stepping out of the back seat. In his arms, he carried Hortensia. His movements were incredibly gentle, as if he were holding fragile glass.

Hortensia rested her head against Daxton's broad chest, a weak, pathetic smile playing on her lips.

The sight of them was a poisoned needle driven straight into Emmie's eyes. A wave of pure nausea rolled through her stomach.

Emmie clenched her fists. She took a deep breath and marched directly into Daxton's path.

Daxton stopped. He looked at her red, swollen eyes and the envelope in her hands. His jaw tightened in immediate annoyance.

Emmie swallowed her pride. She swallowed every ounce of dignity she had left.

"Daxton," her voice shook violently. "Please. Use the Ellis medical foundation. Get the best oncologists. Save my grandfather."

She took a step closer. "I will do the bone marrow transplant today. I will sign away everything. Just save him."

Hortensia let out a tiny, delicate cough against Daxton's chest. She shrank back as if Emmie terrified her.

Daxton's arms tightened protectively around Hortensia. His eyes turned into black ice.

"The Ellis family resources are not to be wasted on a dying old man," Daxton said. His voice was completely devoid of humanity.

"Do not use this pathetic excuse to delay the surgery again, Emmie. You are disturbing Hortensia."

He didn't look at her again. He stepped around her, carrying Hortensia up the marble stairs and into the massive house.

The heavy front doors slammed shut.

Emmie stood alone on the driveway. The cold wind whipped her hair. Her fingers crushed the edges of the envelope. The last shred of warmth in her heart froze solid.