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.

Emmie stood in the biting wind until her legs went numb. The front door opened, and a maid coldly told her to go inside. Emmie moved like a corpse.

She walked into the opulent foyer. Two security guards stood at the base of the grand staircase, blocking the way to the second floor.

Mr. Stone, the head of security, stepped into her path. "Mrs. Ellis. Until the surgery, your access is restricted to the first-floor guest room and the back gardens."

Emmie didn't argue. She didn't even look at him. She turned and walked down the long hallway toward the guest wing.

Halfway down the hall, Hortensia appeared. She wore a luxurious silk robe. She held a teacup in one hand, her other hand casually resting on her collarbone.

A massive pink diamond necklace rested against her skin.

Hortensia stopped right in front of Emmie. She ran her fingers over the diamonds.

"Daxton bought this for me on the way home," Hortensia said, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. "To calm my nerves after you upset me."

Hortensia leaned in close. The smell of her heavy perfume made Emmie sick.

"Your grandfather is a useless, dying burden," Hortensia whispered maliciously. "He should just die and save us all the trouble."

Emmie's eyes snapped up. The dead emptiness in them vanished, replaced by a sharp, violent rage.

She raised her hand and slapped Hortensia across the face with every ounce of strength she possessed.

The sharp crack echoed loudly down the hallway.

Hortensia gasped, dropping her teacup. It shattered on the expensive rug, hot tea splashing everywhere. She grabbed her cheek, her eyes wide with genuine shock.

"Say one more word about my family," Emmie said, her voice a low, lethal whisper, "and I will do a lot worse than that."

A maid screamed from the end of the hall and ran forward. Hortensia instantly let her knees buckle, collapsing into the maid's arms, sobbing hysterically.

Emmie didn't look back. She climbed the narrow iron spiral staircase leading to the rooftop greenhouse.

The greenhouse was filled with the thick, calming scent of Provence lavender. Emmie had planted and cared for every single one of them because Daxton liked the smell.

Emmie walked to the tool bench. She picked up a pair of heavy, iron gardening shears.

She walked to the massive planter boxes. Her face was completely blank. She raised the shears and began to cut.

She hacked at the thick stems. Purple flowers fell to the dirt in clumps. The violent snapping of the branches filled the glass room. The overwhelming scent of crushed lavender became a smell of pure destruction.

When the planter was completely ruined, she dropped the shears. They clattered against the stone floor.

She walked to a wicker chair in the corner and sat down. Her hands were shaking.

She pulled the thick envelope onto her lap and reached inside.

Beneath the medical records lay a thick stack of legal paper. A Divorce Agreement, drafted by the most ruthless law firm in Manhattan.

On the last page, Silas Brandt had already signed his name as her guarantor. The terms were brutal. It demanded Daxton leave with nothing.

Tears spilled out of Emmie's eyes, dropping onto her grandfather's signature. He had known. He had always known how much she suffered.

At the very bottom of the envelope was a small, silver key and a handwritten note.

The safety deposit box at UBS in Zurich holds the true Brandt trust. It is yours. Leave him. Be yourself, my little Emmie.

Emmie pressed the note against her chest. The warmth of his love fought against the freezing cold in her veins.

Her eyes hardened. The sorrow vanished, leaving only a cold, unbreakable resolve.

She pulled a fountain pen from her coat pocket. She pulled the cap off.

Without a single second of hesitation, she pressed the nib to the paper. The scratching sound of the pen cutting into the thick paper was loud in the quiet greenhouse.

She signed her name. The six years of pathetic, unrequited love were officially dead.