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.

Emmie carefully folded the signed divorce agreement. She slid it, along with the silver key, into the hidden inner pocket of her trench coat.

She picked up the silver lighter from the table. She held the flame to her grandfather's handwritten note, watching it burn until nothing but black ash fell into the ashtray.

She stood up and walked out of the greenhouse. The sky outside was just beginning to turn a pale, bruised purple.

She went to the guest room, washed her face, and changed into a simple, gray loungewear set. Her expression was as calm as a stagnant pool of water.

She had a plan. If she was going to leave, she would leave on her own terms—and she needed to expose Hortensia's lies before the family court. A public breakfast where Hortensia's own hand would trigger her allergy... that would be the perfect evidence. She moved with cold, deliberate precision.

She walked into the massive, open-concept kitchen. Agnes, the head cook, saw her and immediately looked down, scrubbing a spotless counter to avoid eye contact.

Emmie ignored her. She opened the industrial refrigerator and pulled out the ingredients.

She moved with mechanical precision. She chopped celery, potatoes, and leeks, simmering a large pot of vegetable chowder—no seafood at all. She knew Hortensia's allergy all too well. On the side, she toasted whole wheat bread and prepared a small bowl of plain oatmeal.

Footsteps clicked against the hardwood floor. Daxton's mother, Meredith, and his sister, Alaia, walked into the dining room.

Meredith wrinkled her nose the second she saw Emmie carrying the soup tureen. "God, the whole house smells like a fish market," she sneered.

Alaia rolled her eyes, pulling out her chair. "She's practically a maid anyway. It's the only thing she's good for. Don't forget the lemon tart you promised me for tomorrow. I want it with extra zest. "

Emmie set the tureen down. Her face didn't change. She turned around and walked back to the kitchen to get her own coffee.

Hortensia floated down the stairs. She wore a pristine white dress. Her left cheek was visibly red—she had clearly pinched it to make the slap mark look worse.

Hortensia walked to the table. "Good morning, Mrs. Ellis," she said softly, turning her head just enough to make sure Meredith saw her cheek.

Meredith's eyes flicked to the red mark, then to Emmie. She knew exactly who had done it—the maid had reported everything. But she chose to say nothing, letting Hortensia play her victim role. "Hortensia, darling, what happened to your face?"

Hortensia's eyes filled with tears. She looked terrified, glancing toward the kitchen where Emmie was standing. She bit her lip and looked down.

Emmie walked out with her black coffee. She didn't look at them. She sat at the absolute furthest end of the long dining table.

Hortensia wiped a fake tear. "It's fine. I just want peace." To prove her point, she reached for the bowl of vegetable chowder.

She picked up a silver spoon from the center of the table and took a sip.

Emmie's eyes swept the table. The serving spoon Hortensia reached for had been used earlier for a crab salad—left over from last night's dinner that Emmie hadn't attended. She saw the tiny shred of crab meat still clinging to the handle. Hortensia must have seen it too.

Ten seconds later, Hortensia dropped the spoon. It clattered loudly against the china.

Hortensia slid off her chair, crashing heavily to the floor. Her fingers clawed frantically at the expensive Persian rug. She let out a horrific, high-pitched wheezing sound as her airway rapidly swelled shut, her eyes bulging with genuine panic as she fought for a single breath of air.

Meredith jumped up, knocking her chair backward. "Get the EpiPen! Call Daxton! Now!"

The dining room exploded into chaos. Maids ran in every direction.

Emmie sat perfectly still at the end of the table. She took a slow sip of her black coffee. Her cold eyes stared at Hortensia writhing on the floor.

Emmie knew exactly what she had done. She had made Hortensia a separate bowl of plain oatmeal. There was no seafood anywhere near her setting.

Emmie's eyes flicked to the spoon Hortensia had dropped. A tiny, microscopic shred of crab meat clung to the silver handle.

Hortensia had deliberately grabbed a contaminated serving spoon to eat the soup. She was weaponizing her own lethal allergy.

Heavy, frantic footsteps pounded down the stairs. Daxton burst into the dining room. His tie was undone, his hair messy.

He saw Hortensia on the floor. Then, his head snapped up.

His dark eyes locked onto Emmie. The look in his eyes was pure, unadulterated murder.