The doorman nodded at Helena as she walked into the lobby. She kept her head down, walking briskly toward the elevators. She was so close. Just a few more days, and she would be gone.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. The one Dante had given her. She pulled it out and glanced at the screen. Alex Webb, Dante's assistant.

"Mrs. Velasquez," Alex said, his tone clipped and professional. "Mr. Velasquez is inquiring as to your location."

"It's none of his business, Alex," Helena replied, stepping into the elevator.

"Ma'am, he is insisting-"

Helena ended the call and turned the phone off. A cold knot formed in her stomach. He knew. He was tracking her, probably through the car or the phone. She should have expected it.

She stepped out of the elevator on the ground floor, intending to cross the lobby to the private residential wing. But before she could take three steps, the glass doors swung open.

A black Cadillac Escalade was parked illegally at the curb, hazard lights flashing. Dante stepped out of the back seat. He was still wearing the same clothes from last night, but his jaw was shadowed with stubble, and his eyes were dark with a rage that seemed to vibrate the air around him.

He stalked toward her, his long strides eating up the marble floor. The doormen suddenly found the ceiling very interesting.

Dante stopped a foot away from her, his chest heaving. "Where is it?"

Helena didn't flinch. "Where is what?"

"The necklace." His voice was a low, dangerous rumble. "The Van Cleef. The one you sold on Madison Avenue this afternoon."

So the shop had reported it. Of course they did. The clerk must have recognized the piece and called Dante's office immediately. Or maybe... maybe Dante had a tracker on it. He was capable of that. He was capable of anything.

"I sold it," Helena said clearly.

The muscle in Dante's jaw twitched. "You sold it."

"Yes."

"You sold a piece of Velasquez jewelry. My property." He took a step closer, towering over her. "To a fence."

"It's a consignment shop, Dante. And it was a gift. Legally, it's mine."

"Nothing is yours," he spat. "Not the clothes on your back, not the air you breathe. Everything you have comes from me."

"I needed the money," Helena shot back, refusing to be intimidated. "I need it to start my life away from you."

Dante's eyes narrowed. For a second, he looked almost startled by her bluntness. Then the cold mask slammed back down. He turned his head slightly, giving a sharp nod to the two men in dark suits who had emerged from the Escalade.

Before Helena could react, they were on either side of her. One grabbed her left arm, the other her right, their grips like iron vises.

"Let me go!" Helena struggled, trying to twist out of their hold. "Dante, you can't do this!"

"You are my wife," Dante said, his voice devoid of emotion. "Until I say otherwise, you will conduct yourself as such. Get in the car."

The guards lifted her off her feet, carrying her toward the open door of the SUV. Helena kicked out, her sneaker connecting with the doorframe, but it was useless. They shoved her into the back seat, sliding in beside her to trap her in the middle.

Dante climbed in after them, slamming the door shut. The sound was like a gunshot in the confined space. The driver pulled away from the curb before the door was even closed.

Helena was wedged between the two massive guards, the smell of their aftershave and Dante's fury filling the car. She looked at Dante, who was staring straight ahead, his profile like carved stone.

She reached into her purse, her fingers closing around the cashier's check and the folded papers inside. She pulled them out, throwing the sheaf of papers onto his lap.

"I want a divorce!" she yelled, the sound raw and desperate in the quiet car. "Right now! I'm done!"

Dante looked down at the papers. The words "Marital Dissolution" were printed at the top. He picked them up, his expression unreadable.

Then, with a swift, violent motion, he tore the papers in half. Then in quarters. He let the pieces flutter to the floorboard like confetti.

He pulled out his own phone, dialing a number. He put it on speaker.

"Alex," Dante said, his eyes locked on Helena's. "Freeze all accounts associated with Helena Velasquez. Credit cards, debit cards, the trust fund allowance. Everything. Now."

"Yes, sir," Alex's voice replied instantly.

Dante ended the call and tossed his phone onto the seat. He leaned toward Helena, a cruel, triumphant smile twisting his lips.

"You want a divorce?" he whispered. "You want to start a new life? Let's see how far you get without a dime to your name. You're nothing without me, Helena. And I'm going to make sure you never forget it."

The SUV cut through the Manhattan traffic, the city lights blurring past the tinted windows. Inside, the air was thick with a silence so heavy it pressed against Helena's eardrums.

The guards sat like statues on either side of her, their hands folded in their laps. Dante sat across from her, his ankle resting on his knee, his gaze boring into her.

"Tell me," Dante said, his voice slicing through the quiet. "Who put you up to this?"

Helena turned her head, staring out the window at the passing storefronts. She didn't answer.

"Was it Sloane?" Dante pressed, his tone hardening. "Did your lawyer friend tell you to sell the necklace? Did she tell you to file for divorce so you could challenge the prenup and take half my company?"

His words were like poison darts, each one aimed at a specific, painful memory. He truly believed she was a con artist. He had believed it from the very beginning.

"Is that what you think?" Helena asked, her voice flat. "That I'm doing this for money?"

"What else is there?" Dante scoffed. He shifted forward, his presence overwhelming the small space. "You think I don't see the game you're playing? The poor little girl who spilled wine on me at the charity gala, just looking for a rich husband?"

Helena's blood ran cold. The charity gala. The one night she wanted to forget more than anything.

Dante pulled out his phone, but he didn't swipe through photos. He made a call, his eyes never leaving hers. "Alex," he commanded, his voice sharp. "Send me the security stills from the Met Gala, two years ago. The ballroom entrance." A moment later, his phone buzzed. He turned the screen toward her. It was a grainy shot, but unmistakable. Helena, wearing a catering uniform that was two sizes too big, a tray of empty champagne glasses in one hand, a dark red stain spreading across the front of Dante's white tuxedo jacket.

"Quite the performance," Dante said, his lip curling. "The clumsy waitress. The damsel in distress. Except I checked. You weren't on the catering staff that night. You weren't a guest. How did you get in, Helena? How much did you pay someone to let you in?"

Helena's throat tightened. She couldn't tell him the truth. She couldn't explain that she had taken the place of a friend who was sick, that she had signed an NDA, that she had promised never to reveal how she had ended up in that room.

She said nothing.

Dante took her silence as an admission of guilt. He put the phone away, leaning back against the leather seat, a look of disgust on his face.

"That's what I thought," he said softly. "You're a fraud, Helena. From the very first second I met you. You saw a mark, and you went in for the kill."

He leaned in close, his face inches from hers. His breath was warm, smelling faintly of black coffee. "But you miscalculated. You think you can take me for a ride? You think you can threaten me with divorce? I own you. I own the roof over your head, the food in your stomach, and the shoes on your feet. And if you ever, ever try to humiliate me again, I will make sure you end up on the street with nothing but the clothes on your back."

He pulled back, his eyes raking over her with a cold, clinical detachment.

Helena felt something inside her snap. It wasn't her heart-that was already dead. It was the last thread of hope she had been clinging to, the tiny, pathetic belief that maybe, if she just explained herself, he would understand.

He didn't want to understand. He wanted to win. He needed her to be the villain so he could justify the way he treated her.

She looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time since he got in the car. He was a man driven by control, blinded by his own ego. He was pathetic.

She didn't say a word. She just turned her head back to the window and watched the city slide by.

Dante stared at her, waiting for tears, for begging, for anger. When none came, a flicker of annoyance crossed his features. He had expected a fight. He had wanted a fight so he could crush her.

Instead, she gave him nothing.

The car pulled into the underground garage of their building. The driver parked in the reserved spot, and the guards immediately got out, opening the door for Dante.

Dante stepped out, straightening his jacket. He looked at Helena, who was still sitting in the car, her face a mask of calm.

"Let's go," he ordered.

Helena took a deep breath and stepped out of the car. She walked past him toward the elevator, her spine straight, her head held high.

Dante watched her go, a strange, uneasy feeling settling in his gut. He had won. He had shut down her accounts, destroyed her papers, and reminded her of her place.

So why did it feel like he had just lost something important?

The penthouse was quiet when they walked in. The guards remained by the elevator, a silent, muscular barrier to the outside world.

Helena set her purse down on the console table and turned around. Sitting on the sofa in the living room was a man she had never seen before. He was in his fifties, wearing a tweed jacket and holding a leather medical bag.

"Dr. Evans," Dante said, nodding at the man. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."

Helena's stomach dropped. "What is this?"

Dante ignored her, walking over to the doctor. "The test, please."

"Test?" Helena repeated, her voice rising. "What test?"

Dante turned to face her, his arms crossed over his chest. "You want me to believe that you weren't trying to trap me with a pregnancy? Fine. Prove it."

Helena stared at him, disbelief washing over her. "You want me to take a pregnancy test? Now?"

"A blood test," Dr. Evans said, standing up. He looked uncomfortable, his eyes darting between the couple. "It's the most accurate method, Mrs. Velasquez. We can have the results in ten minutes."

"And if it's negative?" Helena asked, her gaze locked on Dante. "If I'm not pregnant, will you sign the divorce papers?"

Dante's jaw tightened. He didn't answer. He just gestured toward the bedroom. "Go."

Helena felt a wave of humiliation so intense it burned her skin. He was treating her like a criminal, demanding evidence of a crime she hadn't committed.

But she knew arguing was useless. The only way out of this nightmare was to go through it.

She walked into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. Dr. Evans followed, setting his bag down on the duvet. He pulled out a small tray, a vial, and a syringe.

Dante leaned against the doorframe, his arms still crossed, watching her like a hawk.

"Please make a fist, Mrs. Velasquez," Dr. Evans said softly.

Helena did. She stared at the abstract painting on the wall as the needle pricked her skin. She didn't flinch. She didn't look at the blood filling the vial. She just focused on the brushstrokes, the chaotic swirls of color that meant nothing.

When it was over, Dr. Evans capped the vial and left the room. Dante remained in the doorway.

The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Ten minutes felt like ten hours. Helena sat perfectly still, her hands folded in her lap. Dante stared out the window, the city lights reflecting in his dark eyes.

A soft knock broke the silence. Dr. Evans stepped back into the room, holding a small slip of paper. He handed it to Dante.

"The results, Mr. Velasquez. Her hCG levels are normal. She is not pregnant."

Dante took the paper. He glanced at it for a fraction of a second, then let his arm drop to his side. There was no apology in his eyes. No relief. Just a blank, stony indifference.

"Thank you, Doctor," Dante said. "Send the bill to Alex."

Dr. Evans nodded, giving Helena a sympathetic look before scurrying out of the room.

Dante walked over to the vanity table and dropped the test result onto the polished wood. He looked down at Helena, his expression cold.

"Happy now?" he asked. "No baby. No trap. Now stop this nonsense and act like a wife."

He turned and walked out, pulling the bedroom door shut behind him. A second later, she heard the click of the lock engaging.

He had locked her in.

Helena sat on the bed, staring at the closed door. She walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city lights glittering below. She tried the handle. It didn't budge. Of course. He would have had them fitted with smart locks he controlled remotely. This wasn't just a room; it was a gilded cage, and he held the only key.

Then she stood up and walked over to the vanity. She picked up the test result. The word "NEGATIVE" was stamped in bold red ink.

She had proven her innocence. She had shown him the truth. And his response was to lock her in her room like a disobedient child.

He didn't care about the truth. He only cared about control.

Helena looked at the paper in her hands. This was his evidence. His proof that she was innocent. And it meant absolutely nothing to him.

She gripped the edges of the paper and tore it in half. Then she tore it again, and again, until it was nothing but a pile of confetti on the vanity. She swept the pieces into the trash can, watching them fall.

She was done playing by his rules. She was done trying to prove herself to a man who refused to see her.

She walked over to the window and looked out at the city. Somewhere out there, a plane was waiting to take her to Berlin. She just had to find a way to get to it.