Blair stared at the cracked screen of her phone on the floor.

The words blurred together.

She dropped to her knees. The hard marble bruised her skin, but she didn't feel it.

She snatched the phone up. Her fingers were shaking so violently she nearly dropped it again.

She pressed Chaz's name on the screen. She held the phone to her ear. Her breathing was loud and ragged in the empty room.

The line rang once. Twice.

"You have reached the voicemail of..."

Blair pulled the phone away. Her chest heaved. She pressed end and dialed again.

Voicemail.

She stood up. Her legs felt like they were made of lead.

She paced across the living room. She needed noise. The silence of the penthouse was suffocating her.

She grabbed the remote and turned on the massive flat-screen TV on the wall.

The CNN logo flashed across the screen.

A red banner scrolled across the bottom.

BREAKING NEWS: SEC RAIDS MORGAN GROUP HEADQUARTERS.

Blair stopped walking.

Her blood ran cold. The temperature in her body plummeted.

On the screen, federal agents in dark windbreakers were carrying cardboard boxes out of her family's Wall Street building. Yellow police tape blocked the revolving glass doors.

Her knees gave out.

She hit the hardwood floor hard. A sharp pain shot up her shins.

She couldn't breathe. The air in the room was gone. The century-old Morgan financial dynasty was crumbling on live television.

Then, her phone vibrated in her hand.

She looked down. It wasn't Chaz.

The caller ID read: Mount Sinai Hospital - Emergency.

Blair's stomach dropped into a bottomless pit.

She swiped the screen. She pressed the phone to her ear.

"Hello?" her voice was a harsh whisper.

"Is this Blair Morgan?" a woman asked.

"Yes."

"Your father, Alastair Morgan, was just brought in. He suffered a massive myocardial infarction. He is in resuscitation right now."

The phone slipped an inch down her cheek.

She didn't grab a coat. She didn't change out of her thin cashmere sweater.

She ran out of the penthouse.

The New York winter wind hit her like a wall of ice as she ran out of the lobby. The cold bit into her skin, but she couldn't feel it.

She flagged down a yellow cab.

"Mount Sinai. Fast," she choked out.

The hospital smelled like bleach and sterile alcohol. The scent immediately made her nauseous.

She ran to the ICU desk. Her lungs burned.

A doctor in green scrubs walked up to her. He held a clipboard.

"Ms. Morgan?"

"Where is he?" Blair asked. Her fingernails dug into her palms, breaking the skin.

"He is stabilized on an ECMO machine," the doctor said. His face was grim. He handed her a piece of paper. "This is his critical condition notice. And this is the billing department's estimate. We need a deposit of one hundred thousand dollars to keep the machines running."

Blair looked at the paper. The numbers swam before her eyes.

She pulled her wallet from her purse. She took out her black American Express card. The one tied to the Morgan family trust.

She handed it to the clerk behind the desk.

The clerk swiped it.

The machine beeped. A harsh, angry red light flashed.

DECLINED.

The clerk frowned. She tried it again.

DECLINED.

"Your accounts have been frozen, ma'am," the clerk said. Her voice was flat. She didn't care. "Federal order."

Blair's throat closed up.

She grabbed the card. She backed away from the desk.

She pushed through the heavy fire doors into the stairwell.

It was dark. It smelled like dust and old concrete.

She sat on the cold steps. She pulled up Blackburn's private number.

She hated him. She hated asking him for anything. But her father was dying.

She pressed call.

It rang four times. Then, voicemail.

She hung up. She called again.

Voicemail.

She called fifteen times. Her thumb cramped from pressing the screen.

Nothing.

Her fingers were completely numb. She opened the Twitter app. She searched for Paige Mercer, his assistant. She needed to know where he was.

The trending tab loaded first.

The number one hashtag caught her eye. GilbertDisney

She clicked it.

A video started playing. It had two million views.

It was dark. The sky was lit up with massive, colorful fireworks. The Disney castle glowed in the background. The timestamp in the corner showed it was from the night before, when he had claimed to be locked in a board meeting.

The camera zoomed in on a VIP balcony.

Blackburn was standing there.

He took off his heavy wool coat. The same bespoke design she had seen him wear on countless winter nights.

He wrapped it around the shoulders of a woman.

Below the video, a caption and a tagged username appeared: "Kala @nurse_kala – Disney night "

The nurse from the photo. The one Blair had stared at hours ago, unable to place. Now she had a name. Kala.

Blair's lungs stopped working.

A sharp, tearing pain ripped through her chest. It felt like her heart was physically splitting in half.

Her fingers went slack.

The phone slipped from her hand.

It hit the concrete step and bounced down the stairs. The screen shattered into a spiderweb of glass.

Blair sat in the dark. She didn't cry.

She was completely, utterly empty.

The morning sun offered no warmth.

Blair stood in front of the Gilbert Group headquarters on Wall Street. Her eyes were red and swollen. Her throat was raw.

She walked toward the towering glass doors.

A security guard stepped in front of the turnstiles. He crossed his arms.

"I need to see my husband," Blair said. Her voice was hoarse.

"Mr. Gilbert is not in the building, ma'am," the guard said. He didn't move.

The click-clack of red-soled heels echoed across the marble lobby.

Paige Mercer, Blackburn's chief assistant, walked toward them. She wore a pristine white suit. Her lips were painted a sharp red.

Paige stopped on the other side of the turnstile. She looked Blair up and down. Her eyes lingered on Blair's wrinkled cashmere sweater.

"Mrs. Gilbert," Paige said. Her tone was dripping with condescension. "The CEO is in Orlando handling important private matters. He cannot be disturbed."

Blair gripped the metal bar of the turnstile. "My father is dying. I need to speak to him."

Paige leaned closer. Her voice dropped, but it was loud enough for the passing employees to hear.

"We all saw the news about the Morgan Group's fraud, Blair. Don't bring your family's mess here to bleed Mr. Gilbert dry. He has already instructed us to block all calls from you."

The employees in the lobby stopped walking. They whispered to each other. They pointed at Blair.

Their eyes were full of mockery.

Blair's face burned. A wave of intense humiliation washed over her.

She let go of the metal bar. She straightened her spine. She turned around and walked out of the building.

She dragged her exhausted body back to Mount Sinai Hospital.

The chief doctor was waiting for her outside the ICU. He held a chart.

"Ms. Morgan," he said. "If the deposit is not paid by noon, hospital policy dictates we must disconnect the ECMO machine. I am sorry."

Blair didn't say a word. She walked past him and went straight into the public restroom.

She turned on the faucet. The water was freezing. She splashed it onto her pale face.

She gripped the edges of the porcelain sink. She looked up at the mirror.

Her eyes dropped to her left hand.

The fluorescent light bounced off her ring finger.

A ten-carat pink diamond sat there. It was flawless. It was the Gilbert family heirloom. It was the symbol of her cage.

Blair didn't hesitate.

She grabbed the diamond. She pulled.

The ring slid over her knuckle and came off.

She walked out of the hospital. She took the subway to Fifth Avenue.

She walked down a narrow, hidden alleyway. She pushed open the heavy iron door of an exclusive pawnshop.

The shop smelled like old wood and dust.

An elderly appraiser with silver hair sat behind a thick glass counter.

Blair placed the ring on the velvet mat.

The appraiser picked it up. He screwed a jeweler's loupe into his right eye. He examined the stone.

He lowered the loupe. He looked at Blair. His eyes widened in shock. He recognized the Gilbert diamond.

"I need cash. Now," Blair said. Her voice was dead.

The appraiser saw the desperation in her eyes. He smiled a greedy smile.

"This is a highly recognizable piece," he said. "If you want a collateral loan, I can give you one hundred thousand dollars cash right now. But the interest rate is steep. If you don't redeem it within thirty days, the ring becomes my property."

"Give me the loan contract," Blair demanded.

He slid a piece of paper across the counter. Blair picked up a pen. She signed her name. She didn't care about the exorbitant interest. She just needed her father to live.

She walked out with a bank draft.

She ran back to the hospital. She slapped the draft onto the billing counter.

The printer buzzed. It spit out a long receipt.

Blair walked back to the ICU. She stood in front of the glass window.

She watched her father's chest rise and fall. The steady beep of the heart monitor filled the room.

The tight knot in her chest finally loosened. She let out a long, shaky breath.

She looked down at her left hand.

Her ring finger was bare. There was a faint, pale indentation where the diamond used to sit.

She realized something in that moment. This marriage was never a partnership. It was an execution block. And it was slowly killing her.

Blair reached into her pocket. She pulled out her phone with the shattered screen.

She dialed her family's private lawyer.

"Draft the divorce papers," she said. "I want out."

Three days later.

The evening sun bled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Tribeca penthouse. It painted the white walls a violent shade of red.

The front door opened.

Blackburn walked in. He smelled like Florida sunshine and expensive cologne.

He tossed his car keys onto the console table. He pulled at his tie, loosening it. He looked tired.

Blair sat perfectly still on the white sofa.

On the marble coffee table in front of her sat a thin manila folder.

Blackburn walked toward the kitchen. He stopped when he saw her. He unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. His eyes dropped to the table.

Blair leaned forward. She placed her fingers on the folder. She pushed it across the smooth marble until it stopped at the edge, right in front of him.

Blackburn looked down.

The title was printed in bold, black ink. Petition for Dissolution of Marriage.

He stared at the words.

Then, he laughed.

It was a cold, harsh sound. It held zero amusement.

He thought she was playing a game. He thought she was throwing a tantrum because he didn't give her the money to save her bankrupt family.

He reached down and picked up the papers.

He gripped the top of the stack. He pulled his hands apart.

The sound of thick paper tearing echoed in the quiet room.

He ripped the contract in half. Then he ripped it again.

He tossed the shredded pieces into the metal trash can next to the desk.

He placed both hands flat on the marble table. He leaned over it. He looked down at her.

"Stop this," he warned. His voice was dangerously low. "My patience is gone. I don't have time for your pathetic games."

Blair didn't flinch.

She stood up. She was shorter than him, but she didn't back away. She looked straight into his dark, angry eyes.

"I am not playing a game," she said. She enunciated every word. "I want a divorce."

Blackburn's jaw clenched. The muscle in his cheek ticked.

A flash of shock crossed his eyes, instantly replaced by a raging fire.

His ego was bleeding. His absolute authority was being challenged by the woman he owned.

He stepped around the table. He moved too fast for her to react.

His large hand shot out. His fingers wrapped around her right wrist like an iron vice.

He yanked her forward.

Blair stumbled. Her chest crashed against his hard torso.

"You crawled into my bed for money," he spat. His breath was hot against her face. "And now that your family is ruined, you think you can threaten me for a bigger payout?"

Blair twisted her arm. "Let me go!"

He tightened his grip. He wrapped his other arm around her waist, trapping her against him.

He pushed her backward. The back of her knees hit the sofa. She fell onto the cushions, and he followed her down, pinning her in place.

He lowered his head. He aimed for her mouth. It wasn't a kiss. It was a punishment. It was a violent assertion of ownership.

Blair turned her face away. His lips scraped hard against her cheek.

She panicked. She thrashed her arms wildly.

Her left hand swept across the coffee table.

Her elbow slammed into the heavy crystal vase.

The vase tipped over. It rolled off the edge of the marble.

It hit the hardwood floor and exploded.

The crash was deafening.

A large, jagged shard of crystal bounced up. It sliced straight across the fleshy part of Blair's left forearm, narrowly missing the crucial tendons of her wrist.

The pain was sharp and immediate.

Bright red blood welled up instantly. It dripped down her pale skin.

It fell onto the pristine white Persian rug.

Drip. Drip.

The red stains bloomed like dark roses on the white wool.