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.

The sharp sound of shattering crystal and the sudden smell of copper stopped Blackburn cold.

He froze.

The madness drained from his dark eyes. Reason snapped back into his brain.

He let go of her waist. He pushed himself off the sofa.

He stared at the blood dripping from Blair's wrist onto the white rug. His chest he heave. His eyebrows pulled together in a tight, confused knot. He opened his mouth to speak.

Before he could form a word, a sharp ringing pierced the air.

It was his private cell phone. It was still in his suit jacket pocket by the door.

Blackburn closed his mouth. He turned his back on her. He walked to the entryway and pulled the phone out.

He looked at the screen. It was his mother, Marion Gilbert.

He swiped to answer.

"Yes," he said. His voice was tight.

Marion's voice was loud and sharp. It carried through the quiet room.

"Blackburn. You and Blair need to come to the Long Island estate immediately. Your grandmother Augusta has been discharged from the hospital. She is asking for both of you."

Blackburn rubbed the bridge of his nose. "We will be there."

He hung up the phone.

He turned around. The brief moment of vulnerability was gone. He was the cold, calculating CEO again.

He pointed a long finger at the hallway.

"Go to the bathroom," he ordered. "Bandage that cut. We are leaving in ten minutes."

Blair sat on the sofa. She held her bleeding wrist. She looked at him with pure hatred.

"I am not going," she said. "I am not playing the happy wife for your family."

Blackburn took a step toward her. His eyes narrowed.

"Augusta is the only person in that house who treats you like a human being," he said coldly. "She just got out of the ICU. Are you really going to break an old woman's heart tonight?"

Blair bit the inside of her cheek. The taste of blood filled her mouth.

She hated him. But he was right about Augusta.

She stood up. She walked past him without a word.

She went into the master bathroom. She opened the medical cabinet. She grabbed a bottle of rubbing alcohol and poured it directly over the open wound.

The alcohol burned like liquid fire. She hissed, but she didn't cry.

She wrapped a thick layer of white gauze around her wrist. She secured it with tape.

She walked into the closet. She pulled out a long-sleeved black silk dress. It covered the bandages perfectly.

Ten minutes later, they walked into the elevator.

The air inside the small metal box was thick and suffocating. Neither of them spoke.

They walked out to the underground garage. The driver was waiting by the black Rolls-Royce Phantom.

The driver opened the back door.

Blair slid in. She pressed her body against the far left door.

Blackburn got in. He sat flush against the right door.

The leather seat between them felt like a massive, frozen ocean.

The car drove through the dark streets of New York. The city lights flashed across their faces, but the silence remained unbroken.

An hour later, the heavy iron gates of the Long Island estate swung open. The car rolled up the gravel driveway.

The driver stepped out and quickly opened Blair's door, while a groundskeeper hurried to open Blackburn's side.

Blair stepped out into the freezing night. As soon as her heels touched the gravel, Blackburn was already there. He had rounded the back of the Phantom with terrifying speed.

His hand shot out.

He grabbed her right arm. The uninjured one.

His grip was painfully tight. He pulled her hard against his side.

He leaned down. His lips brushed against her ear.

"Fix your face," he whispered. His breath was warm, but his words were ice. "Smile. You are going to be the perfect, loving wife tonight. Do you understand?"