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?"

The heavy oak doors of the estate swung open.

Warm, golden light from the massive crystal chandelier spilled out into the cold night air.

The grand living room was packed. Men in tuxedos and women in designer gowns held crystal champagne flutes. The low hum of wealthy conversation filled the space.

As Blair and Blackburn stepped inside, the talking stopped.

Dozens of eyes turned to look at them.

Blair sucked in a sharp breath. She forced the corners of her mouth up. She plastered on the hollow, flawless smile she had perfected over three years.

Blackburn's hand slid from her arm down to her waist. He pulled her flush against his hip. His fingers dug possessively into the black silk of her dress. To the room, it looked like an act of deep devotion.

Marion Gilbert walked toward them.

Her heels clicked sharply against the marble floor. She wore a dark emerald gown. Her eyes were as cold as the diamonds around her neck.

She stopped in front of them. She didn't smile.

She looked Blair up and down, her gaze lingering on the dark circles under Blair's eyes.

Marion leaned in. She kept her voice low, but the venom was thick.

"I see the federal raid on your father's office hasn't ruined your appetite for our champagne," Marion sneered. "The Morgan name is a stain on this family. You are an embarrassment."

Blair's stomach twisted. She curled her hands into tight fists. Her fingernails dug into her palms. She kept her smile frozen on her face.

Blackburn's arm tightened around Blair's waist like a steel band.

He looked down at his mother. His eyes were flat and dangerous.

"Blair is my wife," Blackburn said. His voice was smooth, but it carried a lethal warning. "Her family's issues are my business. Do not speak to her like that again."

Marion's jaw tightened. A flash of anger crossed her face, but she recognized the absolute authority in her son's tone. She let out a short, bitter huff and turned away.

The surrounding relatives quickly looked away, pretending they hadn't heard.

Blackburn guided Blair through the crowd. They walked up the grand sweeping staircase.

They stopped in front of the heavy wooden door of the master bedroom.

Blackburn pushed it open.

The room smelled strongly of antiseptic and old lavender.

Augusta Gilbert lay in the center of a massive four-poster bed. She looked frail. Her skin was pale and papery. But when she saw them, her dull eyes lit up.

Blair walked quickly to the side of the bed. She sat on the edge of the mattress. She took Augusta's thin, cold hand in hers.

"Grandma," Blair whispered. Her throat felt tight.

Blackburn stood right behind Blair. He placed a heavy hand on her shoulder.

Augusta reached out her other hand. She grabbed Blackburn's wrist and pulled it down, forcing his hand to rest on top of Blair's.

The old woman patted their stacked hands.

"You two," Augusta croaked. Her voice was weak. "I don't have much time left. I want to see a great-grandchild. I want the Gilbert heir."

Blair's entire body went rigid. Her lungs stopped working. She couldn't breathe.

Blackburn didn't miss a beat.

He flipped his hand over and intertwined his fingers with Blair's. His thumb stroked the back of her hand in slow, agonizingly tender circles.

"Don't worry, Grandmother," Blackburn said softly. "We are working on it. We will give you an heir soon."

As he spoke, he tilted his head. He looked down at Blair. His dark eyes were filled with a terrifying, silent threat. Play along.

Blair swallowed the bile rising in her throat. She forced a nod.

Augusta smiled. She closed her eyes and let out a tired sigh.

Ten minutes later, they walked out of the bedroom.

They walked down the long, carpeted hallway. They turned the corner, stepping into a dark alcove where the security cameras couldn't reach.

The second they were out of sight, Blackburn dropped his hand from her waist.

As the warmth of his touch vanished, the freezing reality of their arrangement returned. He took a step back. His long fingers mindlessly rubbed the seam of his tailored trousers, as if trying to erase the ghost of her touch from his skin. He turned his face away, his jaw set into a hard, unforgiving line of pure ice.

Blair watched him. She reached up and rubbed her aching right wrist.

She let out a dry, humorless laugh.

"You should move to Hollywood," Blair said, her voice dripping with pure acid. "That performance in there? You deserve an Oscar."