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."

Midnight.

The Agusta AW139 private helicopter sat on the manicured lawn of the Long Island estate.

The massive rotor blades spun, slicing through the freezing air. The deafening roar of the engine vibrated in Blair's chest.

She sat in the plush leather seat inside the cabin. She stared out the window at the dark, endless ocean below.

Blackburn sat directly across from her.

He unlatched his leather briefcase. He reached inside and pulled out a thick stack of legal documents.

He tossed the papers onto the small mahogany table between them.

"This is the transfer deed for the Cayman Islands trust fund," Blackburn yelled over the noise of the engine.

He reached into his pocket. He pulled out a solid black titanium credit card. He slapped it down on top of the papers.

"The card has no limit," he continued. His eyes were cold and calculating. "The trust generates enough liquid cash to pay off the SEC fines your father owes. Take it."

He leaned back in his seat. He crossed his arms. He looked like a king throwing scraps to a starving peasant.

He was trying to buy her submission. He was trying to pay her to stop talking about divorce.

But he didn't say a word about Kala. He didn't mention the fireworks in Disney. He didn't think he needed to explain his infidelity.

Blair looked at the black card.

A deep, hollow sadness washed over her.

She didn't reach for the money. She placed her hands flat on the edge of the mahogany table.

She pushed the table forward. The wheels squeaked against the floor tracks. She pushed it until the papers and the card were practically touching his knees.

She looked up. Her eyes met his.

"I don't want your money," Blair said. Her voice was steady, cutting through the mechanical roar. "I want my freedom."

Blackburn's face darkened. The muscles in his jaw bulged.

He thought she was being greedy. He thought she was holding out for a bigger piece of his empire.

He uncrossed his arms. He leaned forward. He reached deep into the bottom of his briefcase.

He pulled out an older, slightly yellowed document. It was over a hundred pages long.

He slammed it onto the table. The loud smack echoed in the small cabin.

It was their prenuptial agreement. The one she had signed three years ago under extreme duress.

Blackburn tapped his index finger hard against a specific paragraph on the first page.

"Read it," he commanded. His voice was pure venom. "If you file for divorce, you walk away with absolutely nothing. You leave with the clothes on your back."

Blair stared at the paper. She didn't blink.

"I know," she said.

Blackburn sneered. "You don't just leave with nothing, Blair. There is a penalty clause. If you initiate the split, you automatically forfeit any claim to marital assets, and you are legally required to reimburse the Gilbert trust for every single personal expense paid on your behalf over the last three years. That is roughly twelve million dollars."

He leaned closer. His dark eyes locked onto hers like a predator.

"Your family is already bankrupt. If you push this, I will call in that debt. I will personally make sure your brother Chaz goes to federal prison for the rest of his life."

Blair's breath hitched.

She bit down hard on her lower lip. The metallic taste of blood instantly flooded her mouth.

She looked at the man sitting across from her. He was a monster. He was using her brother's life to chain her to a dead marriage.

The helicopter suddenly dropped.

A pocket of severe turbulence hit the aircraft. The cabin shook violently.

Blackburn grabbed the armrests to steady himself.

Blair didn't move. She didn't reach for support.

She curled her fingers into tight fists. Her nails dug deep into her palms.

She closed her eyes. She shut out his face. She shut out the noise.

She made her decision. She would not let him win.