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.

The next morning.

The first rays of sunlight pierced the gray clouds over Manhattan.

Blackburn had left for Wall Street at six o'clock.

Blair stood in the center of the massive walk-in closet.

She ignored the rows of Chanel suits and Hermes bags. She walked to the very back. She pulled out two old, scuffed canvas suitcases.

She packed three pairs of jeans, a few plain sweaters, and her toiletries.

She opened the bottom drawer of the dresser. She pulled out five worn, leather-bound books of violin sheet music. They belonged to her mother.

She zipped the suitcases shut. She didn't take a single diamond. She didn't take a single dollar.

She walked out of the penthouse and never looked back.

An hour later, a yellow cab dropped her off in front of a crumbling brownstone in Brooklyn. It was an old Morgan family property that the feds hadn't seized yet.

Blair pushed the heavy wooden door open.

A thick cloud of dust hit her face. She coughed violently, covering her mouth with her sleeve.

She dropped her bags. She rolled up her sleeves. She spent the next five hours scrubbing the floors and wiping down the old furniture, trying to find anything she could sell.

By three in the afternoon, her muscles were screaming.

She grabbed a thermos of homemade soup and took the subway to Mount Sinai Hospital.

She walked down the long, sterile corridor toward the ICU.

She hadn't eaten in two days. The harsh fluorescent lights above her started to flicker.

A sudden wave of extreme dizziness hit her. The floor tilted sharply to the left.

Blair stumbled. Her legs gave out.

She pitched forward, dropping the thermos.

Before she hit the linoleum floor, two strong hands grabbed her shoulders.

"I've got you," a deep, warm voice said.

Blair blinked hard. The dark spots in her vision cleared.

She looked up.

A tall man in a crisp white doctor's coat was holding her up. He had soft brown eyes and messy blonde hair.

He stared at her face. His eyes widened in shock.

"Blair? Blair Morgan?" he asked.

Blair frowned. She focused on his face.

It was Julian Frye. They had studied together at the Juilliard School of Music before he switched to medicine. He was now a top neurosurgeon.

"Julian," Blair breathed out.

Julian looked at her pale, sunken cheeks. His eyes filled with genuine concern.

"What happened to you?" he asked softly. "I saw the news about your family. Do you need help? Do you need money?"

Blair shook her head. "No. I'm okay. I'm just tired."

Julian noticed a dark smudge of dirt on her left cheek from cleaning the old house.

Without thinking, he raised his hand. He pressed his thumb against her skin and gently wiped the dirt away.

At that exact second, the heavy double doors at the end of the corridor slid open.

Blackburn strode into the hospital.

He had tracked the hidden GPS chip he installed in Blair's phone.

His dark eyes swept the hallway. They locked onto the two figures standing near the window.

He didn't step forward immediately. He stood frozen in the shadows of the corridor, his chest tightening as he watched them. He saw the way Blair looked at the man-her guard completely down, a soft, vulnerable expression on her pale face that she had never, not once, directed at him. A dark, poisonous coil of jealousy twisted violently in his gut.

Then, he saw Julian's thumb on Blair's cheek.

A violent, blinding rage exploded in Blackburn's chest.

He marched down the hallway. His heavy footsteps echoed like gunshots.

Before Blair could turn her head, a massive hand clamped down on her waist.

Blackburn yanked her backward with brutal force.

Blair gasped as her back slammed into his rock-hard chest.

Blackburn wrapped his arm tightly around her stomach, pinning her against him like a possessive animal.

He lifted his chin. He glared at Julian. The air in the hallway instantly froze.