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.

Blackburn's fingers dug into Blair's waist. The grip was so tight it felt like he was trying to snap her ribs.

Blair let out a sharp gasp of pain. She grabbed his thick wrist and tried to pry his fingers off. He didn't budge.

Julian took a step forward. He placed himself directly in front of them, blocking their path.

He looked at Blackburn's hand, then up at Blackburn's furious face.

"Let her go," Julian said. His voice was calm, but firm. He pointed to the red sign on the wall. "This is a hospital. Keep your hands off her."

Blackburn let out a dark, ugly laugh.

He looked Julian up and down, his eyes lingering on the hospital badge clipped to the cheap white coat.

"You give me orders?" Blackburn sneered. His voice dripped with aristocratic arrogance. "You are a mechanic for brains. Know your place."

He pulled Blair tighter against him.

"She is my wife," Blackburn snarled. "She belongs to me. Stay away from her."

A few nurses and patients stopped in the hallway. They turned their heads, watching the scene unfold. Whispers started to echo off the walls.

Blair's face flushed with intense humiliation.

"Blackburn, stop it," she hissed, struggling against his arm. "People are looking."

He ignored her. He turned and started dragging her toward the exit.

Julian reached out to grab Blair's arm.

Instantly, two massive men in black suits stepped out from behind Blackburn. The bodyguards shoved Julian back hard against the wall, blocking him completely.

Blackburn dragged Blair through the sliding glass doors.

The freezing wind whipped her hair across her face.

A black stretch Lincoln Navigator was idling at the curb. The back door was wide open.

Blackburn shoved her inside. She fell onto the leather seat.

He climbed in after her and slammed the door shut.

The heavy thud cut off the sound of Julian yelling her name.

"Drive," Blackburn barked at the driver.

He pressed a button on the armrest. The thick, soundproof privacy partition rolled up, sealing them in the back.

The second the glass clicked into place, Blackburn lunged.

He grabbed Blair's chin with his large hand. He forced her head up, making her look at him.

His eyes were wild with jealousy.

"Is this why you want a divorce?" he roared. "Because you found a new bed to crawl into? You moved to Brooklyn so you could screw your old boyfriend in peace?"

Blair stared at him.

She didn't cry. She didn't scream.

The last ounce of emotion she had for this man died right then and there.

She raised her hand. She slapped his wrist hard, knocking his hand away from her face.

She rubbed her red jaw. She looked at him with eyes as dead and cold as a graveyard.

"Don't use your dirty, cheating mind to judge me, Blackburn," she said. Her voice was terrifyingly calm. "I am not you. I actually honor my commitments, no matter how unbearable the situation is. Before you try to threaten me with our contract, maybe you should look in the mirror and count how many rules you've already broken."

She leaned forward. She stared straight into his dark, furious eyes.

"I saw the video," Blair whispered. "I saw you and Kala. At Disney."

The color completely drained from Blackburn's face.

His mouth opened, but no sound came out. The temperature in the car dropped to absolute zero.