The drive to the Hamptons usually took two hours, but Amira made it in ninety minutes, her foot heavy on the gas pedal of her aging sedan. Sterling had given her a choice: suspension without pay, or a "concierge visit" to the Dejesus estate to monitor Delisa's condition for the weekend.

It wasn't a choice. It was a sentence.

She pulled up to the wrought-iron gates of the estate. The security guard checked her ID and waved her through, but directed her away from the main driveway.

"Service entrance, Miss. Mr. Dejesus's orders."

Amira gripped the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white. She parked her modest car next to the fleet of luxury SUVs and sports cars. She grabbed her medical bag and walked to the side door.

Maria, the housekeeper who had known Amira for years, opened the door. She looked down at the floor, unable to meet Amira's eyes.

"I'm sorry, Miss Amira," Maria whispered. "He made me wait here for you."

"It's okay, Maria," Amira said softly.

She walked through the kitchen and into the main living room. The house was expansive, filled with art and furniture that cost more than most people earned in a lifetime.

Ethan and Delisa were lounging on the white sofa. Delisa was eating strawberries from a crystal bowl. Ethan was reading a script, highlighting lines with a yellow marker.

"You're late," Ethan said without looking up.

"Traffic," Amira lied. She set her bag down on the coffee table. "Let's get this over with. Vitals check."

Ethan pointed a finger at the floor near the rug. A glass of red juice had been spilled, staining the hardwood.

"Clean that up first. Someone might slip."

Amira stared at him. The air left her lungs. "I am a doctor, Ethan. Not a maid. Ask Maria."

Ethan stood up slowly. "Maria is busy. You are here. And you are whatever I pay you to be."

Delisa giggled, biting into a strawberry. "Oh, Ethan, don't be mean. She needs the money. Look at her shoes."

Amira looked down at her sensible work flats. She looked at the spill. If she refused, he would call Sterling. She would lose her job. She had student loans. She had nothing else.

She walked to the kitchen, grabbed a roll of paper towels, and returned. She knelt on the floor. The humiliation burned her cheeks, hot and fierce. She wiped up the juice, feeling Ethan's eyes on her back.

She stood up and threw the soiled towels into the trash.

"Vitals," she said, her voice hard.

She took Delisa's blood pressure. It was perfect. Of course it was.

"Recite the prenatal vitamin schedule," Ethan commanded.

Amira reached into her bag and pulled out a pamphlet. She handed it to him. "It's written here. Clear instructions."

Ethan slapped the pamphlet out of her hand. The paper fluttered to the floor.

"Read it. Out loud. Like you care."

Amira clenched her jaw so hard her teeth ached. She picked up the pamphlet.

"One tablet in the morning with food. One calcium supplement at night."

Ethan circled her, stepping closer. He reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His touch was possessive, terrifying.

Amira flinched violently, stepping back.

"Don't touch me," she hissed.

Ethan's face darkened. His eyes narrowed. "You used to beg for my touch. You used to crawl for it."

Delisa watched them, her eyes gleaming with a predatory excitement.

Suddenly, a loud crash echoed from the front of the house. It wasn't the sound of metal on metal, but of shattering glass and splintering wood, followed by a chorus of aggressive shouting.

They all turned toward the window.

The double doors of the main entrance burst open. The heavy oak had been forced from its hinges, not by a vehicle, but by the sheer weight of a crowd pushing against it. One of Delisa's PR assistants must have "accidentally" left it unlocked.

A swarm of people poured into the foyer. Cameras. Flashbulbs. Microphones. It was a chaotic wave of noise and blinding light. The paparazzi.

"Delisa! Delisa! Is it true you're pregnant?"

"Who is the father?"

"Look this way, Delisa!"

Delisa screamed, a high-pitched, theatrical sound. She shrank back into the sofa, covering her face, though Amira noticed she angled her body perfectly to show off her profile.

Ethan sprang into action. "Get out! This is private property!"

He jumped in front of Delisa, shielding her with his body, playing the role of the protective hero to perfection.

The mob pushed forward. They didn't care about Ethan's shouting. They wanted the shot.

Amira was standing near the doorway, frozen. The crowd surged. A heavy telephoto lens swung through the air as a photographer jostled for position.

The metal casing of the lens slammed into Amira's temple.

The pain was immediate and blinding. Amira cried out, stumbling back. She lost her footing and was shoved hard against the sharp edge of the doorframe. Her head cracked against the wood.

She slid to the floor, dazed. The world tilted. She brought her hand to her head and pulled it away. It was wet. Red.

Blood trickled down her forehead, stinging her eye, blurring her vision.

From her vantage point on the floor, she saw Ethan. He was cradling Delisa, kissing her forehead, whispering into her hair. He was looking right at the camera, his face a mask of righteous fury and devotion.

Then, his eyes flickered. He looked down. He saw Amira on the floor, blood dripping onto her white coat.

For a second, their eyes met. Amira waited for him to move. To help.

Ethan looked away. He turned his back to her, spreading his arms wide to block the cameras from Delisa, leaving Amira exposed to the trampling feet of the mob.

A photographer stepped on Amira's hand. She yanked it back, stifling a sob, curling into a ball to protect herself.

"Security!" Ethan bellowed.

Finally, the estate security team arrived, pushing the photographers back, wrestling cameras away. The room slowly cleared, leaving behind the silence of the aftermath.

Ethan helped Delisa stand. He checked her arms, her face. "Are you okay, baby? Did they hurt you?"

"I'm so scared, Ethan," Delisa sobbed, clinging to him.

Amira struggled to her feet. She was dizzy. The blood was dripping onto the floor now.

Ethan turned. He saw the blood on the antique Persian rug.

"You're bleeding on the carpet," he said. His voice was cold, annoyed. "That's silk."

Amira froze. The pain in her head was nothing compared to the hollow chasm opening in her chest. That was his concern. The rug.

She didn't say a word. She grabbed a tissue from her pocket and pressed it to her temple. She picked up her medical bag with her uninjured hand.

She walked to the broken front door. She was limping.

Ethan didn't call her back.

She got into her car. Her hands were shaking so badly she could barely put the key in the ignition. She looked in the rearview mirror. Her face was pale, streaked with blood. Her eyes were dead.

The love she had held onto for eight years didn't just die. It was murdered.

She started the car and drove away.

Amira sat in her car in the parking lot of a discreet cocktail lounge three towns over. She had stopped at a pharmacy for butterfly bandages and antiseptic. Using the rearview mirror, she cleaned the wound on her temple. It was jagged, ugly, but it would heal.

She needed a drink. The pain in her head was throbbing, but the pain in her chest was a screaming void.

She pulled out her phone. She opened the encrypted app. She hesitated. What was she doing? Showing her weakness to a stranger? But he wasn't just a stranger. He was an exit. This injury, this humiliation, was proof that she needed that exit now. It was a piece of evidence, not a plea for sympathy.

She took a selfie. The bandage, the bloodshot eyes, the exhaustion. She sent it to Carleton.

Rough day.

The reply came instantly.

Who did this?

The three words felt like a warm blanket. He didn't ask "what happened." He asked "who." He knew there was a villain.

Work hazard, she typed back.

She went inside. The lounge was dark, smelling of expensive bourbon and cedar. Zoe was already in a booth in the back, waving frantically.

Amira slid into the booth. Zoe gasped.

"Oh my god, Amira. Your face."

"Double vodka," Amira told the waitress who appeared. "Neat."

She drank the first one in one gulp. Then she told Zoe everything. The proposal. The contract. The plan to leave in thirty days.

The lounge door opened. A gust of wind and loud laughter blew in.

Amira stiffened. She knew that laugh.

It was Ethan. He walked in with his entourage-Landon, Xavier, and a few other hangers-on. They were celebrating. They took the large leather sofa grouping right behind Amira's booth.

Amira slid down in her seat, hiding behind the ornate wooden pillar. Zoe's eyes went wide. "Don't look," she whispered.

Amira didn't look. She listened.

"Where's the good doctor tonight?" Xavier asked, his voice carrying over the soft jazz music.

Ethan laughed. "Probably crying in her room. Or cleaning up her mess."

"She tried to break up with me today," Ethan announced, his tone bragging.

The table erupted in laughter. "No way," Landon said. "She's got nowhere to go."

"Exactly," Ethan said. "She's like a stray dog. You kick her, you starve her, she still comes back wagging her tail. It's pathetic, really."

Amira gripped her glass. Her knuckles turned white. The glass felt like it might shatter in her hand.

"Delisa is a queen," Ethan continued. "Amira is just... a placeholder. She's cheap. Low maintenance. That's why I kept her around so long. She's convenient."

Tears pricked Amira's eyes, hot and angry. She swallowed them down with the second vodka. She wouldn't cry for him. Not ever again.

She signaled Zoe. "We're leaving."

They stood up. Amira kept her head down, using her hair to hide her face. She moved quickly toward the exit.

But her purse strap caught on the corner of the table. It pulled tight, knocking a heavy crystal ashtray onto the floor.

Smash.

The sound cut through the lounge's refined chatter.

Ethan turned around.

His eyes landed on Amira. He saw the bandage. He saw the look in her eyes.

His smirk vanished.

"Amira?"