The taxi dropped her off in front of a rundown, red-brick walk-up in Brooklyn. Ciara paid the driver and stepped onto the cracked, wet pavement.

She used an old, slightly rusted key to open the main door, then climbed three flights of stairs. The smell of dust and old books hit her as she unlocked the door to her old apartment.

This was her secret. Her sanctuary. The place where she wasn't Mrs. Webb, but LUNA, the anonymous, sought-after designer behind a cult couture label.

She dropped her soaked blazer on the floor. She walked to the far wall and moved a large, abstract painting to the side, revealing a flush-mounted safe.

She entered the code. The safe clicked open.

Inside were stacks of cash, several fake passports under different names, and the keys to a series of offshore accounts. This was her freedom. Her escape fund.

A sudden, violent banging on the door made her jump. The old wood rattled in its frame.

Ciara's blood ran cold. She slammed the safe shut, pushed the painting back into place, and crept to the door.

She peered through the peephole.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. It was Jordon. His face was dark, furious. Behind him, two of his bodyguards stood like stone sentinels, completely blocking the narrow hallway.

The banging stopped. "Ciara, open this door right now," his voice was a low, dangerous command. "Don't test my patience."

She took a breath, unlatched the chain, and pulled the door open. She met his furious gaze with a calm, empty stare.

Jordon stormed into the tiny apartment, his large frame making the space feel even smaller. He looked around at the worn furniture with undisguised contempt.

"What is this? What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded, turning on her. "Did you really think you could hide from me? I placed a micro-tracker in the lining of your vintage leather bag three years ago, the day we got married. You are my wife; you don't get to have secrets."

Ciara didn't answer. She walked to an old wooden desk, pulled open a drawer, and took out a folder.

"You will come back to the penthouse now," Jordon continued, his voice laced with the arrogance of a man who had never been disobeyed. "If this little tantrum of yours affects the Webb family image, I will have our lawyers bury you."

A dry, humorless smile touched her lips.

She turned around and slapped the folder down on the scarred surface of the desk.

The title on the top page was in bold, black letters: DIVORCE AGREEMENT.

Her signature, Ciara Novak, was already scrawled at the bottom, the ink sharp and final.

Jordon's eyes locked onto the words. His pupils constricted. For the first time, she saw a crack in his iron control. A flash of pure disbelief.

He looked up, his gaze searching her face for a sign, any sign that this was a bluff, a game.

He found none. Her eyes were as cold and hard as diamonds.

"I don't want your money," she said, her voice steady. "I'm waiving all alimony. I just want out."

The raw shock on his face was quickly replaced by a possessive fury. He lunged forward, his fingers clamping around her jaw, forcing her to look up at him.

"You don't end this," he snarled, his face inches from hers. "I do. This is my game, my rules."

The pressure on her jaw was immense, but she didn't flinch. She didn't look away.

She raised her right hand, the one with the angry, blistered burn, and smacked his hand away.

The sharp sound echoed in the silent apartment.

"Sign it," she said, her voice a blade of ice.

---

The force of her slap, of her defiance, hung in the air between them. Ciara took a half-step back, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

The adrenaline that had fueled her, the anger that had been her armor, suddenly drained away. The day's events-the rain, the stress, the emotional trauma-crashed down on her all at once.

The room began to spin. Jordon's furious face blurred into a distorted mess of color.

Her legs gave out. She was falling, a puppet with its strings cut, toward the cold, hard floor.

Jordon's eyes widened. The rage vanished, replaced by a primal, gut-wrenching panic.

He moved faster than she thought possible, lunging forward and catching her before she hit the ground. He scooped her limp body into his arms.

The moment his hand touched her forehead, he flinched. She was burning up.

"Get the car ready! Now!" he roared at the guards still standing in the doorway.

Jordon carried her down the stairs, his long strides eating up the distance. He carefully placed her in the back of the armored SUV and climbed in beside her, pulling her close.

"Go," he ordered the driver. "Break every damn law you have to."

The car shot into traffic. Jordon held her shivering body, his mind racing. He felt a terror so profound it almost choked him.

Back at the Fifth Avenue penthouse, Jordon carried her straight to the master bedroom, laying her gently on the massive bed and covering her with a thick down comforter.

Ten minutes later, Dr. Alistair Finch, the Webb family's private physician, arrived, breathless and carrying his medical bag. He began his examination immediately.

"High fever, signs of dehydration and shock," he murmured, listening to her heart with a stethoscope. "I need to draw blood, run a full panel. Find the source of the infection."

He pulled out a rubber tourniquet and wrapped it around her left arm, the uninjured one.

The sharp, sterile sound of a needle being unwrapped from its plastic casing filled the quiet room. The cold tip of the needle touched her skin.

That cold prick was enough to slice through the fog of her fever. Ciara's eyes flew open. She saw the needle, the syringe, the doctor's focused expression.

Blood test.

HCG levels.

They would know. They would know about the baby. The family trust, the pre-nup, the clauses about heirs... they would take her child. They would rip it from her arms and she would be powerless to stop them.

A surge of pure, animal terror gave her a strength she didn't know she possessed.

She screamed, a raw, ragged sound, and thrashed wildly, knocking the doctor's hand away.

The metal tray beside the bed crashed to the floor, scattering vials and sterile wipes across the expensive rug.

"Get away from me!" she shrieked, scrambling to the far corner of the bed, pulling the sheets around her like a shield. Her eyes were wild, dilated with absolute panic. "You all want to hurt me! I don't trust you! I won't let any of you touch me! Get out! Get out!"

The doctor stared, shocked and confused.

She began to hyperventilate, her breath coming in short, panicked pants. It was a terrifying display of a complete emotional breakdown, fueled by genuine, trauma-induced terror that the doctor couldn't possibly dismiss as mere hysterics.

Jordon looked at her, at her pale, tear-streaked face, at the wild fear in her eyes. He saw the raw, angry burn on her other hand. A wave of guilt, sharp and suffocating, washed over him. He had done this to her.

Jordon turned to the bewildered doctor. His voice was low, but it carried the weight of absolute command.

"Get out."

Dr. Finch didn't need to be told twice. He scrambled to pick up his supplies and fled the room, closing the door softly behind him.

Now they were alone.

Jordon slowly approached the bed, his movements careful, as if approaching a wounded, terrified animal.

---