The next morning, Carmen walked into the lobby of Morrison Building. She hadn't slept all night. She was wearing a plain white shirt and jeans. The white medical tape on her forehead stood out starkly against her pale skin.

The lobby was bustling. Employees stopped mid-conversation to stare. Whispers rippled through the crowd like a virus.

"Did you see the bruise?"

"I heard she attacked Seraphina..."

"Gold digger."

Carmen ignored them. She walked straight to the private elevator and pressed the button for the top floor.

The elevator doors opened onto the executive suite. Marcus Holloway sat at his desk, looking harassed. He stood up quickly when he saw her.

"Mrs. Morrison, Mr. Morrison is in a video conference-"

Carmen walked right past him. "I can wait."

"Ma'am, you can't go in there!"

Carmen pushed open the heavy mahogany doors of the CEO office.

Kian sat at his massive desk, facing a wall of monitors displaying the faces of several board members. He looked up, his eyes narrowing when he saw her.

"Get out," he ordered, his voice cold.

Carmen walked up to the desk. She reached into her bag and pulled out the divorce agreement. She threw it down on the polished wood, right on top of his notes.

The words DIVORCE AGREEMENT were printed in bold black letters at the top.

Kian glanced at it. He leaned back in his chair, a slow, mocking smile spreading across his face. He muted his microphone.

"You think you have the leverage to ask for a divorce?" he scoffed. "After what you did last night?"

Carmen didn't flinch. "Sign it, Kian."

"Or what?" He tapped his finger on the desk. "You'll get nothing. The prenup is ironclad. You'll walk out of my house with exactly what you brought into it. Nothing."

"You might want to read the private addendum your father insisted on, the one attached to paragraph four," Carmen said, her voice steady. "The trust clause. As a failsafe, if the marriage lasts three years, I am entitled to fifty percent of your personal ten-billion-dollar trust fund. We hit the three-year mark two weeks ago."

Kian's smile vanished. His jaw tightened. "You are out of your mind if you think I'm giving you a cent of my family's money."

"Then we go to court," Carmen said simply. "And we do it very publicly."

"You won't win."

"I don't need to win," Carmen said. She leaned forward, planting her hands on his desk. "I just need to make a mess. And I know how much you hate messes, Kian."

Kian stood up, his hands balled into fists. "I will destroy you. I will make sure you never work in this city again."

Carmen looked at him, her gaze flat. "Farrah Watts."

The name hit the room like a physical blow. The color drained from Kian's face. His rigid posture suddenly looked fragile.

"What did you say?" he whispered.

"Farrah Watts," Carmen repeated, enunciating every syllable. "I hear her treatment in Switzerland went well. She's coming back to New York next week."

Kian's breathing became shallow. "Leave her out of this."

"I'm not the one who brought her into it," Carmen said. "You did. You keep her hidden away like a dirty secret, but we both know she's the only thing you actually care about."

"Shut up." Kian's voice trembled.

"Imagine the headlines, Kian," Carmen continued, her voice soft but merciless. "'Morrison Heir's Mistress Hospitalized by Wife.' 'Trust Fund Battle Exposes Secret Love Nest.' 'Farrah Watts Returns to a Scandal.' How long do you think she'll stay with you when the paparazzi are camped outside her door?"

Kian slammed his fist on the desk. "I will kill you before I let you touch her."

"You already tried that last night," Carmen shot back, pointing to the bandage on her head. "Or did you forget that part already?"

Kian stared at her, his chest heaving. He looked like a cornered animal.

"Sign the paper," Carmen said. "Give me my half of the trust. I will disappear. You will never hear my name again. Farrah will never be bothered. Your precious company stock won't tank."

She pushed the pen toward him.

Kian looked at the document. He looked at the pen. His face twisted with a mixture of rage and defeat.

He grabbed the pen. He ripped the cap off. He scrawled his signature across the bottom of the page, the pen scratching deeply into the wood beneath the paper.

"Get out," he snarled, throwing the pen across the room. "Get out of my building."

Carmen picked up her copy of the agreement. She folded it neatly and placed it in her bag.

She didn't say goodbye. She turned and walked out the door.

Behind her, she heard the crash of the monitor being swept off the desk, followed by the shatter of glass. Kian was screaming, a raw, animalistic sound of pure fury.

Carmen closed the office door behind her, muting the chaos. She walked past Marcus, who was staring at her with his mouth open.

She stepped into the elevator. As the doors slid shut, she finally let herself breathe. She had won. It was over.

Carmen returned to the Morrison estate to pack. The house felt different now. The staff avoided her eyes, stepping out of her path like she was contagious. But there was a new element in their gaze: fear. Word of the divorce and the trust fund had traveled fast.

She didn't take much. Just a single, small rolling suitcase. Inside were her mother's pearl earrings, a few photos, and her medical kit. She left the designer clothes, the jewelry, the car keys on the kitchen counter. She wanted nothing that belonged to him.

She walked out the front door, pulling the suitcase behind her. She had called a ride-share to take her to a hotel in the city.

She stood on the gravel driveway, waiting. The afternoon sun was too bright, making her head throb where the stitches pulled at her skin.

The roar of an engine shattered the quiet.

A black Bentley flew up the driveway, tires screeching on the loose stones. It skidded to a halt inches in front of her, blocking her path to the gate.

Kian jumped out of the driver's seat. He looked deranged. His tie was loose, his hair a mess, his eyes bloodshot and wild.

"You think you can just take my money and walk away?" he yelled, slamming the car door. "You think I'll let you humiliate me?"

Carmen gripped the handle of her suitcase. "The paper is signed, Kian. It's over."

"Over?" He stalked toward her. "You're going to run straight to Julian Thorne, aren't you? I saw the way he looked at you at the gala last month. You've been planning this."

Carmen frowned. Julian Thorne? She had barely spoken two words to the man. "You're delusional."

"I'm not letting you out of my sight until Farrah is safe," Kian growled. He lunged for her arm.

Carmen's instincts compelled her to scream. Her muscles tensed, ready to retaliate. A swift strike to the radial nerve, followed by a twist of the wrist, would be enough to bring him down. But a wave of intense dizziness washed over her.

She forced her body to remain loose, to look weak. "Kian, let go of me."

"You made the mistake!" he shouted. He yanked her arm, trying to drag her back toward the car.

Carmen staggered, her body becoming increasingly sluggish, a bad feeling washing over her. She dodged his pull by sidestepping, but in her weakened state, his strength only increased.

He kicked her suitcase in frustration. It flew open, spilling her belongings onto the gravel. A framed photo of her and her mother skidded across the stones, the glass cracking.

Carmen gasped. She looked down at the photo. In that split second of distraction, Kian grabbed her from behind.

He wrapped his arms around her, pinning her arms to her sides. She slammed her elbow back into his ribs. She felt a satisfying thud, but not the crack she'd aimed for. Kian grunted in pain, but his grip only tightened.

He started dragging her toward the Bentley.

"Do you know why you've been feeling dizzy so often for the past six months?" Keane's deep voice boomed in my ear, like the whisper of a demon.

Carmen shook her head, trying to shake off the heavy, oppressive feeling in her head. Her blood felt frozen, and a bone-chilling cold enveloped her.

“I’ve included a little gift in your milk every morning.” Keane gripped Carmen’s hand even tighter, as if his bones were about to break.

The suffocating, overwhelming force was surging through Carmen, who was almost losing her ability to think.

She naively thought she was just too tired, never imagining that the person next to her in bed was a devil.

Carmen tried to speak, but her breath was knocked out of her. Her vision started to gray at the edges. The world was fading.

Then, a new sound. The low, powerful purr of a different engine.

A sleek, black, armored SUV glided to a stop behind the Bentley. The windows were tinted black.

The rear window rolled down with a quiet hum.

A man sat in the back seat. He was dressed in a dark, impeccably tailored suit. His face was sharp, aristocratic, and completely devoid of emotion. His dark eyes surveyed the scene: the spilled suitcase, the bleeding photo, Kian manhandling a limp, half-conscious Carmen.

Julian Thorne.

He didn't speak. He just watched. His gaze lingered on Kian's brutal grip, then moved to Carmen's fading eyes.

The look on his face wasn't surprise. It was calculation. And it was very, very dangerous.

"Let her go."

The voice came from the SUV. It was calm, unhurried, but it carried the weight of a nuclear threat.

Kian froze, his grip on Carmen loosening slightly. He turned his head, his eyes widening when he recognized the face in the window. "Thorne? This is none of your business. This is my wife."

"Your ex-wife," Julian corrected smoothly. He gave a slight nod toward the rear of his vehicle.

Two massive men in dark suits stepped out of the front of the SUV. They moved with the silent efficiency of trained killers. Before Kian could react, one of them grabbed his wrist, twisting it sharply until Kian yelped and released Carmen. The other gently steadied her as she swayed on her feet.

"Get your hands off me!" Kian shouted, struggling against the bodyguard's grip. "I'll have you arrested for assault!"

Julian stepped out of the car. He walked over to the gravel, ignoring Kian entirely. He looked down at Carmen, who was barely conscious, her head lolling.

He bent down and picked up the cracked photo of her and her mother. He slipped it into the pocket of his suit jacket. Then, he carefully lifted Carmen into his arms. She was feather-light.

"Take him to the ground," Julian ordered without looking back.

A loud grunt and a thud told Carmen that Kian had been introduced to the gravel.

Julian placed Carmen gently in the back seat of his SUV. He climbed in beside her and shut the door. The soundproofing immediately cut off Kian's screaming.

"Drive," Julian told his driver.

The car pulled away smoothly. Inside the cabin, the air was cool and smelled faintly of leather and sandalwood.

Carmen forced her eyes open. The world was spinning, but she could see the man sitting next to her. Sharp jaw, dark eyes, an aura of absolute control.

"You're Julian Thorne," she slurred, her tongue feeling heavy.

"And you are very lucky I was in the neighborhood," Julian replied, his gaze fixed on her face.

Carmen's brain was foggy, but her medical training kicked in. The weakness, the dizziness, the blurred vision-it was more than just exhaustion. It was chemical.

"Hospital," she rasped, swallowing hard. "He's been poisoning me. Something slow-acting. Chronic. I need a full toxicology screen. And dexamethasone. Ten milligrams. Now."

Julian raised an eyebrow. He didn't question her. He simply spoke into the car's intercom. "Change of destination. NewYork-Presbyterian, VIP wing. And get Dr. Evans on the line. Tell him to prep for a priority toxicology case and have ten milligrams of dexamethasone ready on arrival."

He turned back to her, his eyes narrowed in thought. "You seem to know your way around a medical emergency," he said quietly. It wasn't an accusation, but a statement of fact, filed away for later.

Carmen didn't answer. She leaned her head back against the cool leather, conserving her strength. The fog in her brain was thick, and a cold dread was seeping into her bones. He knew. Kian had been poisoning her. For how long?

Julian watched her, his expression unreadable. He had come to the Morrison estate today on a hunch, a calculated business move to probe a rival's weakness after hearing rumors of the divorce. He hadn't expected to walk into a kidnapping.

And he certainly hadn't expected Kian Morrison's supposedly unremarkable wife to diagnose her own chronic poisoning and prescribe the correct counter-agent while on the verge of collapse.

He leaned back against the leather seat. He studied her with an intensity that made her skin prickle, even in her dazed state.

"I've been looking for someone with a very particular set of skills, Mrs. Morrison," he said, his tone conversational but his eyes sharp. "It seems my search may have just gotten more interesting."

Carmen stared at him. The mask was slipping, on both their parts. She couldn't talk her way out of this. The evidence was in her own words, in the blood running through her veins.

She met his gaze, her eyes as cold and hard as his. "What do you want, Thorne?"