TAMSIN

I stood in the hallway outside Isla's room, my hand gripping Poppy's for balance, and watched through the open doorway as my husband made a phone call that would seal yet another piece of my life away from me.

James had his phone pressed to his ear, his voice professional and steady, the same tone he used when closing business deals or negotiating contracts. He was speaking to the hospital director, my boss, a man whose name carried weight in medical circles but whose influence paled in comparison to the Whitmore family fortune.

"I need you to approve a year's leave for my wife," James said into the phone, his attention entirely focused on the conversation. "She has been through a terrible accident and needs time to recover properly. I trust you understand how important her wellbeing is to me, and I know the hospital values her as much as I do."

There was a pause as the director responded, and I could already imagine the man's eager agreement, his assurances that of course Mrs. Whitmore could take as much time as she needed, that the hospital would support her in every possible way.

James nodded, satisfied. "Thank you. I appreciate your understanding."

He ended the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket, and for a moment I simply stood there, staring at the back of his head, marveling at how easily he could rearrange my entire professional life without even consulting me.

Poppy's hand tightened around mine, her fingers trembling with barely restrained fury.

I turned away before James could notice me, tugging Poppy gently down the corridor toward the discharge desk. Her face had gone red, her jaw clenched so tightly I worried she might crack a tooth, and when we finally reached the waiting area and she helped me into a chair, she leaned close and whispered fiercely.

"You are not taking that leave. You are not letting him control your career like this."

I looked at her, this woman who had been my closest friend for years, who knew me better than almost anyone, and I felt a wave of exhaustion so profound it nearly pulled me under.

"The Whitmore family are shareholders in this hospital," I said quietly. "Major shareholders. The first time I met James, it was here. His entire family uses this hospital. They have influence everywhere, Poppy. The director would never say no to a Whitmore, not when their money keeps half the departments running."

Poppy's anger did not fade, but I saw understanding settle into her expression, a grim acknowledgment of the reality I had been living with for years.

"Help me to my office," I said.

She did, supporting most of my weight as we walked slowly through the familiar corridors, past nurses who looked at me with sympathy and confusion, past doctors who nodded politely but said nothing. When we finally reached my office, I sank into the chair behind my desk and pulled out a sheet of paper.

Poppy watched as I wrote, my hand steady despite everything, the words forming quickly and without hesitation. When I finished, I folded the paper carefully and slipped it into an envelope.

"What is that?" Poppy asked.

"Something necessary," I said.

I stood, slower this time, and together we made our way to the director's office. He was sitting behind his desk when we entered, his expression bright and welcoming, the smile of a man who believed he had just done me an enormous favor.

"Doctor Whitmore," he said warmly. "I have approved your leave. One full year. You can rest and recover from your injuries without worrying about work. We will keep your position open, of course."

"That will not be necessary," I said, and I placed the envelope on his desk.

He looked at it curiously, then back at me. "What is this?"

"My resignation."

The smile disappeared. He stared at me as though I had spoken in a language he did not understand, and when the silence stretched too long, he opened the envelope with fumbling fingers and read the letter inside.

"Doctor Whitmore, please," he said, looking up with something close to distress. "There is no need for this. Take the year off. You will be paid throughout your leave. You are one of our best oncologists. We were planning to promote you next quarter."

"I want to resign," I said simply.

He looked genuinely sad, and I felt a pang of something that might have been regret under different circumstances. He had always treated me fairly, had respected my work and my dedication, but none of that mattered now.

"The best thing you can do for me," I continued, "is write an employer review and give it to me before I leave."

He hesitated, then nodded slowly and turned to his computer. It took him only a few minutes to compose the letter, and when he handed it to me, I thanked him quietly and walked out of his office for the last time.

Outside, Poppy linked her arm through mine. "With that review, you can find work anywhere when you are ready."

"I know," I said.

We drove to the house I had shared with James, the place I had once believed would be my home forever. Poppy parked in the driveway and helped me inside, and the moment we crossed the threshold, she stopped.

There was blood on the floor.

Not just a little. A trail of it, dark and dried, leading from the bedroom to the garage, the path I had crawled when I was bleeding and alone and desperate to save my baby.

Poppy's face went pale, then red, then pale again. Tears filled her eyes.

We walked to the bedroom together, and there was more blood there, pooled beside the bed, staining the floor in a way that no cleaner would ever fully erase.

"Yes," I said softly, my voice breaking despite my best efforts. "There goes my poor baby who was not fortunate enough to see the world."

Poppy pulled me into her arms and we stood there for a long time, crying together in the wreckage of what my life had been.

When we finally pulled apart, she helped me carry my belongings, and we left that house behind.

The next two weeks passed in a haze. I stayed in Poppy's guest room and did not leave except to use the bathroom. James came every day, standing outside with flowers in his hands, kneeling on the pavement, tears streaming down his face as he called my name through the door.

"Tammy, please," he would say. "I never knew you were pregnant. If I had known, I would have taken you to the hospital first. The house is empty without you. I cannot live without you. Please come home."

I never answered.

After two weeks, I got out of bed, showered, dressed in clothes that felt strange on my body, and drove to our family lawyer's office. I sat across from him and explained what I needed, and he drafted the documents without asking questions he already knew the answers to.

When I left his office, I had divorce papers in my hand.

I drove to James's office building, took the elevator to his floor, and walked past his assistant without acknowledging her protests. James looked up when I entered, and his face transformed with relief and joy.

"Tammy," he said, standing quickly and crossing the room to embrace me. "You are here. God, I have missed you. Life has been empty without you."

I stood stiffly in his arms until he released me.

"I came for something important," I said, and I held out the divorce papers.

He stared at them as though they were written in a foreign language. Then his expression changed, something dark and furious rising to the surface, and he snatched the papers from my hand and tore them in half.

"I would rather die," he said, his voice shaking with anger, "than ever let the love of my life go."

"In that case," I said calmly, "I will see you in court."

His laugh was harsh and humorless. "I would like to see the lawyer bold enough to stand against me."

I turned to leave.

He caught my arm at the door, his grip firm but not painful, and when he spoke again, his voice had softened into something that might have been gentleness if I did not know better.

"You have thrown enough tantrums," he said. "I have allowed it because I understand you are grieving. But it is time to stop. Come home. I have missed my wife."

I looked at him, this man I had loved so completely it had rewritten every part of who I was.

"Like I said," I repeated. "I will see you in court."

I pulled my arm free and walked toward the elevator.

His voice followed me down the hallway, cold and final.

"Remember this, Tammy. No one divorces a Whitmore."

I stepped into the elevator and let the doors close between us.

TAMSIN

I returned to the family lawyer's office the next morning, the divorce papers carefully folded in my bag, and sat across from the same man who had drafted them not too long ago.

"I want to take my husband to court," I said without preamble. "James Whitmore. I need you to represent me in the divorce proceedings."

The lawyer set down his pen and looked at me with an expression I could not quite read, something caught between sympathy and discomfort. He folded his hands on the desk between us and leaned forward slightly.

"Mrs. Whitmore," he said carefully, "if your husband does not want the divorce, there is nothing I can do for you. I cannot represent you in this matter."

I stared at him. "What do you mean you cannot represent me? You drafted the papers."

"Drafting papers is one thing. Taking James Whitmore to court is another entirely." He shook his head slowly. "Going against the Whitmores would be suicide for my career. I am sorry, but I cannot risk it."

I left his office feeling something cold settle in my chest.

The second lawyer I visited that morning said nearly the same thing, his refusal polite but firm, his eyes apologetic but unyielding. The third lawyer did not even let me finish explaining before he stood and showed me to the door, his discomfort so obvious it would have been almost comical under different circumstances.

By the time I returned to Poppy's house, I was trembling with a fury so sharp it felt like it might cut through my skin.

I sat on the edge of the guest bed and stared at the wall, my hands clenched into fists, my mind racing through options that did not exist and solutions that crumbled before I could fully form them.

My phone rang. Poppy's name flashed across the screen.

"How did it go?" she asked when I answered.

I told her. All of it. The refusals, the fear in their eyes, the way they had practically tripped over themselves to distance their practices from anything that might bring them into conflict with the Whitmore family.

Poppy was silent for a long moment, and when she finally spoke, her voice was tight with anger.

"This is ridiculous. James cannot just control everything."

"Apparently he can," I said flatly.

"Wait." Her tone shifted, became thoughtful. "There is one place you could try. LP and Associates. They are the biggest law firm in the country. They have some of the best divorce attorneys I have ever heard of."

I straightened slightly. "Do you think they would take the case?"

"Their fees are high," Poppy warned. "Very high. But they are ruthless, and they hardly ever lose. I do not know if any lawyer there would be willing to go against the Whitmores, but it is worth a shot."

She gave me the address, apologizing that she could not come with me because she had to return to work. I thanked her and ended the call, already reaching for my coat.

The building that housed LP and Associates was tall and modern, all glass and steel, the kind of structure that seemed designed to intimidate anyone who walked through its doors. I stood outside for a moment, gathering my resolve, then stepped into the lobby.

The receptionist directed me to the intake clerk on the third floor, a young man with sharp eyes and an efficient manner who listened to my explanation without interrupting. When I mentioned my intention to divorce James Whitmore, his fingers paused over his keyboard.

"Whitmore," he repeated, looking up at me with something close to alarm. "As in the Whitmore family?"

"Yes."

He exhaled slowly. "They are very powerful. There is only one attorney in this firm who stands a chance against them." He hesitated. "But it depends on his mood. He takes cases according to his own judgment, not according to policy."

I felt my pulse quicken. "Who is he?"

"Let me take your file to him," the clerk said, standing. "I will get back to you."

He disappeared down a corridor, leaving me waiting, my heart pounding so loudly I was certain everyone in the building could hear it. I paced back and forth, my hands clasped tightly together, trying to breathe evenly and failing.

Ten minutes passed. Each one felt like an hour.

Finally, the clerk returned, and there was something that might have been surprise in his expression.

"Congratulations," he said. "He is interested in your case. You can go up to his office now."

Relief swept through me so powerfully I nearly swayed. "Thank you."

I followed him to the elevator, then down another corridor on the top floor, past offices with glass walls and expensive furniture, until we stopped in front of a door with a simple nameplate at the top.

LP.

I looked at it, then back at the clerk. "This firm..."

"Yes," he said. "He is the boss here. This firm belongs mostly to him."

I nodded, my throat suddenly dry.

The clerk left, and I stood alone in the hallway for a moment, staring at the door. Then I raised my hand and knocked.

"Come in," a voice called from inside.

I pushed the door open and stepped into the office.

The man stood by the window, his back to me, hands in his pockets, looking out over the city below. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his posture relaxed in a way that suggested absolute confidence.

Something about him seemed familiar.

My eyes dropped to the nameplate on his desk.

Attorney Price.

My heart skipped a beat.

"Price?" I said aloud, the word barely a whisper.

Could it be?

I looked up, and in that moment, the man turned, his hands still in his pockets, his gaze meeting mine across the room.

I took a step back, shock stealing the air from my lungs.

"Leonardo Price?"

He smiled, slow and warm and achingly familiar.

"Hello, Tam," he said. "It is nice to see you again."