Annette screamed as Declan yanked open the heavy door of the Bentley.

He practically threw her into the passenger seat. The impact knocked the wind out of her lungs. The buttery-soft leather did nothing to cushion the blow to her spine.

Before she could scramble out, the heavy door slammed shut in her face.

Declan stalked around the hood of the car, his suit completely soaked with rain, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. He ripped open the driver's door and threw himself into the seat.

Click.

The electronic central locking system engaged. The sound was as final as a prison cell slamming shut.

Annette grabbed the chrome door handle and pulled frantically. It didn't budge. A small red light blinked on the door panel. The child locks were engaged.

"Let me out!" Annette yelled, her voice bordering on hysteria. "Are you insane? Unlock the door!"

Declan didn't look at her. He slammed his foot down on the gas pedal.

The massive V12 engine let out a guttural roar. The Bentley shot out of the alley and onto the wet Brooklyn streets like a bullet.

The violent acceleration threw Annette back against the headrest. She gasped, her hands instinctively flying up to grab the seatbelt and click it into place.

The interior of the car was pitch black. The only light came from the streetlamps flashing rapidly across Declan's face.

His jaw was locked so tight the muscles twitched. His hands gripped the leather steering wheel with enough force to bend the metal underneath. He was driving dangerously fast, weaving through the slick traffic with terrifying precision.

The air inside the cabin was suffocating. The heavy scent of his cedarwood cologne mixed with the smell of rain and raw anger.

Annette's body began to break down under the extreme stress.

A sharp, stabbing pain ripped through her stomach. The gut-wrenching physical agony she had been fighting all day finally overpowered her.

She curled inward, wrapping both arms tightly around her abdomen. She pressed her forehead against her knees, squeezing her eyes shut. Cold sweat broke out across her forehead. She bit her lip to keep from crying out in pain.

The Bentley slammed on its brakes at a red light. The tires screeched against the wet asphalt.

Declan turned his head. He looked at her curled up in the seat, shaking.

"Give me your address," Declan ordered. His voice was cold, flat, and completely devoid of emotion.

Annette couldn't breathe through the pain. "Just... drop me at the subway."

"Address. Now."

Annette swallowed hard. Her pride was already shattered. There was nothing left to protect.

She weakly whispered the name of a street deep in the worst, most crime-ridden slum of Queens.

Declan's hands froze on the steering wheel.

His pupils dilated. A flash of pure, unfiltered shock broke through his mask of anger.

He thought she had left him for a billionaire. He thought she was living in a penthouse on the Upper East Side, dripping in diamonds.

The address she just gave him was a place where people got stabbed for twenty dollars.

The light turned green.

Declan didn't say a word. He hit the gas and violently jerked the steering wheel, changing direction toward Queens.

For forty agonizing minutes, the car was dead silent.

Annette rested her hot cheek against the cold glass of the window. She watched the city change. The towering glass skyscrapers of Manhattan faded into the crumbling brick buildings, graffiti-covered walls, and overflowing dumpsters of her neighborhood.

The Bentley slowed down, rolling over deep potholes.

Declan pulled up to the curb in front of a decaying, five-story apartment building. The front door was missing. The streetlights were all smashed.

A group of men in oversized hoodies were smoking weed on the stoop. They stopped and stared hungrily at the half-million-dollar car.

Declan stared out the windshield at the rotting building. The veins in his neck bulged.

He slowly turned his head to look at Annette. His eyes slowly dragged over her cheap coat, her exhausted face, and the slum outside the window.

Annette unbuckled her seatbelt. She couldn't look at him. The shame was a physical weight crushing her chest.

"We're here," she whispered, reaching for the door handle. It was still locked.

She turned to him, her eyes begging. "Please. Just open the door."

Declan leaned across the center console. He invaded her space, trapping her against the door.

He raised his hand. His thumb roughly brushed against the scratch on her cheek.

"Is this it?" Declan whispered, his voice dripping with absolute disgust. "Is this the glamorous life you destroyed me for, Annette?"

The question was the final nail in her coffin.

Annette didn't cry.

The sheer cruelty of his question pushed her past the point of tears. A strange, broken laugh escaped her throat. It sounded hysterical and hollow in the quiet car.

She turned her head, forcing his thumb off her skin. She looked straight into his furious, judgmental gray eyes.

"Yes," Annette said. Her voice was dead. "This is my karma. Are you happy now?"

She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a toxic whisper. "I picked the wrong rich man. He went bankrupt, beat me, and threw me out into the garbage. This is exactly what I deserve."

Every word she spoke was a lie designed to hurt him, but the blade cut her own throat on the way out.

Declan's breathing stopped.

The muscles in his chest expanded as he sucked in a ragged breath. The rage in his eyes morphed into something darker, something violently unstable.

He snatched his hand back as if her skin was covered in acid.

He slammed his fist down on the center console.

Click.

The locks disengaged.

"Get out," Declan snarled, his voice shaking with a rage so deep it vibrated the windows.

Annette shoved the door open. She threw herself out into the freezing rain and slammed the heavy door shut behind her.

She didn't look back. She ran.

She sprinted past the men on the stoop, ignoring their catcalls. She ran into the dark, foul-smelling stairwell. The stench of urine and rotting garbage hit her face.

She ran up five flights of stairs, her lungs burning, her legs trembling so violently she almost tripped.

She reached her door. She pulled her keys from her pocket. Her hands were shaking so badly she dropped them twice.

She finally shoved the key into the lock, twisted it, and threw herself inside.

She slammed the door shut and threw the deadbolt.

Down on the street, the Bentley's engine roared like a dying beast. The tires screeched as Declan floored the gas, tearing away from the curb.

The sound of the engine faded into the rain.

Annette's knees buckled.

She slid down the back of the door and hit the cheap linoleum floor.

The physical pain she had been suppressing all day finally exploded. Her stomach cramped so violently she doubled over, pressing her forehead against the dirty floor. She wrapped her arms around her head and let out a raw, agonizing scream that was swallowed by the empty apartment.

Five years of hiding. Five years of debt. Five years of fighting her own brain just to stay alive.

It had all broken her.

An hour later, the pain subsided into a dull, throbbing ache.

Annette pulled herself up from the floor. She walked into her tiny, freezing bedroom and turned on the single desk lamp.

She opened her closet. Hanging inside a plastic garment bag was the custom silk bridesmaid dress Clara had bought for her.

The expensive, shimmering fabric looked completely absurd in this rotting room.

Annette stared at the dress. She realized the truth. As long as she stayed in Clara and Leo's orbit, she would never escape Declan. He would keep tearing her wounds open until she bled to death.

And she was too broken, too sick, to stand beside Clara at the altar.

She picked up her phone and dialed Clara's number. It went straight to voicemail. She typed out a long, desperate text message, her tears blurring the screen. I am so sorry, Clara. I love you, but I can't do this. Please forgive me. Then, she walked over to her battered laptop. She opened it and logged into her email.

She typed in the addresses for the entire bridal party and the wedding planner.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. Then, she started typing.

I am so sorry. I was just assigned an emergency legal aid case. I have to fly out of state immediately to depose a witness. I cannot be in the wedding. I am officially stepping down from the bridal party. Please forgive me.

She didn't read it twice. She closed her eyes and hit SEND.

The screen flashed: Message Sent.

She had just severed the last tie she had to her old life.

Ten miles away, driving over the Manhattan Bridge, Declan's phone lit up on the passenger seat.

He glanced down at the screen. The notification showed an email from Annette to the bridal party.

Declan read the preview text. Stepping down... leaving the state.

His foot slammed on the brakes. The Bentley swerved violently, tires smoking as he brought the car to a screeching halt in the middle of the bridge.

He grabbed the phone and read the full email.

His face turned completely white. Then, a dark, terrifying shadow fell over his eyes.

She was running away again.

Declan let out a roar of pure rage. He raised his arm and smashed the phone against the dashboard. The screen shattered into a spiderweb of broken glass.

His chest heaved. He gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white.

"You think you can run from me?" Declan whispered to the empty car, his voice dripping with a sick, obsessive possession.