Chapter 2

Eleanor's POV

Brighton froze, ice water streaming down his jawline and soaking his silk tie. His eyes widened in disbelief, as if the very idea that I might leave him had never once occurred to him.

"What did you just say?" Brighton asked quietly, taking half a step toward me.

Gia sat up in bed and pulled the silk sheet over her bare shoulders, her round blue eyes wide.

"Brighton... my head hurts again," Gia whimpered, grabbing his sleeve. "Why is she yelling? Is she going to hit us again?"

Brighton turned around immediately. The shock on his face vanished in an instant, replaced by a reflexive tenderness he'd rehearsed a thousand times.

"Don't be afraid, Gia. Lie back down. I've got this." He soothed her with low, steady words, tucking the sheet carefully around her, then turned back to glare at me darkly. "Keep your voice down, Eleanor! Can't you see how weak she is right now?"

I stood there, still wearing the dirty clothes from the holding cell, blood seeping through the bandages on my wrist, watching him gently adjust her pillow.

Five years ago, when I'd spent three full months in the hospital with second-degree burns across both arms and my chest, Brighton had also sat by my bed for hours on end. He'd sworn he'd love every inch of my scars, calling them medals of honor—proof that I'd saved his best friend from the fire.

And now, looking at my bandaged arm, all he felt was undisguised revulsion.

"Get out of my bedroom," I said, pointing toward the hallway. "Both of you. Get out of my apartment."

Gia let out a soft, mocking little laugh. She slid out of bed, trailing my favorite silk robe across the hardwood floor.

"Your apartment?" Gia walked toward the walk-in closet, sneering. "Eleanor, look at yourself in the mirror. You look like a homeless person off the street. This penthouse was bought by Brighton. He pays the maintenance. Even that cheap polyester dress you wore to his office last week—he bought it for you."

She reached into the closet and pulled out a charcoal-gray Italian designer suit, then thrust a receipt right under my nose.

"Brighton specifically bought this to cheer me up," Gia said coldly, her finger jabbing the printed paper. "I'm the only one he actually cares about."

I looked down at the light blue cotton shirt under my coat. Brighton had given it to me for our second anniversary, swearing it had been custom-made at an independent atelier.

And the receipt in Gia's perfectly manicured fingers bore yesterday's date, charged to our joint credit card.

"Is that true, Brighton?" I turned to look at him. "You charged my credit limit to buy Gia fourteen thousand dollars' worth of clothes, then turned around and told me we need to live frugally and save for a future house?"

Brighton heaved a heavy sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose in extreme irritation.

"Gia's parents died with massive debts and left her nothing, Eleanor," Brighton defended himself righteously. "She needs decent clothes to rebuild her confidence and go to social events. You spend all day in a dusty basement restoring old paintings. Why do you need designer brands? Can you stop being so petty and vain?"

"Petty?" A shrill, bitter laugh tore out of my throat. "Haven't I sacrificed enough for your precious friend? On our wedding night, Gia called saying she was scared of thunder and having a panic attack, and you left me alone in a hotel room! Last winter, I was pregnant and you refused to come to my prenatal appointment just because Gia wanted you to drive her to a spa weekend in Vermont—and I miscarried alone on our bathroom floor, losing our child!"

Brighton clenched his back teeth. "That was just an unfortunate medical accident. Stop using it as an excuse to attack Gia!"

"And my father, dying of lung cancer in hospice!" I screamed, the weight of memory tearing my voice apart. "I begged you to come to the hospital for just ten minutes—just ten minutes—so he could meet my husband before he closed his eyes! You lied to me about an emergency client meeting and actually took Gia to a wine tasting in the Hamptons! My father died believing I'd fabricated a husband to save face, because not a single person in our family ever saw you!"

The room fell into suffocating silence.

Brighton glanced at the floor. A flicker of guilt and embarrassment crossed his face, but it hardened back into coldness in an instant.

"Your father's passing was indeed sad, Eleanor, but bringing up ancient history every time we fight only proves how emotionally unstable you are," Brighton said coldly. "We'll talk when you've calmed down. Go wash your face."

"No need," I said, backing toward the front door. "We're done. 9 a.m. Monday. City courthouse."

I spun around and strode toward the hallway.

"Eleanor! Stop right there!" Brighton shouted, heavy footsteps pursuing me to the foyer.

He reached for my shoulder, but Gia suddenly dashed past him, throwing her arms open to block the front door.

"You're not just going to leave and make Brighton look like a villain!" Gia screamed, pressing forward.

Using the pretense of blocking me, Gia's hand secretly dropped down and precisely clamped onto the edge of my infected, oozing burn wound, driving her sharp nails deep into the torn flesh!

Unbearable pain swallowed me whole. A scream tore out of my throat.

Out of pure physical instinct, my uninjured left arm swung hard to push her away.

Gia had barely even touched my elbow. The moment my hand brushed her shoulder, she let out an exaggerated wail and threw herself backward, deliberately crashing onto the foyer carpet.

"Brighton! My baby!" Gia clutched her stomach, screaming in theatrical agony. "She hit my stomach! She's trying to kill my child!"

Brighton went rigid as if struck by lightning. The color drained from his face, then flooded back with rage.

"What did you say?" Brighton stared at Gia, his voice trembling.

"I'm pregnant, Brighton!" Gia rolled on the floor, sobbing. "I was going to surprise you tonight! Six weeks already! And she tried to murder your child!"

Brighton's gaze moved from Gia's trembling hands to my face, his fury nearly lethal.

"You psycho bitch." Brighton growled through clenched teeth.

He didn't even glance at my bleeding arm. He lunged forward, ramming his shoulder into my chest and shoving me aside to get to Gia.

The force slammed my already exhausted, weakened body into the sharp edge of the marble foyer console.

A sickening crack echoed from my pelvis.

A searing, burning pain flooded my lower abdomen. I collapsed onto the cold tile floor, curling up in agony as warm, thick fluid gushed down the inside of my thighs, soaking through my jeans and spreading into a shocking pool of blood on the white tile.

"Brighton... help me..." I gasped, vision darkening around the edges. "Please... I'm bleeding..."

Brighton swept Gia up into his arms and strode toward the door, never once looking down at me.

"If anything happens to Gia or my child, Eleanor," Brighton said over his shoulder, his voice thick with bone-deep hatred, "I will make sure you spend the rest of your life in prison!"

With that, Brighton carried Gia out and slammed the door behind him, never looking back.

I lay alone in the spreading pool of blood, the ceiling light spinning above me, until the whole world went dark.