Chapter 2

Clarissa's POV:

My gaze happened to catch the gold bracelet on my wrist, and for a moment I was pulled back—three years ago, Derek gave me this Cartier Love bracelet right after I cornered him and a junior analyst in a hotel suite. That night, he had knelt on the floor begging my forgiveness, swearing it was a one-time lapse that would never happen again.

Coming out of the memory, I unclasped the bracelet without a moment's hesitation.

I tossed it straight at Alondra's feet. It struck the wet pavement with a crisp metallic clatter.

Derek's face darkened instantly. Watching me discard his gift like trash wounded his arrogant pride far more deeply than any insult could have.

"Clarissa, that's a gift from Derek, isn't it?" Alondra cut in, looping her arm through his. "If you don't like it, fine—but how could you throw it on the ground?"

Derek pulled his arm free of her, then clamped down on mine instead, his fingers digging through the wool deep into my flesh.

"You heard her," Derek said, his face so close to mine it was nearly touching, his voice cold as he gave the order. "Take it off. Nothing I paid for leaves with you."

Ten years ago, when we were still in college, three armed muggers cornered us in the back alley of a small restaurant. Without a second's hesitation, Derek put his body between me and the knives and took a deep gash across his forearm—all to keep me safe. In the emergency room, he held me as I cried and whispered that he would protect me with his life for the rest of his days.

And now this same man was pinning my arm in the freezing rain so that his mistress could strip me of my clothes.

I yanked my arm out of his grip.

Without a word, I unbuttoned the wool coat, took it off, and tossed it onto the ruined hood of my car. Then I unzipped my leather boots and stepped out of them, bare feet in thin socks sinking into an ice-cold puddle, until all I wore was a thin black cotton camisole.

The cold air sliced at my exposed skin, raising goose bumps across my arms.

And there, below my left collarbone, directly over my heart, a black tattoo stood fully exposed to the air.

An intricate, delicate circle of pure black thorns, wound into the shape of a wedding band, with our wedding anniversary inscribed inside in tiny Roman numerals. We had gotten them together on our wedding night, ten years ago.

Derek's gaze fell on my chest.

His pupils contracted violently. He went rigid where he stood, his breath stopped dead.

"Clarissa..." Derek murmured, his voice faintly unsteady.

"Satisfied?" I asked coldly.

Derek looked away, jaw clenched tight, fighting to mask how badly he'd been shaken. He snatched the coat off the hood and shoved it roughly into Alondra's arms.

"Get out," Derek roared, the crack in his voice betraying the tremor in his hands. "Get out of my sight. Now!"

I didn't wait to hear another word. I turned and walked down Brooklyn's cold, wet streets in my soaked socks, clutching only my damp handbag.

I took the subway back to the Manhattan penthouse, strangers' startled stares blurring past me. By the time the private elevator delivered me to the top floor, my feet were numb with cold and filthy with street grime.

I pushed open the heavy walnut door.

The apartment was warm as spring, thick with vanilla and the scent of expensive pinewood candles. In the living room, Derek sat on the Italian leather sofa, gently pressing an ice pack to Alondra's shoulder.

"Does it still hurt badly, baby?" Derek's voice was soft with concern. "I told her not to paint it on so heavy."

"Derek, my shoulder is so sore," Alondra whined, nestling into him. "I think she layered the paint on thick on purpose to wear me out. Look, I can barely lift this arm at all."

At those words, a scene from eight years ago surged up. In our cramped rental, I had accidentally gashed my palm with a utility knife. Derek ran four blocks through a blizzard for antiseptic bandages and ointment, stayed up all night, and changed my dressing every hour by my bedside.

And now, for another woman, he was fussing over the ordinary muscle soreness of one portrait sitting as if it were a mortal wound.

Expressionless, I walked past them and headed down the hall toward the master bedroom.

"Clarissa!" Derek's furious voice exploded behind me.

Heavy footsteps chased me into the bedroom. He grabbed my shoulder and wrenched me around.

"Where do you think you're going?" he demanded.

I pulled open the top drawer of the nightstand and took out my passport, my birth certificate, and Grandma's medical records.

"Anywhere," I said. "Anywhere but here."

Alondra appeared in the bedroom doorway, draped loosely in one of Derek's silk robes, rubbing her shoulder, her eyes brimming with tears.

"Derek, look at my shoulder," Alondra sniffled. "It's all sore now. What if it's a strain? What if it hurts the baby?"

Derek turned, caught the faint redness on her shoulder and neck, and his fury detonated.

"You did that on purpose, didn't you?!" he roared, seizing both my wrists and wrenching them behind my back.

"I was just painting," I said through clenched teeth against the shooting pain in my shoulder. "She's so pampered she can't sit through one portrait session—why come to me at all?"

"Stop making excuses!" Derek bellowed.

"Derek, please don't fight over me," Alondra ventured forward, the picture of fragile helplessness. "I'm sure Clarissa never meant to hurt our baby. She's just sad because she's never been able to give you a child of her own."

Every word out of her mouth was a blade, honed and dipped in poison.

Derek's grip kept tightening around my wrists until my joints gave a faint, straining crack.

"Apologize to her," Derek ordered, shoving me hard toward Alondra. "Get on your knees and apologize for what you did! Or don't bother leaving this room today!"

I stared hard at his hands—the hands that had once held mine tight in the dark, the hands that had once stroked my hair so gently when I had a fever.

"I did nothing wrong. I will not apologize," I said coldly.

"Clarissa, I'm giving you one last chance," Derek growled, his face twisted with rage. "Lower your head and admit you're sorry—or I will destroy you completely."