Chapter 3

Everlee tossed the emerald locket into a cheap canvas tote bag, walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows, and yanked open the blackout curtains. Blinding morning sunlight flooded the master bedroom.

Blinking against the glare, she picked up her phone from the nightstand. The screen was completely blank—Jamison had spent the entire night in Ayla's wing.

She changed into a black cashmere turtleneck that covered the bruises on her neck, paired it with fitted jeans, and walked out of the bedroom.

Entering the open-concept kitchen, she ran straight into Jamison holding a mug of freshly brewed coffee. Dressed in a crisp navy suit, he looked every bit the polished Boston CEO again.

Seeing her come out early, a smug look flashed across his eyes, assuming she was here to apologize. He slid a second mug of coffee across the marble island.

"Up already? Are you done throwing your little fit from last night?"

He spoke down to her like a principal lecturing a rebellious student.

Everlee ignored the steaming mug, pulled out a barstool, and sat down. Pulling a blank asset liquidation form from her canvas tote, she uncapped a pen and began filling it out.

Offended by her silence, Jamison opened his mouth to snap, when his gaze caught the skin of her forearm as her sleeve rode up.

A dark purple rope burn wrapped all the way around her pale wrist.

Jamison froze. Setting his mug down, he leaned across the island.

"What happened to your arm?"

Everlee's pen paused on the paper. Just as she looked up to mock his delayed eyesight, Jamison's phone buzzed violently against the marble countertop.

The caller ID flashed "Ayla." Jamison snatched it up on the first ring, his voice instantly dropping into a gentle coax.

"Ayla? What's wrong?"

Even without the speakerphone on, Ayla's ragged gasps and sobs echoed clearly across the quiet kitchen.

"Jamison... I can't breathe... My chest hurts so much..."

Jamison's face lost all color. Whatever brief curiosity he had about Everlee's bruised wrist vanished into thin air. He bolted upright, knocking his barstool onto the floor.

"Don't panic, I'm coming right now!"

Grabbing his car keys and suit jacket, he sprinted toward the foyer, then stopped abruptly. Reaching into his leather wallet, he pulled out an American Express Centurion black card.

He marched back to the island and slapped the metal card down right on top of Everlee's asset form.

"Ayla is having a panic attack. I have to take her to the hospital. Take this card, go to Newbury Street, and buy yourself some bags. Stop causing trouble."

He looked down at her, his tone dripping with the arrogance of a man who believed money solved everything.

Everlee stared at the black metal card. There was no anger left in her chest—only a hollow, laughable relief.

Without touching the card, she raised her head, her eyes dead calm.

"Jamison, what if I told you I was kidnapped yesterday and nearly bled out in an abandoned warehouse?"

Jamison paused, a flicker of shock crossing his face behind his glasses. Right then, Ayla let out another shrill cry over the receiver.

That sound snapped the last thread of Jamison's patience. He pinched the bridge of his nose in disgust.

"Everlee, do you even listen to yourself when you lie for attention?"

He backed toward the door, his voice cold and sharp.

"Kidnapped in downtown Boston? And they just let you walk home in one piece? Stop wasting my time with these pathetic stories!"

Turning around, he rushed out the front door, slamming it shut with an echoing boom.

Silence reclaimed the massive penthouse. Everlee stared at the closed door, a freezing smile curling the corners of her mouth.

She picked up the metal black card from the counter, gripped both ends, and bent it forcefully until it snapped in half before tossing it into the trash can.

Standing up, she folded the asset sheet into her pocket, walked back to the closet, and wheeled out a large black suitcase.

She left every designer dress and handbag Jamison had ever bought her hanging on the racks, packing only a few pre-marriage clothes and the Supreme Judicial Court envelope.

Zipping the luggage shut, Everlee Booker shed the skin of Mrs. Ingram forever, dragging her suitcase out the front door without looking back.