Chapter 3

Heath was at a charity gala, feigning interest in a conversation about municipal bonds, when his phone vibrated. It was Mr. Finch, the head butler at the Price family estate on Long Island. His grandfather, Theodore Price, demanded his immediate presence. The tone was not a request.

With a sigh of annoyance, Heath excused himself and drove out of the city. The family estate felt heavy, the air in Theodore's study thick with the scent of old books and cigar smoke. His grandfather sat by the fireplace, a formidable silhouette against the flames, his hand resting on a polished mahogany cane.

"I heard you and Eleanor divorced," Theodore said, his voice quiet, his eyes fixed on the fire.

Heath shrugged, leaning against the doorframe. "It was her childish tantrum. She'll be back."

Thwack. The cane hit the marble hearth with a sharp crack. "She won't be back. She took nothing from us. Not a cent of Price money. She left with one suitcase. That’s not the same as having nothing."

"That just proves she's trying a new tactic," Heath insisted, his jaw tightening. "She thinks poverty will win my sympathy."

Theodore finally turned to look at him, and the disappointment in his deep blue eyes was a physical blow. "You are a brilliant businessman, Heath, but a complete fool when it comes to people."

He rose to his feet, his movements slow but deliberate. "I don't care what you think. My ultimatum is simple: bring Eleanor back. As your wife."

Heath stared, incredulous. "And if I don't?"

"If you can't," Theodore's voice turned to ice, "then you can forget about inheriting Price Corp. I will find someone more worthy. Perhaps your cousin Mason."

The name hung in the air, a direct threat. To lose his birthright over her? A wave of humiliation and fury washed over Heath.

"You have one month," Theodore said, turning his back on him. "Now, get out of my sight."

Seething, Heath left the estate. The moment he was in his car, he called Sean. "Find Eleanor Pennington. I want to know where she lives, what she's doing, everything. I expect she's in some rundown apartment in Queens."

Sean's report came an hour later, his voice hesitant over the phone. "Sir... Ms. Pennington is living at The Astoria Grand."

Heath frowned. "The Astoria Grand? The new luxury apartment building in Midtown? Are you sure?" The rent there was astronomical.

"Yes, sir," Sean confirmed. "And... she just purchased a brand new car this morning. A Porsche Taycan. The apartment and the car are held by an LLC tied to her HoneyHeart brand. She’s been earning from it for years. The prenup never touched it."

Silence. Heath was utterly stunned. A woman he had assumed had no money, living in a luxury high-rise and driving a six-figure car? It was impossible.

"Take me to The Astoria Grand. Now," he barked at his driver, Frank Hicks.

His Bentley slid to a stop across the street from the gleaming glass tower. He didn't get out. He just sat in the back, his eyes fixed on the entrance, a cold knot of dread tightening in his stomach.

He waited for hours. As dusk settled over the city, she appeared. She was wearing stylish athletic gear, her hair in a high ponytail, laughing with the doorman. She looked... radiant. Alive. A complete stranger to the sad, quiet woman he remembered.

She pulled a key from her pocket and pressed a button. Across the street, the lights of a brand-new, cherry blossom pink Porsche Taycan flashed in response.

She slid into the driver's seat and merged effortlessly into the flow of traffic, never once glancing in his direction.

Heath watched the obnoxious pink car disappear. An uncontrollable rage, mixed with a bitter, unfamiliar feeling of defeat, surged through him. He shoved open his car door, stormed out onto the pavement, and slammed his fist down onto the hood of his own Bentley. The dull thud echoed in the quiet street.

Frank, his driver, flinched. He had never seen his boss lose control like this.

One question burned in Heath's mind: How had she built all of this without him noticing—and who had helped her?

For the first time, he realized he had lost control. The woman he thought he could discard like trash was leaving him behind, and a strange, sick possessiveness began to curdle in his gut.