Chapter 2

Leaving the wine-stained rug behind, Hale stalked up the spiral staircase into his study to strip off his soaked suit, while Idella forced herself up from the floor and followed him upstairs.

Rain lashed violently against the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Manhattan skyline, with only a dim brass desk lamp lighting the room. Having changed into a clean black silk shirt with the top two buttons undone, Hale sat behind his wide black walnut desk. The flush from the drug had faded into a cold pallor as he spun a black-and-gold Montblanc pen between his long fingers with a steady, dull clicking sound.

Still wearing her crumpled white gown, Idella stood alone in the center of the rug, her arms crossed over her chest and her spine ramrod straight.

The study door opened, and Eden Rogers, Chief Legal Officer of Montgomery Global, walked in. He placed a thick leather folder on the desk, bowed respectfully to his boss, and stepped back by the door.

Hale pushed the folder to the edge of the desk, tapped the gold family crest on the cover, and looked at her without a trace of warmth in his gray-blue eyes.

"Sign it. Let's keep this decent for everyone."

Idella looked down at the bold title on the front page: Supplemental Prenuptial Enforcement and No-Fault Mutual Divorce Agreement.

She stepped forward, picked up the document, and flipped through the pages. When she saw the clause stating that she waived all Montgomery trust benefits and that capital injections into the Rutledge Group would terminate immediately, her fingers clenched tightly. She slapped the papers back onto the desk.

"When we got married three years ago, you promised my grandfather you would inject capital to help the Rutledge Group restructure its debt. Now you're pulling the funding right before our bankruptcy hearing?"

Hale stopped spinning the pen and narrowed his eyes.

"That verbal promise required you to know your place. As for what you put in my drink tonight, I don't need a medical examiner to run a toxicology report, do I?"

Idella bit her lower lip until she tasted blood.

"I did that because I wanted to save this marriage! For three whole years, what have I been to you? A vase displayed in your penthouse?"

"You were never the mistress of this house."

Hale cut her off coldly, standing up to adjust his diamond cufflinks.

"There is only a contract between us, not a home."

Right then, the private encrypted phone on his desk buzzed sharply. The screen lit up with an incoming call from John F. Kennedy International Airport.

Seeing the name flashing on the display, the icy expression on Hale's face cracked, replaced by a fleeting look of panic and tenderness. Without hesitation, he tapped the speakerphone button and lifted the device.

A sweet, breathless female voice, carefully practiced by an ambitious climber pretending to be an innocent socialite, sobbed through the speaker.

"Hale... my flight just landed at JFK. It's raining so hard outside, and I'm so scared..."

Hale's voice softened instantly, a stark contrast to his earlier rage.

"Don't be afraid, Kelli. Stay in the VIP lounge and don't move. My convoy will be there in ten minutes."

Idella stood frozen on the rug. Hearing the name Kelli Santos felt like a bucket of ice water dumped over her head from top to bottom, chilling her to the bone.

Hale hung up, grabbed his black overcoat from the back of his chair, and walked toward the door without sparing Idella a single glance.

She spun around and raised her voice.

"Is it because she came back that you couldn't even wait one more night to kick me out?"

Hale paused with his back to her, his voice low and cruel.

"She is the person I will protect for the rest of my life. For you, signing the papers and taking the settlement is your only way out."

"And if I refuse to sign?"

Her voice shook, her eyes bright red as she lifted her chin stubbornly.

Hale turned his head slightly, looking at her out of the corner of his eye with absolute contempt.

"Then when the market opens tomorrow morning, the last three galleries under the Rutledge name will be seized and auctioned off by the court."

He pulled the study door open and strode out, the heavy front door slamming shut downstairs a moment later.

Idella bit down hard on the knuckle of her index finger as tears spilled down her cheeks, ten years of secret devotion turning into suffocating humiliation. She lunged forward and grabbed the Montblanc pen on the desk, holding the tip over the signature line before stopping abruptly and snapping the gold nib in half against the wood.

Black ink splattered across the expensive legal paper like an ugly dark stain.

Turning on her heel, she ran downstairs, snatched her Porsche keys from the entryway console without changing out of her thin gown, and rushed into the private elevator.

The elevator dropped straight to the underground garage. She jumped into her red Porsche 911, floored the gas pedal, and tore out into the pouring rain on Fifth Avenue.

The windshield wipers whipped back and forth frantically as neon city lights smeared across the wet glass. Her psychosomatic depression flared up in the thunderstorm, a crushing weight tightening around her chest until she could barely draw breath. On the passenger seat, her phone rang nonstop with emergency calls from her family's old butler and the bankruptcy court.

As she sped onto the curved ramp of the FDR Drive overpass, the blinding high beams of a skidding heavy cold-chain truck suddenly smashed through the center divider, hurtling straight toward the hood of her car.