The first thing I remember about the morning my marriage was supposed to end is throwing up into a silver trash can while the divorce papers waited unsigned ten feet away.

The silence in the grand foyer was suffocating.

I looked down at Dorian’s hand against my chest, feeling the heavy, steady rhythm of his heart through the sheer proximity of his body. My mind scrambled to process what he had just said. A bullet. A note with my name on it.

“Who?” I managed to ask, my voice barely more than a ragged breath.

Dorian didn’t answer right away. He took my hand, guiding me up the remaining stairs and down the wide, vaulted corridor toward the master bedroom. He opened the heavy double doors, ushering me inside before locking them behind us.

The suite was exactly as I had left it three weeks ago, except for one thing: the adjoining door to his private study, which had been locked for half a year, stood slightly ajar.

“Julian Vance,” Dorian said, unbuttoning his overcoat and tossing it onto an armchair. Underneath, his crisp white shirt was immaculate, save for the dark leather shoulder holster strapped across his chest. He unclipped it with practiced ease, laying the heavy black firearm on the high mantelpiece out of reach.

The name sent a chill down my spine. Julian Vance was the head of Vance Logistics—the primary rival to Dorian’s shipping empire, but more accurately, the ruthless scion of an old-money syndicate that controlled the southern rail yards and the dirty docks Dorian had spent five years cleaning up.

“Julian Vance died in a boat explosion two years ago,” I said, remembering the headlines.

“Julian Vance faked his death and went to ground in Montreal,” Dorian countered, turning to face me. He began rolling up his sleeves, exposing the dark, intricate tattoos that curled around his forearms—symbols of maritime trade intertwined with Latin scripture. “He resurfaced six months ago. He wants the port contracts back. But more than that, he wants retribution for his brother’s arrest. And he knows the only way to break me is through you.”

“So you filed for divorce?” I demanded, anger surging through the terror. “Your brilliant master plan to protect me was to abandon me? To make me think the man I loved had fallen out of love with me?”

“Yes.” He said it without hesitation. “If the whole city believed I had discarded you, you were useless as leverage. If I cut you off publicly, threw you out of the estate, and sent my attorneys after you, Julian would have no reason to bleed you to get to me. You would be safe. You would be free of this filthy world I live in.”

“I was miserable, Dorian!” I stepped forward, shoving his chest with both hands. He didn't budge an inch, absorbing the blow like granite. “I was living on cheap noodles in a drafty apartment, crying myself to sleep every night because I thought our entire marriage had been a lie! You didn't protect me, you tore me to pieces!”

“And you were alive to be torn to pieces!” he roared, his control finally snapping.

He grabbed my wrists, holding them against his chest. His eyes burned with an agonizing, possessive fire.

“You think I enjoyed it? You think watching you pack your bags on the security cameras didn’t rip my soul out of my chest? I sat in that chair,” he pointed violently toward the leather wingback in his study, “with a bottle of Scotch and a loaded gun every night, waiting for Vance’s scouts to report that you were truly alone so I could wipe them out in the dark!”

“And the divorce papers?” I gasped, tears burning my throat. “You were going to let the judge sign them!”

“No,” he snarled, pulling me so close our foreheads touched. “The papers were fake, Clara. Marcus filed the initial petition to make the public records show a separation, but the final decree was never going to court. I was going to kill Vance, burn his network to the ground, and then I was going to come to your apartment, throw you over my shoulder, and bring you back here. Whether you hated me or not.”

I stared at him, horrified and utterly overwhelmed by the sheer, terrifying depth of his obsession. “You’re insane.”

“About you? I’ve been insane since the day you walked into my office three years ago,” he whispered, his lips brushing mine, tasting the salt of my tears. “And now you’re carrying my child. The game has changed, Clara. I can’t pretend to hate you anymore. Vance’s people saw us leave the law firm together. They saw me bring you to the hospital. By tonight, the entire city will know that Dorian Cross’s wife is back in his house.”

A sudden knock on the bedroom door shattered the moment.

“Enter,” Dorian barked, stepping back but keeping one hand firmly anchored on my waist.

Nikolai entered, his face grim. He held a silver tray, upon which sat an unmarked black envelope sealed with red wax.

“Delivered to the front gate five minutes ago, sir,” Nikolai said quietly. “Courier was on a motorcycle. Vanished into the highway before the perimeter team could intercept.”

Dorian took the envelope, breaking the wax seal with his thumb. He pulled out a single photograph and a piece of cardstock.

I looked over his arm.

The photograph was of me, taken less than an hour ago, standing outside the law firm, Dorian’s hand hovering over my stomach.

Written in elegant, flowing calligraphy across the bottom of the card were four words: