The day I buried my father, I called my husband and asked for a divorce. Ethan Blackwood laughed and said, “Go ahead, Claire. Let’s see how you pay your father’s hospital bills without my money.” I didn’t tell him my father was already dead—or that while Ethan was vacationing in Miami Beach with another woman, I had signed my father’s death certificate alone.

The master bedroom in the Blackwood estate smelled of cedar, cold rain, and expensive aftershave. For two years, it had also smelled of fresh jasmine—the perfume Claire wore every single morning before Ethan woke up.

Today, the scent was gone.

Ethan stood in the center of the walk-in closet, staring at the barren racks. One entire half of the room had been cleared out. But she hadn’t taken the Chanel coats he had bought her after their arguments. She hadn’t taken the sapphire necklace he tossed onto her vanity when he missed their first anniversary. She hadn’t touched the diamond bands, the platinum tennis bracelets, or the alligator bags that lined the top shelves.

She had taken two beat-up denim jackets, three plain sweaters, her medical-school textbooks from before they met, and a pair of worn canvas sneakers.

On the center marble island sat her wedding ring. Next to it lay her black American Express card—cut clean in half with kitchen shears.

Behind him, Marcus, his right-hand man and head of personal security, cleared his throat. “Boss. The pilot is holding the Gulfstream on the tarmac at O’Hare. Do you want me to prep the Seattle team?”

Ethan didn’t turn around. His fists were jammed into the pockets of his tailored slacks, the knuckles white and rigid. “Read the hospital log to me again.”

Marcus swallowed hard. In the ten years he had worked for Ethan Blackwood, he had seen the man order executions without blinking an eye. He had watched him take a bullet to the shoulder during the dock war of 2021 and stitch it up with bourbon and dental floss. But right now, the boss’s voice sounded like brittle glass.

“Arthur Bennett went into cardiac arrest at 1:14 a.m. on Tuesday,” Marcus read from the tablet. “The surgical team worked on him for an hour and thirty-three minutes. He was declared deceased at 2:47 a.m. Cause of death: acute myocardial infarction brought on by systemic organ failure.”

*2:47 a.m.*

Ethan’s chest seized. That was the exact moment he had been leaning against the rail of a penthouse balcony in South Beach, tossing back a glass of Macallan while Vanessa Monroe draped herself over his shoulder and giggled into his neck.

He remembered pulling out his phone that night. He had seen Claire’s name flash across the screen fifteen times. He had smirked, assuming she was throwing another quiet fit about him leaving town without telling her. He had flipped the phone face down onto the glass table and let Vanessa pull him toward the bedroom.

*“Let’s see how you manage your father’s medical bills next month.”*

His own words echoed in his skull, sour and vile. He had mocked a dead man’s daughter with the cost of keeping him alive.

“Where in Seattle?” Ethan’s voice dropped to a lethal, dangerous whisper.

“She’s staying with Maya Lin. Her roommate from Northwestern,” Marcus replied. “Maya owns an architectural restoration firm in Capitol Hill. Claire checked into a modest sublet near the sound early this morning. She hasn’t contacted anyone in Chicago. She hasn’t used any shared accounts. She withdrew two thousand dollars from her personal checking account—money she earned tutoring high school students online—and that’s it.”

Suddenly, the heavy mahogany double doors swung open.

Vanessa Monroe strolled into the room, wearing an ivory silk robe that belonged to the estate’s guest suite. Her blonde hair fell over her bare shoulders, and a playful pout touched her glossy lips.

“Ethan, darling,” she purred, walking toward him with her hips swaying. “Your housekeeper is refusing to unpack my luggage. She said Mrs. Blackwood gave orders that no outside guests were permitted in the master wing. Tell her to stop being ridiculous. Claire is gone, isn't she? She threw her little tantrum, just like I told you she would. Good riddance. Now we can finally—”

Ethan moved so fast Marcus instinctively reached for his sidearm.

In less than a second, Ethan crossed the room. His hand didn’t strike Vanessa, but he slammed the solid oak closet door shut inches from her face. The crack sounded like a gunshot, reverberating through the vast room.

Vanessa shrieked, stumbling back onto the plush rug, her eyes wide with sudden terror.

Ethan stood over her, his eyes pitch-black with a fury she had never witnessed. “Get your clothes.”

“E-Ethan?” she stammered, her voice shaking.

“Get your bags, get out of this house, and if you ever set foot on this property again, I will have your father’s offshore accounts audited by the IRS by midnight,” Ethan snarled, his voice dropping into the guttural register that had terrorized the Chicago underworld for a decade. “Get out.”

Vanessa scrambled to her feet, clutching her robe, tears ruining her mascara, and fled down the marble hallway.

Ethan turned back toward Marcus. He picked up Claire’s wedding ring from the vanity. The platinum felt ice-cold against his palm. He squeezed it until the metal bit into his skin, drawing a tiny drop of blood.

“Prep the jet,” Ethan said.

“Boss, the Moretti family is moving on the West Side docks,” Marcus warned. “Don Dominic called an emergency sit-down for tomorrow afternoon. If you leave the city right now, they’ll think you’re weak. They’ll move on our supply lines.”

Ethan looked at Marcus, his jaw locked like iron.