He framed me for his mistress’s miscarriage, but the moment she confessed six years later, he saw the horrific scars his silence caused.

Across town, in the soaring glass aerie of Ellison Tower, Daniel stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan.

It was 7:00 AM. A untouched cup of espresso sat cooling on his mahogany desk.

The door to his private office swung open without a knock. Lawrence, his chief of security and personal fixer for over a decade, slipped inside. His expression was grim, tight around the mouth.

"Did you take her to the apartment?" Daniel asked without turning around. His voice was deep, cultured, carrying the effortless authority of a man who owned entire shipping fleets and logistics conglomerates.

"I took her there, sir," Lawrence said hesitantly.

"Did she like the view? I had the interior designer furnish it in beige and cream. Those were her favorite colors." A tiny, self-satisfied smirk touched the edge of Daniel’s lips. "She must have wept. After six years in that hellhole, luxury should feel like oxygen."

"She didn't stay, Mr. Ellison."

Daniel turned slowly, his sharp gray eyes narrowing. "What did you say?"

"She left. Immediately." Lawrence cleared his throat, pulling a small silver tray from his briefcase. On it sat two items, fished out by a diver two hours ago after Lawrence had tracked her phone: the titanium keycard to the multimillion-dollar penthouse and the unlimited black Amex card. Both were dripping with oily harbor water.

Daniel stared at the waterlogged items. "Where is she?"

"We don't know, sir. She dropped her phone in the trash can outside the gate at Danbury. She threw the keys and card into the Hudson River. When she left the riverwalk, she walked into the subway system. She didn't use an MTA card; she paid a teenager five dollars in cash to swipe her through the turnstile. After that, she vanished."

A vein pulsed along Daniel's jawline. "She has no money. Her grandmother's estate was liquidated to pay our legal team. She has no relatives, no friends—they all cut ties after the trial. Where the hell does she think she can go?"

"I don't know, sir," Lawrence murmured. "Before she left, she told me to give you a message."

"Speak."

Lawrence swallowed hard. "She said... *'Tell him the woman he married died in prison. And dead women don’t need penthouses.'*"

The room went dead silent.

Daniel felt an unfamiliar, sharp pang behind his ribs, like an icicle snapping against bone. He scoffed, trying to brush it away. It was pride. That was all it was. Clara had always been stubborn. When they were married, she had refused to let his driver carry her grocery bags; she had insisted on making dinner herself, humming quietly in the kitchen of their sprawling estate.

*She pushed Natalie,* he reminded himself harshly. *She threw an unborn child down twenty marble steps out of pure, petty jealousy. She deserved every single month behind bars.*

Yet, the image of her gaunt, hollow face from the trial photos flashed behind his eyelids. She had looked like a ghost even then, whispering, *“Daniel, please look at me. I didn't touch her. I swear to God, I didn't touch her.”*

He hadn't looked at her. He had stood before the judge and testified that his wife had been erratic, possessive, and unstable.

"Find her," Daniel ordered coldly, turning back toward the sunrise. "Hire every private investigator in the tri-state area. She thinks she's punishing me by living on the streets like a stray dog. I won't have the Ellison name dragged through the gutter because my ex-wife decided to play the martyr."

"Yes, Mr. Ellison."

Just as Lawrence reached the door, it swung wide.

Natalie Reed swept in, draped in white cashmere, smelling of expensive French gardenias. Her honey-blonde hair fell in soft curls over her shoulders, and her diamond earrings caught the dawn light. She leaned up on her tiptoes, pressing a soft, perfumed kiss to Daniel's jaw.

"Good morning, darling," Natalie purred, looping her arm through his. "You're up early. Are you thinking about the charity gala this Friday?"

Daniel pulled away slightly, a subtle gesture that made Natalie’s smile stiffen.

"Clara was released yesterday," Daniel said, watching her reaction.

Natalie’s breath hitched for a fraction of a second. Her fingers tightened around the strap of her Birkin bag until her knuckles turned ivory, but her face quickly dissolved into a mask of wounded fragility. She brought a trembling hand to her lower abdomen.

"Clara..." Natalie whispered, her eyes brimming with sudden, practiced tears. "Is she... is she coming after me, Daniel? What if she tries to finish what she started? The doctor said I might never carry a child to term because of what she did to me on those stairs..."

Seeing her tears, Daniel felt the familiar guilt wash over him. He reached out and touched Natalie's cheek. "Nobody is coming after you, Nat. I won't let her near you."

"Promise me, Daniel," she choked out, burying her face into his chest.

Beneath the cashmere, Natalie’s face wasn't crying at all. Her teeth were clenched, her eyes blazing with raw terror.

*Clara was out.*