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

Daniel slowly lowered his hand, his eyes tracking the frantic tremor in my left wrist. He took a single step back, as if realizing that his proximity was suffocating me.

"Stand up," he said, trying to soften his tone, though it still held the command of a master speaking to an unruly servant. "Stop this, Clara. You're making a scene."

I drew a long, shaky breath and slowly forced my limbs to uncoil. My back screamed with pain; the scar tissue across my shoulder blades pulled tight against my skin like stretched leather. I straightened my apron, refusing to meet his eyes.

"You can have coffee to go," I said, my voice dead again. "Otherwise, please leave. My boss doesn't like loafers."

"Your boss?" Daniel let out a bitter, mocking breath. "Do you think this is noble? Do you think living like a stray dog is going to make me feel guilty? You committed a crime, Clara. You spent six years paying for it. I was willing to let bygones be bygones. I offered you a comfortable life so you wouldn't have to humiliate yourself like this."

"Comfortable," I repeated. The word tasted like ashes.

"Yes. A home. An allowance. Medical care." He leaned forward, resting his hands on the greasy counter, heedless of the grime. "Come with me. Lawrence is parked outside. I’ll take you to the penthouse. We can hire a private doctor for that tremor. We can get you clothes. Nobody has to know you spent two weeks scrubbing trucker mugs."

I looked at him then. Really looked at him.

He hadn't aged a day. His jaw was still sharp, his tailored suit without a wrinkle, his life entirely intact. While I had been bleeding into the Danbury dirt, he had been drinking vintage Bordeaux and attending the Met Gala with Natalie Reed on his arm.

"Did you marry her?" I asked.

The question caught him off guard. His gaze flickered. "What?"

"Natalie. Did you marry her?"

Daniel frowned. "We are engaged. The wedding is in the spring."

A faint, ghost-like smile touched my lips. "Then why are you here, Mr. Ellison? It doesn't look good for the groom to be slumming it in Queens at 3:00 in the morning."

"I am here because you are still my responsibility!" he snapped, his control fraying. "Like it or not, Clara, you carried my name for three years. I won't have the press finding you behind a deep fryer and writing headlines about Daniel Ellison’s discarded ex-wife dying of malnutrition in an alley!"

"Your responsibility ended the day you took the stand and told twelve strangers I was a monster," I said softly.

"You pushed her down the stairs!" Daniel’s voice boomed in the small diner, rattling the glass pie display. "You killed our—" He stopped himself, biting down on the word.

*Our child.*

He had believed Natalie when she told him the baby was his. He had believed her when she sobbed in the ICU, claiming I had looked her in the eye and shoved her with both hands.

"I didn't touch her," I said for the millionth time. My voice carried no anger, no desperation. Just a flat, unyielding fact, like stating the color of stone. "Now please leave. Or I will call the police."

"The police?" Daniel chuckled, a harsh, humorless sound. "Do you really think the NYPD is going to take the side of a convicted felon over me?"

Before I could answer, the door to the back office swung open.

Maeve stepped out, holding a sawed-off wooden baseball bat in one beefy hand. She planted her feet and glared at Daniel.

"Mister, I don't give a damn if you're the governor of New York," Maeve growled, resting the bat against her shoulder. "The girl told you to get lost. Move your shiny shoes out of my diner before I introduce this piece of ash wood to your kneecap."

Daniel looked at Maeve, then looked at me. His expression was a storm of frustration, arrogance, and something that looked dangerously like wounded vanity.

"You're making a mistake, Clara," he said, pulling his leather gloves on with sharp, deliberate snaps. "You won't last a month out here. When you're cold and starving, don't expect the door to be open."

He turned on his heel and strode out, the brass bell ringing violently behind him.

Maeve spat into an empty coffee can. "Ex-husband?"

"Something like that," I whispered.