Her husband slapped her eight times and tied her to a terrace chair in a storm, completely unaware she was escaping straight to her mother's safe.

At 6:30 AM, the rain over Manhattan finally cleared, leaving behind a cold, gray dawn that painted the skyscrapers in leaden hues.

In the master suite of the Foster penthouse, Richard woke up with a dry mouth and a throbbing headache brought on by half a bottle of twenty-year-old scotch. He stretched across the king-sized Egyptian cotton sheets, feeling the empty side of the bed with a sense of triumphant satisfaction.

Last night had been overdue. For months, Jasmine had resisted his demands to release the Sterling family voting proxies. She had questioned his transfers, asked annoying questions about his private meetings with Chloe Danvers, and dared to look at him with disappointment.

So, he had corrected her. Eight firm, open-handed lessons in who ruled this household. And then he had tied her outside in the gale to let the freezing Atlantic wind drive the lesson into her bones.

He pulled on a silk dressing gown, poured a mug of black coffee, and unlatched the heavy sliding glass door to the terrace.

“I hope you’ve had time to reconsider your stubbornness, Jasmine,” he called out casually, stepping onto the wet limestone tiles. “If you apologize properly and sign the proxy transfer before my nine o'clock meeting, I might let you take a hot bath.”

There was no answer. Only the low whistle of the city wind.

Richard turned the corner past the oversized potted ficus trees.

The wrought-iron chair was there. The sodden nylon ropes lay in a tangled, severed pile on the stone, soaked in pinkish puddles of rainwater and blood.

Beside the chair lay a single jagged shard of terracotta, coated in dried red flakes.

The chair was empty.

Richard froze, the coffee mug halfway to his lips. “Jasmine?”

He dropped the mug. It shattered on the tiles, hot coffee splashing across his bare ankles.

He ran to the edge of the terrace railing, his heart lurching into his throat, terrified he would look twenty-three stories down and see a white silk gown splayed across the pavement of Park Avenue. If she had jumped, the press would swarm. The police would investigate. The loan closing at noon would collapse under the scrutiny.

He peered over the balustrade. Nothing. Just yellow cabs creeping along the avenue like beetles.

He spun around, sprinting through the penthouse. “Jasmine! Where the hell are you?”

The walk-in closets were untouched. Her passport, her jewelry boxes, her designer coats—all hanging in neat rows. She hadn't packed.

Then he noticed the bathroom mirror.