The Lone Daughter of Martyrs: Her Glory Blooms After Divorce

Frankie pulled open the heavy velvet-lined drawer of her vanity.

Her fingers, usually so steady, trembled slightly as they brushed past empty ring boxes and discarded silk ties.

She was looking for the small, worn mahogany box that held her mother's ruby necklace. It was the only piece of jewelry she planned to wear tomorrow to the military base.

Her hand hit the back of the drawer. Empty.

Her heart skipped a harsh, unnatural beat. The air in the massive Manhattan penthouse suddenly felt too thin to breathe.

She pulled the drawer out further, the metal tracks groaning under her sudden, frantic force. She tossed aside a velvet pouch. Nothing.

The heavy bedroom door clicked open.

Domenic walked in. He was shrugging off his suit jacket, his movements carrying that effortless, arrogant grace that had once made Frankie's chest ache with love.

Now, all it did was bring a cold draft into the room.

Along with the draft came a scent. It wasn't his usual crisp cologne. It was a heavy, expensive cedarwood perfume.

Carley's perfume.

The scent hit the back of Frankie's throat, making her stomach churn with a sudden, violent nausea.

"Where is it?" Frankie asked. Her voice was low, forced through a throat that felt tight and dry.

Domenic didn't even look at her. He walked to his closet, his fingers moving to the knot of his silk tie. He loosened it with a sharp tug, a habit he always fell into when he was annoyed by her presence.

"Where is what, Frankie?" he sighed, sounding utterly exhausted by the mere fact that she was speaking to him.

"My mother's ruby necklace. It was in this drawer."

Domenic paused. He pulled the tie free and tossed it over a leather chair. He finally turned to look at her, his dark eyes flat and unapologetic.

"Oh, that old thing," he said, his tone entirely too casual. "I gave it to Carley."

The words landed in the room like physical blows.

Frankie's pupils contracted. The blood drained from her face, leaving her skin icy cold. "You what?"

"She saw it on the dresser yesterday," Domenic said, rolling up his shirt sleeves. "She said the vintage cut was interesting. You never wear it anyway. It doesn't even match your clothes."

He spoke as if he had given away a spare umbrella.

Frankie stood up. Her spine snapped perfectly straight, a rigid line of military discipline cutting through her shock. She took a step toward him.

"That was my mother's," Frankie said, her voice shaking with a rage she was fighting desperately to suppress. "It is the only thing I have left of her. I need it back. Now."

Domenic frowned. He took a half-step back, his upper lip curling in distaste at her intensity.

"Stop being so dramatic," he snapped. "It's just a piece of cloudy glass. I'll buy you a new one. Go to Cartier tomorrow and pick out whatever you want."

Frankie didn't argue. Her jaw locked. She