The Unwanted Wife's Ultimate Escape

The penthouse was too quiet.

It was the kind of dead, suffocating silence that made the blood rushing through Blair's veins sound like a roaring river in her ears.

She sat at the edge of the massive marble dining table.

The Wellington steak sat on a porcelain platter in the center. It had been warm three hours ago. Now, the pastry was cold, stiff, and smelled faintly of congealed butter. The scent made her empty stomach churn violently.

Blair pressed her left thumb into the center of her right wrist.

A sharp, familiar ache throbbed deep beneath the skin, radiating up her forearm. She rubbed the joint in slow, punishing circles. It was a habit she couldn't break. A physical reminder of a past she wasn't allowed to talk about.

She looked up at the wall. The hands of the Patek Philippe clock glowed in the dim light.

It was twelve-fourteen in the morning.

The electronic lock on the front door emitted a sharp, high-pitched beep.

The sound made Blair's stomach tighten into a hard knot. Her pulse hammered against her throat.

The heavy oak door swung open.

Blackburn stepped inside. He brought the bitter, biting chill of the New York winter in with him.

He didn't look at the dining table. He didn't look at her.

His dark hair was slightly windblown. His jaw was set in a hard, unforgiving line. He looked exhausted, but the rigid posture of his broad shoulders showed zero vulnerability.

Blair pushed her chair back. The wooden legs scraped against the hardwood floor. The sound was painfully loud in the empty room.

She walked toward the entryway. Her legs felt heavy, like she was moving through wet concrete.

"You're late," she said.

Her voice was quiet. It barely carried across the distance between them.

Blackburn didn't answer. He reached up and yanked his silk tie loose. He pulled the fabric down an inch, freeing his throat with a gesture of pure irritation.

Blair stopped a foot away from him. She reached out her hands.

"Let me take your coat."

Blackburn shifted his weight. He stepped to the side, completely avoiding her touch.

Her hands grasped empty air.

He shrugged off the heavy wool suit jacket. He didn't hand it to her. He let it drop.

The jacket slid off his arm and fell over the edge of the leather sofa, half of it pooling on the floor.

Blair swallowed hard. Her throat felt like dry sandpaper.

She bent down. Her knees popped in the quiet room. She reached for the dark fabric of his jacket.

As her fingers gripped the wool, she felt something stiff inside the inner breast pocket. It didn't feel like a business card. It was thicker.

She paused. Her heart picked up speed, slamming against her ribs.

She slid her hand into the silk-lined pocket. Her fingers pinched the edge of a piece of glossy photo paper.

She pulled it out.

She flipped the photo over.

All the air rushed