The Rimowa suitcases lay open on the floor of the walk-in closet like empty mouths. Hadley moved between them with a detached efficiency, her hands folding cashmere sweaters into neat squares. She ignored the gowns, the glittering rows of couture that felt like costumes from another woman's life. She packed only the basics. The essentials. The things that were hers before she became Mrs. Cleveland Jacobson.
A loud slam from the front of the penthouse echoed through the apartment, making the crystal chandelier in the closet tremble.
"Mr. Jacobson, sir, please!" Maria, the housekeeper, sounded panicked.
The sound of heavy, angry footsteps on the hardwood floors grew louder, closer. The double doors to the master bedroom were thrown open with such force that one of them banged against the wall.
Cleveland stood in the doorway, his six-foot-three frame filling the space. Rain darkened the shoulders of his coat, and his tie was yanked loose at his throat. His eyes, usually a cool, calculating gray, were stormy with fury.
His gaze fell to the suitcases on the floor, and his jaw tightened.
He crossed the room in three long strides and grabbed her wrist, his fingers digging into her skin. "Are you out of your mind?" he snarled, his voice low and dangerous. "Shutting off the power at the estate? Do you have any idea how that made me look? I had half of Wall Street sitting in the dark."
Hadley yanked her arm free. Her eyes flickered to his shirt collar. A faint, almost invisible smudge of pink lipstick. She didn't say a word about the Tribeca apartment. She didn't have to.
"I'm tired of this life," she said, her voice flat.
A humorless laugh escaped his lips. "Tired? Or you just needed a new way to get my attention? This little stunt is going to cost you."
He stepped closer, backing her up against a row of built-in wardrobes. He was a wall of muscle and anger, and the scent of the city rain and another woman's perfume clung to him. He raised a hand, his expression shifting to one of condescending indulgence, as if he were about to pat a misbehaving dog.
She turned her head away, a flinch of pure revulsion. His touch felt like a brand.
That small act of rejection ignited his temper. His hand shot out, grabbing her chin, forcing her to look at him. His eyes were cold, filled with the absolute certainty of his own power.
"Don't forget the terms of our agreement, Hadley," he whispered, his voice a venomous caress. "The trust. The clauses."
He leaned in closer, his breath hot against her ear. "You don't produce an heir, you don't get to touch a single penny of the Jacobson family money. You're not even really in the family until you do. You're just... visiting."
Heir.
The word was a shard of glass, twisting in a wound no one else could see. The air left her lungs in a painful rush, and the color drained from her face. She felt the floor drop out from under her.
He saw her reaction and mistook it for fear. A smug, triumphant smile touched the corner of his mouth. He thought he'd won. He always thought he'd won.
"Be a good girl tonight," he murmured, his voice dropping to a husky tone she'd once found seductive. Now it just made her stomach churn. "And I'll forgive this little tantrum."
His other hand began to slide down her back, his touch possessive and proprietary.
A wave of nausea, hot and acidic, rose in her throat. It wasn't just emotional disgust anymore. It was a violent, physical rejection of him, of everything he represented.
Her knee came up, fast and hard, striking him squarely in the abdomen.
A choked grunt of pain escaped him. His grip on her chin loosened instantly as he doubled over, clutching his stomach. He stumbled back, his face a mask of shocked disbelief.
Hadley straightened her clothes, her movements stiff. She looked at him, at the man she had once loved, and felt nothing but a vast, empty coldness. He was a stranger.
She pointed a trembling finger toward the bedroom door.
"Get out."
