Ainsley's knees sank into the damp mulch, the cold seeping through her jeans. She ignored it. She focused on the voices drifting through the slightly open glass door.
"...I wish I could help you, Carson," Kirstie was saying. Her voice was unrecognizable from the shrill tone she'd used with Ainsley. It was liquid honey. "But Ainsley... she's unreasonable."
Carson didn't move. "Did she sign?"
His voice was low. Baritone. It vibrated in the air.
"No," Kirstie sighed. "She said the money was an insult. She said unless you give her shares in the Eaton Group, she's going to the press. She's going to tell them about your... episodes."
Ainsley's jaw dropped. She clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp. The sheer audacity of Kirstie's lies was almost impressive.
Carson's hand tightened on the armrest of his chair. His knuckles turned white.
"That greedy..." He trailed off, disgust choking the words.
"And Julian told me," Kirstie continued, stepping closer to him, "that she's not really amnesiac. It's an act. A strategy to delay the divorce proceedings."
"An act," Carson repeated. A bitter laugh escaped him. "She always was a good actress."
Kirstie placed a hand on his shoulder. It was possessive. Intimate. "Don't worry. I'll handle her. For you. For us."
She leaned down. Her face was inches from his. She was going to kiss him.
Something inside Ainsley snapped. It wasn't logic. It was a primal, territorial roar. That was her husband. Her target. Her territory. She didn't remember him, she didn't know if she loved him, but he was hers, and Kirstie was a liar.
Ainsley stood up. Her legs screamed, but she shoved the pain aside.
She grabbed the handle of the glass door and threw it open.
It slammed against the wall with a crash that sounded like a gunshot.
Kirstie shrieked and jumped back, knocking into the tea table. Hot water splashed onto the stone floor.
Carson spun his chair around. He was fast. His head cocked, his ears orienting to the sound instantly.
"Who is there?" he barked.
Ainsley stepped into the solarium. She smelled like exhaust fumes and hospital soap. She was bleeding through her shirt. But she felt ten feet tall.
"Bravo, Kirstie," Ainsley said. Her voice was raspy but loud. "That was a hell of a performance."
Kirstie's face drained of color. "Ainsley? How did you..."
"Ainsley?" Carson's voice dropped. It was cold. Deadly.
Ainsley ignored Kirstie. She walked straight toward him. Her boots left muddy prints on the pristine floor.
She stopped three feet from him. She looked at his face. The dark glasses hid his eyes, but the lines of tension around his mouth were visible.
"I didn't ask for shares," Ainsley said, staring at his unseeing face. "I didn't threaten to go to the press. And I am not pretending to forget you."
She turned to Kirstie. "She is a liar."
"Security!" Kirstie screamed, backing away. "She's crazy! She broke in!"
Heavy footsteps thundered down the hallway leading to the solarium.
Carson sat perfectly still. He didn't yell. He tilted his head, listening.
"You can call the army," Ainsley told Kirstie, stepping closer to her until she hit the glass wall. "But before they drag me out, I have enough time to pour that pot of boiling tea down the front of that cashmere sweater you stole from my closet."
Kirstie gasped. "You wouldn't."
"Try me," Ainsley said.
