Graham POV:
I pushed past the heavy oak doors of my Manhattan penthouse, my movements jerky and uncoordinated. I had bought this place three years ago, overlooking Central Park, designing every square inch to be our marital home. Now, the silence inside was a physical weight that threatened to crush my spine. Every piece of custom furniture, every velvet drape, felt like a needle dragging across my exposed nerves.
I barked an order at the security detail and the maids, telling them to get the hell out. The heavy front door clicked shut, the deadbolt engaging with a final, echoing snap. I was completely alone.
Outside, the sky cracked open. A violent thunderstorm rolled over the city, the wind howling as thick sheets of rain battered the massive floor-to-ceiling windows of the living room.
I stumbled to the crystal wet bar. I grabbed a heavy bottle of single malt whiskey, ignoring the glasses. I ripped the cork out with my teeth and tipped the bottle back, letting the raw, burning liquid pour down my throat. The alcohol scorched my esophagus, but it did nothing to stop the violent spasms twisting my stomach into tight knots. The nausea was overwhelming, a physical reaction to the rot eating my soul.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and staggered toward the far wall. I grabbed the edge of a massive canvas drop cloth and yanked it down. Dust plumed into the air.
Beneath the cloth was a life-sized oil painting. It was Corinna. She was smiling, wearing a simple white dress, looking at me with eyes full of a soft, foolish trust. I dropped to my knees on the hardwood floor. My hand shook uncontrollably as I reached out, my fingertips tracing the flat, painted surface of her stomach.
The words from that medical file flashed behind my eyes like a strobe light. *Immediate termination of pregnancy.*
The guilt mutated into physical agony. It felt like someone was driving rusted nails through my ribs. I let out a raw, agonizing scream. I grabbed a solid bronze sculpture off the console table. The metal was heavy and cold in my grip.
I spun around and hurled the bronze statue with all my strength at the million-dollar bulletproof glass window.
The impact sounded like a bomb going off. The sculpture bounced off the reinforced pane, leaving a massive, spiderweb crack in the center of the glass. It did not shatter.
The resistance infuriated me. It mocked me. I charged at the window. I pulled my fist back and punched the cracked glass. The sharp edges sliced through my skin. I punched it again, and again. My knuckles split open, the flesh tearing as hot blood smeared across the cold, wet glass. I didn't feel the pain in my hands. All I could feel was the phantom pain of Corinna lying alone on a sterile operating table, bleeding out because I had abandoned her.
I threw my entire body weight against the weakened structure. With a final, deafening crack, the load-bearing frame gave way. The entire pane of bulletproof glass exploded outward.
The storm violently invaded the room. Freezing rain and howling wind blasted into the penthouse, instantly soaking the Persian rugs and ripping the canvas painting off the wall.
I collapsed backward onto the floor, landing in a pile of jagged glass shards. The sharp pieces sliced deep into my forearms and wrists, cutting down to the bone. Blood pooled beneath me, mixing with the cold rainwater. I lay there, staring up at the dark, weeping sky, and my lips curled into a pathetic, miserable smile. The physical pain was finally loud enough to drown out the screaming in my head.
The heavy front door splintered open. My security team rushed in, their boots crunching on the glass. One of them screamed for a medic.
***
Corinna POV:
The private high-speed train cut smoothly through the night, carrying me from Washington D.C. toward New York. I sat in the plush velvet seat of my private cabin, the reading light casting a warm glow over the thick stack of legal documents detailing the upcoming merger.
My personal phone vibrated silently on the mahogany table. I picked it up. It was a heavily encrypted message from the mole I had planted deep inside the Rios family security team.
I opened the file. It was a high-resolution photograph.
Graham was strapped to a white stretcher, his crisp white shirt completely soaked in blood. His arms were wrapped in makeshift tourniquets, his face deathly pale, his eyes closed. He looked like a corpse.
A text bubble popped up below the image: *Senator mentally collapsed, severe self-harm, sent to Mount Sinai Hospital for emergency surgery.*
My assistant, sitting across from me, caught a glimpse of the photo. She gasped loudly, her hand flying to her mouth. She looked at me, her eyes wide with shock, waiting for my reaction.
I stared at the blood on his hands. My heart did not skip a single beat. My breathing remained perfectly even. I did not feel a shred of pity. I did not feel anything at all.
I held the phone with one hand, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. I typed exactly two letters, my face an absolute mask of indifference. I hit send and placed the phone face down on the table.
"Read."
