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 out of her lungs.

Her chest caved in. She couldn't draw a breath.

It was a candid shot. The lighting was warm. Blackburn was standing in what looked like a private hospital suite. He was looking down. The harsh, cold lines of his face were completely gone. He looked soft. He looked incredibly gentle.

His hands were raised. He was fastening a heavy diamond necklace around the neck of a woman.

The woman was wearing a white nurse's uniform. She was smiling up at him.

Blair's fingers went entirely numb. The sharp edges of the photo cut into her skin, but she couldn't feel it.

A loud, high-pitched ringing started in her ears. Her stomach pitched violently, acid rising in the back of her throat.

She stared at the woman's face. She didn't know her. But she knew the look in Blackburn's eyes. It was a look he had never, not once in three years of marriage, given to her.

Blackburn turned around.

He had just tossed his keys onto the glass console table. His sharp eyes locked onto Blair.

His gaze dropped to her hands. He saw the photo.

Blair waited for a flash of panic. She waited for him to step forward, to snatch it away, to look guilty.

He didn't.

His dark eyebrows pulled together in a deep frown. The skin around his eyes tightened. There was no guilt on his perfect face. There was only extreme, unfiltered annoyance.

He looked at her like she was a pest that had crawled onto his expensive rug.

"What are you doing?" he asked. His voice was a low, dangerous rumble.

Blair forced her lungs to expand. She took a ragged breath.

She placed the photo down on the marble kitchen island. Her hand was shaking so badly the paper tapped against the stone.

"Who is she?" Blair asked. Her voice cracked on the last word.

Blackburn let out a short, harsh scoff.

He didn't walk toward her. He walked past her. He went straight to the crystal decanters on the wet bar.

He picked up a heavy glass and poured two fingers of amber whiskey.

"Don't cross the line, Blair," he said. He didn't look at her as he spoke. He lifted the glass and took a slow sip.

"The line?" Blair repeated. Her chest burned. "I am your wife."

Blackburn set the glass down. The crystal clinked sharply against the wood.

He turned to face her. His eyes were dead and cold.

"You are Mrs. Gilbert," he corrected her. His tone was flat. "Your job is to smile at galas and spend my money. It does not include going through my pockets. It does not include asking questions."

The words hit her like a physical blow to the stomach. She took a step back.

She looked at the photo on the island, then back at him.

The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.

Blair dug her fingernails into her palms. The sharp pain grounded her.

Her chest felt unbearably tight, as if the air had been violently sucked out of the room. She needed to grab onto something-anything-to prove she was still breathing, still alive beneath the crushing weight of this marriage. Her eyes darted around the cold, immaculate penthouse before she forced herself to speak.

"I got an email today," she said. Her voice was hollow.

Blackburn picked up his glass again. He looked entirely bored.

"The New York Philharmonic," Blair continued. She forced herself to look him in the eye. "They sent me an interview notice. I want to go. I want to work. I want to play the violin again."

Blackburn stopped moving.

His grip on the whiskey glass tightened until his knuckles turned stark white.

He stared at her for three agonizing seconds.

Then, he set the glass down. He walked over to his heavy oak desk in the corner of the room.

He opened the top drawer and pulled out a leather-bound checkbook.

He grabbed a silver pen. He didn't ask her what the job was. He didn't ask her why she wanted to play again.

He just started writing. The scratch of the pen against the paper was loud and aggressive.

He ripped the cashier's check from the book.

He walked back to her. He didn't hand it to her. He flicked his wrist.

The stiff paper fluttered through the air and hit Blair squarely in the chest. It fell to the floor, landing near the toe of her slipper.

Blair looked down.

It was a check for five hundred thousand dollars.

"Pick it up," Blackburn ordered. His voice was pure ice.

Blair didn't move. Her breathing turned shallow and fast.

"Take the money," he said, stepping closer. His towering frame cast a dark shadow over her. "Go buy another Birkin. Go to Paris for the weekend. Do whatever it is you do."

He leaned down, his face inches from hers. She could smell the whiskey and the cold winter air on his skin.

"But do not embarrass me by begging for a job like a commoner. You wanted to be a trophy. So sit on the shelf and be quiet."

He straightened up. He didn't wait for her to answer.

He turned on his heel and walked straight into the master bedroom. The heavy door clicked shut behind him. A second later, the sound of the shower turning on echoed through the wall.

Blair stood frozen in the middle of the room.

A tear broke free and slid down her cheek. It felt hot against her freezing skin.

She looked down at the check on the floor. Five hundred thousand dollars. That was what her dignity cost him.

Suddenly, the screen of her phone lit up on the island. It vibrated violently against the marble.

Blair wiped her face with the back of her hand. She walked over and picked it up.

It was a text message from her older brother, Chaz.

The words on the screen made the blood drain completely from her head.

Blair. The company is gone. The feds are here. Please, save me.

The phone slipped from her numb fingers.