Ciara walked out of the Webb Capital building and into the relentless Manhattan rain. She didn't notice.
The cold water soaked her suit, plastering it to her skin. The burn on her hand throbbed, a pulsing, agonizing rhythm.
She walked for two blocks, a ghost moving through the bustling city, before her body forced her to stop. She hailed a yellow cab.
"Clearview Meadows," she told the driver, her voice a hoarse whisper. It was a high-end private care facility nestled deep in Westchester County.
The city blurred past the window. She leaned her head against the cool glass, fighting back the tears that threatened to fall.
Nearly two hours later, the taxi pulled up to the serene, manicured entrance. She paid the driver and walked inside, shivering in her wet clothes.
Brenda, a kind-faced senior nurse, rushed to her side. "Mrs. Webb! You're soaked to the bone. Are you alright?"
Ciara forced a smile. "Forgot my umbrella. How is she today?"
"Your grandmother is stable. She's resting now," Brenda said gently.
Ciara walked to the large window of her grandmother's room. Seeing the peaceful, sleeping face of the only family she had left was a balm to her raw soul. She pressed her hand to the glass, soaking in the quiet strength.
After a few minutes, she turned to go to the finance office. The quarterly fees were due, a staggering sum that Jordon paid without question. It was the one part of their agreement she was grateful for.
As she rounded a corner, the doors to the emergency entrance burst open. A flurry of motion, of panicked voices.
Ciara instinctively stepped back, hiding herself behind a large potted ficus in the hallway.
Her heart stopped.
It was Jordon. He was rushing down the corridor, his face a mask of raw panic.
And in his arms, he was carrying a woman.
The woman's face was buried in his chest, her body trembling. But Ciara didn't need to see her face. She saw the wrist, the arm draped over Jordon's shoulder.
She saw the vintage Cartier bracelet.
Jasmine. She was clinging to Jordon, faking a PTSD flare-up, a damsel in perpetual distress. Her assistant, Agnes, trailed behind them, shouting for a doctor.
"Get her a private room, now!" Jordon's voice was a sharp, commanding bark, laced with an undisguised, desperate worry.
Ciara stood frozen in the shadows, less than fifteen feet away, as her husband carried his ex-lover past her.
The look in his eyes-that raw, terrified concern-was the final, fatal blow. It was the look she had craved, the look he had denied her just an hour ago in his office.
She didn't know his panic was for the intelligence Jasmine carried, a vital link to a criminal syndicate he was trying to dismantle.
All she saw was a man desperately in love with another woman.
The last sliver of hope inside her crumbled to dust.
She bit her lip so hard she tasted blood, her hands clamped over her mouth to keep a sob from escaping. Her gaze dropped to her own flat stomach.
If she was a joke, what would they make of her child? A pawn. A bargaining chip. An heir to be seized and molded in the Webb image, while she was cast aside.
No.
A new, unshakeable resolve settled in her bones. She had to protect her baby. She had to escape.
Ciara didn't go to the finance office. She turned and walked silently out a side exit, back into the cold, cleansing rain.
She pulled out her phone. Her thumb moved with cold precision. She found Jordon's contact.
She blocked the number. Then she blocked his assistant, his driver, his office line.
She hailed another cab, this one heading back to the city. Her spine was straight, her eyes clear and cold. The war had just begun.
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