She believed one vicious kick to a billionaire’s pregnant wife inside the privacy of a luxury hospital suite would end a marriage without consequences. She was wrong.

The heavy iron gates of the state penitentiary groaned open.

Isabella Rossi stepped out into the freezing night air, wrapping a cheap, scratchy gray blanket around her ruined Valentino gown. She shivered violently, her eyes darting around the desolate, poorly-lit parking lot.

She hadn’t been bailed out by her father. The judge had set her bond at five million dollars in cash—an impossible sum now that her family’s accounts had been frozen by Marcus’s hostile takeover.

And yet, exactly three hours after she had made her phone call, a mysterious lawyer had walked into the precinct and paid the bail in full, in unmarked cash.

A sleek, heavily tinted black Maybach idled at the curb.

Isabella hesitated for a moment before walking toward the car. As she approached, the rear door swung open automatically. She climbed into the luxurious leather interior, the warm air of the heater washing over her.

Sitting in the shadows of the backseat was a man pouring himself a glass of bourbon.

He looked remarkably like Marcus Thorne. He had the same sharp, aristocratic jawline, the same broad shoulders, and the same aura of terrifying wealth. But where Marcus’s eyes were a piercing gray, this man’s eyes were pitch black, completely devoid of light.

“You look terrible, Isabella,” the man said smoothly, taking a sip of his drink.

“Silas,” Isabella breathed, shrinking into the corner of the seat. “You actually did it. You got me out.”

Silas Thorne, the exiled, illegitimate half-brother of Marcus, smiled. It was a cold, predatory expression. Years ago, Marcus had ruthlessly ousted Silas from the family company, leaving him with nothing. Silas had spent the last decade in the shadows of Europe, amassing his own dark empire, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

“I always protect my investments,” Silas purred. “Though, you have made a spectacular mess of things. Kicking a pregnant woman in front of a camera? Sloppy. Emotional.”

“I panicked!” Isabella defended herself. “She was taunting me! And now Marcus has ruined my father. He took everything.”

“Marcus is predictable,” Silas scoffed, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “He acts out of rage. He uses money like a blunt instrument. But he left his flank completely exposed.”

“What do you mean?”

Silas reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a small, encrypted tablet. He handed it to Isabella.

She looked at the screen and gasped. It was a live, high-definition video feed. She was looking at Khloe Thorne, asleep in the primary bedroom of the penthouse.

“He moved out of the penthouse to protect her from stress,” Silas laughed darkly. “He thought he was being a martyr. But all he did was leave her completely alone in a golden cage.”

Isabella stared at the screen, a twisted sense of glee washing over her. “How did you get cameras in there?”

“Your little maid, Maria, was very useful,” Silas said dismissively. “But Maria has outlived her purpose. It is time to escalate. Marcus needs to learn that no amount of money can protect him from me.”

“What is the next step?” Isabella asked, her eyes gleaming with malice.

Silas tapped on the tinted glass divider, signaling the driver to move. “We break the wife’s mind. Tomorrow morning, Mrs. Thorne will receive a very special delivery. By the time Marcus realizes what is happening, he won't just lose his company. He will lose his entire bloodline.”

Back in the penthouse, Khloe tossed in her sleep, a cold sweat breaking out across her forehead. She dreamed of shattered glass, crimson dresses, and shadows creeping through the walls.

When she woke up the next morning, the first thing she noticed was that her bedroom door was slightly ajar.

She sat up slowly, her heart pounding. “Clara?” she called out.

No answer.

Khloe carefully swung her legs over the side of the bed. As her bare feet touched the plush rug, her toes brushed against something cold and hard on the floor.

She looked down.

Lying perfectly centered on the rug next to her bed was a tiny, intricately carved black wooden crib. Inside it lay a single, dead white rose.