Chapter 1

The first time my husband, Gregory, chose a billion-dollar deal over my father' s funeral, I knew our marriage was a transaction. But when he started canceling meetings for an actress named Kennedy, I realized he was capable of love-just not for me.

Then came the whispers of his devotion: buying her a theater, brawling with a director who criticized her. My investigation led to a "warning"-a hit-and-run that left me hospitalized. His assistant's message was chilling: "Accidents do happen."

At the police station, after he'd been in another fight for her, Kennedy pointed at me and wailed, "Make her kneel! Make her apologize for breathing the same air as us!"

Gregory' s cold eyes met mine.

"Christie," he commanded, his voice deadly quiet. "Kneel."

Chapter 1

The first time Gregory chose a billion-dollar deal over my father' s funeral, I knew our marriage was a transaction. Five years later, I still hadn't learned the lesson.

That day, the crisp autumn air had stung my lungs, but not as much as the silence from Gregory. He had been away on a business trip. A deal, he' d called it. A billion-dollar deal. While my world crumbled, his expanded. He hadn't even sent flowers.

"He's a Wall Street tycoon, Christie," my mother had said, her voice strained. "They live by a different code."

I had nodded, accepting it. Our marriage was a strategic alliance, a merger of two powerful families. Love wasn't part of the prospectus.

My birthdays were always quiet affairs. I'd cook a simple meal, maybe open a bottle of wine. Gregory would send a generic text, always signed by his assistant. One year, he sent a diamond necklace. It arrived with a note: "For Mrs. Henson. From Gregory." It felt like a receipt, not a gift.

The car accident was different. Not a grand, public humiliation, but a quiet terror. My car had spun out on an icy patch, hitting a guardrail. The impact jarred every bone in my body.

I was bleeding, disoriented. My first thought, my foolish, desperate first thought, was Gregory.

I called him. My voice was shaky, barely a whisper. "Gregory, I... I had an accident."

There was a pause. A long, sterile silence. Then, his voice, flat and unfeeling. "Is it critical, Christie? I'm in a crucial meeting."

"I... I don't know," I stammered, pain lancing through my ribs. "I think I'm hurt."

"Send my assistant the details," he said, already sounding impatient. "She'll arrange everything."

Then, the line went dead. No "Are you okay?" No "I'm coming." Just cold, efficient dismissal.

When my grandmother fell ill, her last days were spent in a sterile hospital room. I sat by her side, holding her frail hand. Gregory was on another continent, negotiating another deal. He didn't even call. When she passed, a part of me went with her. It wasn't just grief for her, but for the hope I once harbored.

That' s when I truly understood. Gregory didn' t prioritize his financial empire over me. He prioritized it over everything. Over life, over death, over human connection. He truly was incapable of love. I had convinced myself that this was simply the price of our arrangement. He didn' t love anyone, so it wasn't personal. It was just the way he was built.

I found a strange comfort in that thought. He wasn't hurting me specifically. He was just being Gregory. He was a force of nature, a shark in a suit. And I was just another part of his meticulously ordered world, a decorative but ultimately expendable asset.

Then, the whispers started. First, a hushed rumor in a charity gala. Then, a bold headline in a gossip column. "Wall Street's Ice King Melts for Young Starlet."

Kennedy Hewitt. An aspiring actress. Young. Ambitious.

My heart sank. It wasn't just the news. It was the details.

Gregory, the man who missed my father's funeral for a deal, had cancelled crucial meetings to comfort Kennedy over a lost audition? The man who left me bleeding on a highway for a phone call, had bought her an entire off-Broadway theater for her debut? The rational, unfeeling Wall Street tycoon had gotten into a public brawl with a director who criticized her?

That couldn't be Gregory. Not my Gregory. The man I knew didn't do affection. He didn't do grand gestures. Not for anyone.

I refused to believe it. It had to be a publicity stunt. Gregory was too shrewd for such open displays of... emotion. "He wouldn't," I whispered to myself. "He just wouldn't."

But a gnawing doubt began to fester in my mind. I couldn't ignore it. I had my own resources, my own connections. I initiated a discreet investigation. I asked my most trusted contacts to look into Kennedy Hewitt.

The process was slow, deliberately obstructed, I realized later. All I got were blurry, grainy photos. Snapshots from a distance. But they were enough.

One photo. It showed Gregory, his hand firmly on Kennedy's back, guiding her through a crowd. His face was tilted down, a soft expression on his usually impassive features. He was protecting her. It was a simple gesture, but it ripped through my carefully constructed facade.

He was capable of affection. Just not for me.

The realization hit me like a physical blow. I was driving, lost in thought, the image of his protective hand seared into my mind. I didn't see the truck until it was too late. There was a screech of tires, a sickening crunch of metal, and then darkness.

I woke up in a pristine white hospital room. My head throbbed. My body ached. A nurse was adjusting my IV drip.

Then, Gregory's assistant, Mr. Davies, entered. His face was grim, his eyes cold. He didn' t ask about my injuries. He just stared at me, his gaze chilling.

"Mrs. Maddox," he said, his voice low and even. "Mr. Henson has instructed me to deliver a message."

I braced myself.

"He advises you to cease your inquiries into Ms. Hewitt," Davies continued, his eyes unwavering. "And to maintain a low profile. Certain... incidents... can be perceived as warnings. Accidents do happen."

My blood ran cold. Accidents do happen. The words echoed in my head. I looked at my bandaged arm, the IV drip. This wasn't an accident. It was a hit-and-run. Orchestrated. By Gregory.

My stomach churned. The man I had rationalized as merely cold was a monster. He had tried to hurt me. To silence me. To protect her. The pain in my body was nothing compared to the shock in my heart. How could he? How could the man I married, the man I had given five years of my life to, do something so cruel?

The next day, a call came through to my hospital room. It was from the police. There had been a public disturbance. Gregory Henson was involved. They needed me to come down for a statement.

I arrived at the station, my body still protesting every movement. The waiting area was a chaotic mess of police officers and news reporters. In the center, in a small, roped-off section, sat Kennedy Hewitt. She was lounging on a bench, a ridiculously oversized pair of sunglasses perched on her nose, a pout on her lips. She looked annoyed, not distressed.

She spotted me. Her eyes narrowed behind the dark lenses. She smirked, then leaned back, deliberately crossing her legs. A gesture of blatant disrespect.

Just then, the door to an interrogation room burst open. Gregory strode out, his jaw tight, his expensive suit rumpled. His left eye was bruised, a cut above his brow. He looked like he'd been in a fight.

He scanned the room. His eyes landed on me for a fraction of a second. There was no concern, no recognition. Just a flash of annoyance.

"What are you doing here, Christie?" His voice was low, laced with irritation. It was an order, not a question.

"I was called," I said, my voice barely audible.

"Well, you can leave," he snapped, dismissing me with a flick of his wrist. "You' re not needed."

He then turned to Kennedy. His entire demeanor shifted. The cold, ruthless mask melted away. His eyes softened, his shoulders relaxed. He knelt beside her, his large frame bowed.

"Kennedy, my love," he murmured, his voice tender, a tone I had never heard directed at me. "Are you alright?"

Kennedy sniffled, pulling off her sunglasses to reveal eyes that were suspiciously dry. "He said... he said you were soliciting a prostitute!" she wailed, pointing a theatrical finger at Gregory. "They think you were with some cheap hooker!"

Gregory flinched. The accusation was absurd. He was Gregory Henson. But he didn't deny it. He didn't even look embarrassed. He just looked at Kennedy, his gaze full of desperate adoration.

"It doesn't matter what they think," he promised, his voice thick with devotion. "Let them say what they want. I'll go to jail if that's what it takes to make you feel safe."

My blood ran cold. Go to jail? For her childish tantrum? The man who wouldn't call an ambulance for me.

Davies, Gregory's assistant, stepped forward, clearing his throat. "Mr. Henson, you sustained a concussion and three fractured ribs protecting Ms. Hewitt from that aggressive director last night. The force of the impact..."

Kennedy, her face still tear-streaked, interrupted him. "You were hurt?" Her voice was laced with a strange mixture of concern and possessiveness.

"It's nothing, my love," Gregory said, ignoring the assistant. He reached out, gently cupping her face. "As long as you're safe, nothing else matters. I love you, Kennedy. I'll spend the rest of my life proving it to you."

Kennedy' s eyes, still damp, darted to me. A flicker of triumph crossed her face. "You hear that, Mrs. Maddox?" she purred, her voice sweet and malicious. "He loves me. He'll do anything for me."

Then, she turned back to Gregory, her voice rising in a petulant whine. "I don't just want him to go to jail, Gregory! I want her to suffer! I want her to know her place!" She pointed at me again. "Make her kneel! Make her apologize for even daring to breathe the same air as us!"

Gregory's gaze, devoid of warmth, fixed on me. His eyes were like chips of ice. "Christie," he commanded, his voice deadly quiet. "Kneel."

The world seemed to tilt. The reporters, the officers, the buzzing fluorescent lights. Everything faded. My ears rang with the echo of his voice. Kneel.

Kneel for the woman who just falsely accused him. Kneel for the man who tried to kill me. Kneel in public, for their twisted display of affection.

A wave of nausea washed over me. My legs felt like jelly. I swayed, a choked sob caught in my throat. I couldn't. I just couldn't. This was the end. This was where I broke. My vision blurred, and the world dissolved into a cacophony of distant voices and the crushing weight of utter despair. I felt myself falling. Everything went black.