Chapter 3

Adelaide POV:

Cinnamon's final words were a sneering whisper in my ear. "Don't you ever try to come between us again, Adelaide. You have no idea what he's willing to do for me."

I stumbled back, clutching the divorce papers to my chest. The heavy imprint of Alonzo's digital signature key felt like it was burning a hole through the paper, through my skin, straight into my soul. It was the ultimate mockery. My five-year marriage, a bond I had once held sacred, was officially terminated by my husband's spoiled lover, stamped away like an insignificant invoice.

The world around me seemed to warp, the glittering lights and polite chatter of the auction hall blurring into a nauseating haze. I was standing in a room full of people, yet I had never felt so utterly alone.

Suddenly, a piercing siren blared through the speakers, followed by a frantic, automated voice.

"FIRE DETECTED. PLEASE EVACUATE THE BUILDING IMMEDIATELY. THIS IS NOT A DRILL."

Panic erupted. The well-dressed crowd dissolved into a screaming, shoving mob. Someone slammed into my injured shoulder, and I cried out, staggering sideways. Another shove from behind sent me sprawling to the floor.

My head hit the polished marble with a sickening crack. The divorce papers scattered around me.

"Lonzo!" I heard Cinnamon shriek from somewhere nearby. "Lonzo, help me! I fell!"

Through the forest of panicked legs, I saw Alonzo, who had already been moving toward the exit, whip around. His face was a mask of pure terror, but not for the fire, not for the chaos.

It was for Cinnamon.

A pathetic, desperate flicker of hope ignited in my chest. I was on the floor too. Hurt. In danger. Would he see me? Would he finally, for one second, choose me?

His eyes, sharp and focused, scanned the panicked crowd. They swept right past me, not even registering my presence, as if I were a piece of discarded furniture. He locked onto Cinnamon, who was dramatically clutching his ankle a few feet away.

"I'm coming!" Alonzo yelled, his voice cutting through the din. He barked orders at his bodyguards. "Get him! Clear a path! Get him out of here!"

The bodyguards moved with brutal efficiency, pushing people aside to create a cocoon around Cinnamon, lifting him to his feet and hustling him toward the exit. Alonzo stayed right by his side, his hand on the small of Cinnamon's back, his body a shield against the surging crowd.

He didn't look at me. Not once.

He walked right past me, his expensive leather shoe inches from my face.

"Alonzo!" The name was ripped from my throat, a raw, desperate cry. But it was swallowed by the roar of the crowd and the wail of the sirens.

I curled into a ball as people scrambled and tripped over me, the heel of a stiletto digging into my ribs. The smell of smoke was getting stronger. A horrifying thought seized me: I was going to die here. Trampled to death in a fire, just a few feet from the man who was supposed to be my husband, the man who didn't even know I was gone.

Then, through the smoky haze, I saw him again.

Alonzo. He was coming back.

My heart leaped with that same stupid, stubborn hope. He came back for me. He remembered me.

He shoved his way back through the tide of people, his eyes scanning the floor with frantic urgency. He was heading right for me.

He was almost on top of me. I tried to lift my hand, to call his name again.

He bent down, his hand reaching out. My breath caught in my throat.

His fingers brushed past my hair, closing not around my arm, but around something small and sparkling on the floor beside my head.

It was a designer clutch. Cinnamon's. A gaudy, crystal-encrusted thing that must have fallen when he was hustled out.

Alonzo snatched it up, his expression relieved. He straightened up, gave the clutch a protective wipe with his hand, and turned to leave.

He was leaving me. Again.

He had come back into a burning building, risking his life, not for his wife, but for his lover's handbag.

The realization was so soul-crushingly absurd, so utterly devastating, that it felt like the floor had dropped out from beneath me. The last flicker of hope in my heart wasn't just extinguished; it was incinerated.

I was worth less than a purse.

The smoke, the pain, the crushing weight of my own worthlessness-it all converged, and my world faded to black.

The next thing I knew, I was on a gurney, the bright lights of a hospital ceiling rushing past. A doctor was leaning over me, his voice urgent.

"She has a concussion, multiple contusions, and a fractured fibula. We need to get her into surgery now to set the bone."

They were wheeling me toward the operating room. A strange sense of detachment washed over me. It didn't even matter anymore.

Just as they pushed through the double doors of the OR, two of Alonzo's bodyguards appeared, blocking the way.

"Stop," one of them said, his voice flat and uncompromising.

The doctor stared at him, aghast. "What are you doing? This woman needs immediate surgery!"

"Our orders are to bring her to Mr. Taylor," the bodyguard said.

"That's insane! She's critically injured!" the doctor protested.

The bodyguard's expression didn't change. He stepped forward, grabbed the side of my gurney, and with a grunt of effort, simply yanked me off it.

I landed on the cold, hard linoleum floor with a scream of agony as a fresh wave of fire shot up my leg.

The doctor and nurses gasped in horror. "What are you doing?! You'll kill her!"

The bodyguard ignored them. He grabbed me under my arms, my head lolling back, my broken leg dragging uselessly behind me, and began to haul me down the corridor like a sack of garbage.

The pain was excruciating, but it was nothing compared to the humiliation. I was being dragged, bleeding and broken, through the halls of a hospital, my flimsy gown barely covering me.

They dragged me to the VIP wing, to a lavish private suite. They didn't put me on the empty bed. They threw me onto the cold marble floor at the foot of it.

My vision swam, but I could see him.

Alonzo. He was sitting on the edge of the bed. And on that bed, propped up by a mountain of fluffy pillows, was Cinnamon Webster, holding an ice pack to his forehead and whining.