Tessa Monroe was on the floor with Grant’s eighteen-month-old son pressed against her chest, one arm curved around the back of his head while she struggled to catch her breath. The child’s face was buried against her shoulder, his small body shaking with the uneven sobs that came after crying too hard for too long.

Grant walked down the dimly lit corridor of the recovery center’s third floor, his dark wool coat damp from the rain. Behind him, Owen and two armed security officers kept the clinic’s night staff at bay.

When Grant reached Room 304, he didn't knock. He turned the handle and pushed the door wide open.

The room was bathed in soft golden light.

Elena stood near the center of the floor, her hands pressed against her chest, her breathing coming in fast, shallow gasps. Standing beside her was Dr. Alistair Vance, his face pale, holding a paper cup.

Grant stopped dead in his tracks.

His gaze fell from Elena’s wide, terrified eyes down to the floor beside her. There, sitting in the shadow of the velvet chair, were her two packed leather suitcases.

“Grant?” Elena whispered. Her voice was so thin, so fragile, it sounded like paper tearing in the quiet room.

Grant took two long strides across the room, closing the distance between them. He reached out, his large hands grasping her shoulders, pulling her against him. The smell of her familiar vanilla perfume washed over him, shattering the icy armor he had worn for six long weeks.

“Elena,” Grant choked out, his face buried in her hair. “God, Elena... why didn't you answer my letters? Why did you tell Vance you didn't want to see me?”

Elena pulled back slightly, her hands clutching the lapels of his coat. Her eyes were filled with profound, heartbreaking confusion. “What? Grant... I’ve been waiting for you. I’ve been sitting by that window with my bags packed for eleven days!”

Grant’s mind reeled. “What are you talking about? Vance told me every week that you refused my calls. He said you were too traumatized to see anyone from home!”

Elena turned her head slowly, looking over Grant’s shoulder at Dr. Alistair Vance.

The silver-haired doctor was backing slowly toward the doorway, his hand reaching into his tweed jacket pocket.

Before he could reach the hall, Owen Park stepped into the doorway, his heavy hand clamping down on Alistair’s shoulder like an iron vise. Owen casually reached into Alistair’s pocket and pulled out an encrypted mobile phone, tossing it onto Grant’s desk.

“Check the call logs, boss,” Owen said flatly.

Grant picked up the doctor’s phone. The screen was unlocked. The last twenty incoming calls from Grant’s private number were marked as BLOCKED. But what made Grant’s blood run cold was a series of encrypted text messages sent to a contact named V.C.

Message 1 (10 days ago): “Elena is fully recovered and demanding to leave. How much longer do I keep her sedated?”

Message 2 (From V.C.): “Keep her there until the board meeting on the 15th. Once Grant signs over the proxy votes to my father’s firm, she can be released with an accidental overdose protocol.”

Grant stared at the screen.

The room seemed to drop twenty degrees.

Vivienne Cross wasn't just trying to replace Elena as a stepmother to Leo. She was working with her father’s rival investment group, using Elena as leverage to force Grant into surrendering controlling interest in Mercer Global.

Grant turned to look at Alistair Vance. His voice dropped into a register that made even Owen take a half-step back.

“You sedated my wife,” Grant said, stepping toward the doctor. “You lied to me while she sat in this room believing I had abandoned her.”

Alistair panicked, his voice high and shrill. “Grant, listen to me! Vivienne paid me two million dollars! She had legal power of attorney documents signed by your corporate board!”

“Take him downstairs,” Grant told Owen, not taking his eyes off Elena. “Call the State Police and the Federal Prosecutor’s office. I want this building sealed by sunrise.”

“Yes, sir,” Owen said, dragging the terrified doctor out into the corridor.