Chapter 5

The moment I understood even a fruit knife couldn't level the playing field, I twisted it backward and pressed the cold steel against my own throat.

"Back off! One more step and I swear to God I'll slit my own throat right here!"

The blade bit into my skin as Richard Lowell and his goons froze mid-step. Their eyes darted between each other, faces tightening like they'd just bitten into something rotten.

Seconds stretched into eternity until the room started spinning. Then—bang!—the door exploded inward.

A statuesque woman in a razor-sharp blazer marched in like she owned the place. "You're done here," she announced, flicking her wrist like shooing flies.

The way Richard and his crew scrambled out would've been comical if my life wasn't hanging by a thread.

Only when the door clicked shut did my lungs remember how to breathe.

"Who...?" My voice came out ragged as I stared at this stranger. No recognition sparked—just a gnawing certainty I'd remember someone with that kind of presence.

"Olivia Macmillan. Mr. Roscente's right hand." Her manicured fingers adjusted her cufflinks. "Those men worked for him too. This whole charade? Just a test to show you who Daniel really is."

Her words hit like a sucker punch. Richard's earlier taunts came flooding back, twisting my gut. Had my husband been playing me this whole time?

Fragments of Daniel's behavior reassembled in my mind—the cold ambition, how easily he'd thrown me under the bus for that promotion. My vision tunneled as my ribs became a cage for something sharp and screaming.

Then—black.

Sunlight stabbed through the curtains when I woke in a king-size tangle of Egyptian cotton. I bolted upright, heart hammering at the unfamiliar bathrobe clinging to my skin.

"Morning, Ms. Laurent." Olivia materialized from a wingback chair. "You passed out last night—combination of whatever Daniel slipped in your juice and the shock. Had a doctor check you."

She nodded toward a discreet security camera. "Your clothes were changed by the head housekeeper. Footage is available if you need proof."

I touched my throat where the knife had pressed. No marks. Just this eerie, unwarranted calm.

"Thanks."

As I swung my legs over the bed, the name finally registered. "Wait—Olivia. This Roscente guy you work for..."

I searched my mental Rolodex. Nothing. "Do I know him?"

She handed me a stack of freshly pressed clothes. "Let's just say he knows you well enough to intervene." The fabric smelled like lavender and something more expensive. "He's keeping his distance to avoid complicating your life further."

I was buttoning my blouse when her casual afterthought turned my blood to ice:

"Oh, and the doctor found needle marks on your hip. You might want to get that checked."