Chapter 2

I arrived at Blackwell Tower at exactly 8:55 AM. The building was a monument to money and power — all glass and steel, soaring sixty stories into the sky.

The receptionist led me to a private elevator that required a keycard. "Mr. Blackwell's personal floor," she said, as if that explained everything.

The elevator opened directly into a sprawling office. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the entire city. The furniture was dark, minimal, expensive — the kind of space that made you feel underdressed no matter what you wore.

Dominic was standing by the window with his back to me. He was tall — taller than I remembered — with broad shoulders beneath a perfectly tailored charcoal suit. His dark hair was slightly longer than what you'd expect from a CEO, brushing the back of his collar.

"Dr. Ashford," he said without turning around. "Thank you for coming."

"Your message said it was a personal medical matter, Mr. Blackwell."

He finally turned, and I was struck again by how intense his eyes were — dark gray, almost silver in certain light, with an unsettling sharpness that made you feel like he was reading every thought in your head.

"It is personal." He gestured to the chair across from his desk. "Please, sit."

I sat. He didn't.

Instead, he leaned against the edge of his desk, arms crossed, studying me with an expression I couldn't quite read. "How long have you been a cardiologist, Dr. Ashford?"

"Six years. Residency included."

"Top of your class at Whitmore Medical School. Published three papers before you turned thirty. Currently the youngest attending physician in the cardiac surgery department at St. Albans." He paused. "Impressive résumé for someone whose husband told people you were 'just a nurse.'"

The air left my lungs.

"I do my research," Dominic said simply. "Especially when it involves people who interest me."

"And I interest you because...?"

"Because I need a cardiologist I can trust, and you're the best one I've found." He handed me a medical file. "I have a condition. Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. Diagnosed eight years ago. I've been managing it, but my last physician retired, and I need someone discreet."

I opened the file and scanned the records. The condition was serious but well-managed. His previous doctor had been meticulous. "This looks stable. You're on the right medications. Why the urgency?"

"Because I'm about to enter a very high-stress period in my life, and I'd like a doctor who can keep up."

Something about the way he said it felt loaded, but I chose to focus on the medicine. "I can take you on as a patient. I'll need to run some updated tests—"

"There's one more thing." Dominic's gaze held mine. "I know about your divorce."

I stiffened.

"I also know that Ethan has been sleeping with Sienna Park for approximately fourteen months — not the few weeks he likely told you."

Fourteen months. The number hit me like a physical blow. That meant it started before our second anniversary. Before I'd surprised Ethan with that trip to Italy. Before I'd spent three months planning his thirtieth birthday party while Sienna helped me pick the cake.

She'd helped me pick the cake.

"Why are you telling me this?" My voice was steady, but only because I'd spent years learning to stay calm in operating rooms.

Dominic studied me. "Because Ethan works for me, and I make it my business to know who my employees really are. He's been using your income to fund his department's shortfalls and claiming the results as his own. He's also been telling people at the company that the divorce was your idea — that you were emotionally unstable."

My jaw tightened. "And you're sharing this information out of the goodness of your heart?"

The corner of his mouth twitched — not quite a smile. "I don't have a good heart, Dr. Ashford. That's why I need a cardiologist."

Despite everything, I almost laughed.

Dominic's expression softened, just barely. "I'm telling you because you deserve to know the full picture before you sign those papers. Ethan's lawyer is going to push for a settlement that leaves you with almost nothing. He'll claim the apartment was purchased with his money—"

"It was purchased with both our money."

"I know. But his lawyer doesn't care about the truth. He cares about winning." Dominic paused. "I can recommend someone. A lawyer who specializes in making sure people like Ethan don't get away with it."

I looked at him — really looked at him. There was no pity in his eyes. No condescension. Just a cold, clear pragmatism that I found oddly comforting.

"Why would you do that for me?"

Dominic held my gaze for a long moment. "Let's just say I have my reasons."

He walked me to the elevator, and just before the doors closed, he said, "One more thing, Dr. Ashford."

"Yes?"

"Ethan doesn't know you're here. I'd prefer to keep it that way."

The doors closed, and I leaned against the elevator wall, my heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with cardiology.