"Don't."

My voice was barely a whisper, ragged and stripped raw by the cold rain and the violent heaving of my stomach, but Valon’s massive, gloved hand froze instantly six inches from my waist.

For three long seconds, the only sounds along the desolate stretch of West Street were the hiss of tires on wet asphalt and the heavy, rhythmic drumming of rain against the hood of his armored Range Rover. Valon Meta crouched beside me in the mud, his dark wool coat soaking up the filthy runoff from the brick retaining wall. His face, carved from the sharp, unforgiving granite of his Albanian ancestors, remained entirely motionless. But I could see the pulse thumping wildly beneath the dark line of his jaw.

"You can't stand, Sigrid," he said softly. The quiet authority in his voice was thick, dangerous, and impossibly calm. "And you are not going to sit in a puddle while every news camera in Lower Manhattan looks for my car."

"I don't care about your cameras," I gasped, dragging the sleeve of my cashmere sweater across my mouth. "I don't care about your family, your ports, or your reputation."

"I know you don't," he murmured.

Without asking again, he closed the remaining inches between us. His large hands slid beneath my arms and around my knees. In one smooth, effortless motion, Valon lifted me off the wet ground and against the broad, immovable wall of his chest.

I flinched, my fingers clutching instinctively at the lapels of his suit jacket to keep from falling. He smelled of cold air, expensive cedar cologne, and the bitter, metallic tang of the espresso he had brewed at dawn in our empty kitchen.

He didn't pull me closer than necessary. He held me with a precise, clinical restraint that hurt far more than if he had gripped me in anger.

He carried me back to the passenger side of the Range Rover, opened the door with his hip, and lowered me gently into the cream leather seat. He reached across my lap to click the seatbelt into place. His knuckle brushed against my cheek—a light, fleeting touch—and he froze for a microsecond before pulling back completely.

"Hold this," he ordered quietly, pressing a heavy wool scarf from his glove compartment into my cold, shaking hands.

He closed my door, walked around the front of the vehicle, and got back behind the wheel. He didn't start the engine immediately. Instead, he reached into his pocket, pulled out his encrypted phone, and dialed a three-digit speed code.

"Harrison," Valon said when his attorney picked up on the first ring. "Cancel the nine o'clock meeting."

"Valon?" Harrison’s voice was crisp, alarmed. "The dissolution papers are prepared. Sigrid’s council is already in the conference room. If we push this back, the judge's docket—"

"Cancel it," Valon repeated, his dark eyes fixed on the rain-slicked windshield. "My wife is unwell. We are going to Saint Vincent’s."

"Valon, wait!" I protested, reaching across the center console to grab his wrist. "No! I am not going to Saint Vincent's! That's your family's hospital! Half the board of trustees owes your uncle money!"

Valon hung up the phone without another word to his lawyer. He turned his head slowly to look at my hand resting on his sleeve. His dark eyes softened by a fraction of a millimeter before slamming shut into iron once more.

"I am taking you to a physician who does not leak stories to the New York Post," he said, shifting the heavy SUV into drive. "You can sign the divorce papers tomorrow, Sigrid. But today, you are breathing, and you are being evaluated."

"I don't need an evaluation!" I shouted, the nausea rising in my throat again as the vehicle accelerated through the traffic light. "I am exhausted! I haven't slept in three weeks because I’ve been packing my life into cardboard boxes while you sat in your study signing bills of lading for the Brooklyn piers!"

Valon’s jaw tightened until the skin turned white. "You think I was reading bills of lading?"

"You weren't talking to me!"

"Because every time I spoke to you over the last six months, you looked at me as if I were holding a knife!" he growled, his quiet demeanor finally cracking, revealing the raw, volcanic heat beneath. "You wanted out, Sigrid! You begged for your independence! I gave you the Northern Table! I gave you your accounts! I signed every single document your lawyer put on my desk without contesting a single line!"

"You gave me scraps to buy my silence!"

"I gave you everything you asked for!" he roared, slamming his palm against the leather steering wheel.

The sound cracked like a gunshot inside the insulated cabin. I pulled back against my seat, my breath catching in my chest.

Valon immediately closed his eyes, taking a long, slow breath through his nose. When he opened them again, the anger was gone, replaced by that terrifying, hollow stillness.

"I am sorry," he whispered, his voice dropping into the dark gravel tone I dreaded. "I will not raise my voice to you again."

He turned the Range Rover off West Street, maneuvering smoothly into the private underground parking bay of Saint Vincent’s Medical Center. Two security guards in dark suits stepped out of the glass vestibule the moment they recognized the vehicle's license plate.

Before the engine even died, Valon was out of his seat. He opened my door, unbuckled my belt, and reached for me again.

"I can walk," I said through my teeth, clutching my handbag against my ribs.

"You can barely stand," he replied, lifting me out of the vehicle as if I weighed nothing at all. "Save your energy for the doctors, Sigrid."