The Unwanted Wife's Ultimate Escape

The sharp sound of shattering crystal and the sudden smell of copper stopped Blackburn cold.

He froze.

The madness drained from his dark eyes. Reason snapped back into his brain.

He let go of her waist. He pushed himself off the sofa.

He stared at the blood dripping from Blair's wrist onto the white rug. His chest he heave. His eyebrows pulled together in a tight, confused knot. He opened his mouth to speak.

Before he could form a word, a sharp ringing pierced the air.

It was his private cell phone. It was still in his suit jacket pocket by the door.

Blackburn closed his mouth. He turned his back on her. He walked to the entryway and pulled the phone out.

He looked at the screen. It was his mother, Marion Gilbert.

He swiped to answer.

"Yes," he said. His voice was tight.

Marion's voice was loud and sharp. It carried through the quiet room.

"Blackburn. You and Blair need to come to the Long Island estate immediately. Your grandmother Augusta has been discharged from the hospital. She is asking for both of you."

Blackburn rubbed the bridge of his nose. "We will be there."

He hung up the phone.

He turned around. The brief moment of vulnerability was gone. He was the cold, calculating CEO again.

He pointed a long finger at the hallway.

"Go to the bathroom," he ordered. "Bandage that cut. We are leaving in ten minutes."

Blair sat on the sofa. She held her bleeding wrist. She looked at him with pure hatred.

"I am not going," she said. "I am not playing the happy wife for your family."

Blackburn took a step toward her. His eyes narrowed.

"Augusta is the only person in that house who treats you like a human being," he said coldly. "She just got out of the ICU. Are you really going to break an old woman's heart tonight?"

Blair bit the inside of her cheek. The taste of blood filled her mouth.

She hated him. But he was right about Augusta.

She stood up. She walked past him without a word.

She went into the master bathroom. She opened the medical cabinet. She grabbed a bottle of rubbing alcohol and poured it directly over the open wound.

The alcohol burned like liquid fire. She hissed, but she didn't cry.

She wrapped a thick layer of white gauze around her wrist. She secured it with tape.

She walked into the closet. She pulled out a long-sleeved black silk dress. It covered the bandages perfectly.

Ten minutes later, they walked into the elevator.

The air inside the small metal box was thick and suffocating. Neither of them spoke.

They walked out to the underground garage. The driver was waiting by the black Rolls-Royce Phantom.

The driver opened the back door.

Blair slid in. She pressed her body against the far left door.

Blackburn got in. He sat flush against the right door.

The leather seat between them felt like a massive, frozen ocean.

The car drove through the dark streets of New York. The city lights flashed across their faces, but the silence remained unbroken.

An hour later, the heavy iron gates of the Long Island estate swung open. The car rolled up the gravel driveway.

The driver stepped out and quickly opened Blair's door, while a groundskeeper hurried to open Blackburn's side.

Blair stepped out into the freezing night. As soon as her heels touched the gravel, Blackburn was already there. He had rounded the back of the Phantom with terrifying speed.

His hand shot out.

He grabbed her right arm. The uninjured one.

His grip was painfully tight. He pulled her hard against his side.

He leaned down. His lips brushed against her ear.

"Fix your face," he whispered. His breath was warm, but his words were ice. "Smile. You are going to be the perfect, loving wife tonight. Do you understand?"