The Maybach pulled away smoothly, gliding down the wet Manhattan streets.

The inside of the car was dead silent. The privacy partition was up.

Bradley reached up and loosened his silk tie. His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek. His dark, predatory eyes were locked onto Isabella's pale face.

He leaned closer. The heavy scent of cedar and expensive cologne washed over her.

Isabella pressed herself harder against the glass. Her chest heaved.

Bradley opened his mouth to speak. He wanted to ask her where the hell she had been. He wanted to demand answers for the last five years.

Before he could form the words, a sharp, piercing ringtone erupted from Isabella's coat pocket.

She flinched violently. She dug into her wet pocket and pulled out her phone. The screen was cracked from when she dropped it at the clinic.

The caller ID flashed: Patricia Barry. Her mother-in-law.

A fresh wave of terror hit Isabella's stomach. Her phone's earpiece was completely shattered from the fall. She had no choice. She pressed the answer button and immediately hit the speaker icon, the volume blaring at maximum capacity.

"You stupid bitch," Patricia's shrill voice bled through the damaged speaker. It was loud enough for Bradley to hear every word.

"If you breathe a word of this to the press," Patricia hissed, "Anna will rot in that unlicensed facility. You will never see her again."

Isabella's breathing turned ragged. Her eyes turned bloodshot with pure, unadulterated rage.

"Don't you dare touch my daughter!" Isabella roared into the phone. Her voice shook the windows of the car.

Bradley froze. The temperature in the Maybach plummeted.

Daughter.

The word echoed in his skull.

The line went dead. Patricia had hung up.

Isabella's hands shook violently as she shoved the phone back into her pocket. She turned her head and glared at Bradley. The vulnerability was gone. She looked like a feral wolf protecting its cub.

"Pull over," she commanded. Her voice was harsh. "Let me out right now."

Bradley's face turned to stone. He hit a button on his armrest. The doors locked with a heavy, metallic thud.

"No," he said coldly.

Isabella saw red. She lunged across the seat, her hands clawing at the door handle.

Bradley reached out and grabbed her from behind. He pinned her shoulders back against the leather seat.

She fought him wildly, kicking and twisting.

During the struggle, a crumpled piece of paper fell out of her coat pocket. It landed on the floor mat, right next to Bradley's polished shoe.

Bradley looked down.

It was a hospital billing receipt. The name printed at the top was clear.

Mrs. Isabella Barry.

Bradley's body went rigid. He stared at the name. Mrs. Barry. She was married. She had a husband. She had a daughter.

A sickening wave of betrayal and jealousy ripped through his chest. He had spent five years obsessing over a ghost, and she had been playing house with another man.

He let go of her shoulders. He pulled back as if she had burned him. His eyes turned flat and dead.

He pressed the intercom button.

"Pull over," Bradley ordered the driver. His voice was devoid of any emotion.

The car jerked to a stop at the next intersection. The locks clicked open.

Isabella didn't hesitate. She shoved the door open and threw herself back out into the freezing rain.

Bradley watched her run away, her figure disappearing into the dark street.

He slammed his fist into the leather seat.

"Damn it," he cursed, the sound tearing from his throat.