Chapter 1

"…you think you can just take everything from me and walk away?"

The words hit Camille Sterling before Eleanor's hand did. One moment she was reaching for the call button on the wall of her private birthing suite, exhausted from the charity gala, her feet aching in heels she should never have worn at seven months pregnant. The next moment, Eleanor Prescott was inside the room, the door clicking shut behind her with a sound that was far too final.

The gala had barely ended. Camille's driver had dropped her at the hospital's private entrance, and she'd made her way upstairs alone, Marcus having stayed behind to speak with a client. The security staff knew her by name. The nurses on the maternity floor waved her through with warm smiles. She'd expected peace, silence, a hot shower, and the soft hum of the city below her top-floor suite.

Instead, she got Eleanor.

The first shove put Camille's back hard against the marble window ledge that ran along the floor-to-ceiling glass. The edge caught her low on the spine, just above the curve of her hips, and she gasped as the impact rattled through her. Her champagne silk gown, still smelling faintly of the gala's flowers and expensive perfume, bunched against the cold stone.

"Eleanor, what are you—"

"Don't." Eleanor's voice was silk wrapped around steel. She stood in the middle of the suite, her emerald green A-line gown catching the amber light from the sconces, her platinum bob perfectly sharp around her face. "Don't pretend you don't know why I'm here."

Camille's hands moved before her mind could catch up. Both palms pressed flat against her stomach, a reflex older than thought, older than fear. The baby kicked once, a soft flutter against her right palm, and she felt her heart hammer so hard she thought it might bruise her ribs.

She'd known Eleanor for six years. Known her as Marcus's former business partner, as the woman who'd been at his side before Camille was ever in the picture. Known her as the socialite who'd built a career on being everywhere, photographed, present, untouchable. But she'd never seen Eleanor's face look like this. The practiced smile was gone. What remained was something raw and hungry and completely unhinged.

"I'm here," Eleanor continued, stepping closer, her stiletto heels clicking on the pale marble floor, "because I've spent six months watching you destroy everything I built. Six months watching you take what was mine."

"Marcus and I have been married for three years."

"And whose fault is that?" Eleanor's laugh was brittle, sharp. "You slipped in while I was in London. While I was handling the European expansion. You think I didn't plan a life with him? You think I didn't have a ring picked out?"

Camille's back pressed harder against the ledge as Eleanor advanced. The city glittered behind her through the glass, a million lights that suddenly felt very far away.

"Eleanor, you need to leave. I'm going to call security—"

"You're going to call nobody." Eleanor's hand shot out, and Camille flinched, but Eleanor's fingers only closed around Camille's wrist. Her grip was surprisingly strong, nails biting into skin. "You're going to listen to me for once. Because I've watched you smile at him, watched you flutter around him with your little tech-startup millions and your perfect little bump, and I've had enough."