CHAPTER EIGHT:THE REAL PRICE

Emma didn't recognize the apartment.

She'd gotten the address from Tyler's texts. A penthouse in the financial district. When the elevator doors opened, she stepped into a space that looked like something from a magazine. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Marble floors. Furniture that probably cost more than she made in a year.

This wasn't the studio apartment Tyler had been living in.

"Tyler?" she called out.

He came out of the bedroom and stopped when he saw her. For a second, neither of them spoke.

He looked good. Too good. Color in his cheeks. No weight loss. He was wearing a designer shirt she'd never seen before.

"Em. What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to see you," Emma said. "Check on your recovery."

She walked past him into the kitchen. Everything was pristine. Unused. The refrigerator had expensive wine and takeout containers, nothing else.

"Whose place is this?" she asked.

"Mine."

"How?"

"The doctors recommended a nicer environment for recovery," Tyler said quickly. "Better air quality and a calm neighborhood."

Emma turned around and looked at him. "Tyler, this place costs more than our parents' house cost. How are you affording this?"

He didn't answer right away. That's when she knew.

"The money," she said. "You spent the money."

"Not all of it."

"How much?"

He sat down on the kitchen counter. "Most of it."

Emma's hands started shaking. "Most of it. The ten million dollars. You spent most of it."

"Em, I can explain"

"Explain what? That you lied to me?" Her voice was getting louder. "That you made me marry a stranger so you could buy a penthouse?"

"It's not like that."

"Then what is it like? Help me understand, Tyler, because from where I'm standing, you told me you were dying. You told me you needed surgery that cost half a million dollars. And it was all a lie."

Tyler got off the counter. "It wasn't a lie. I was sick."

"Were you dying?"

"No. But I wasn't well. The doctors said"

"The doctors said what? That you'd get better on your own?" Emma was shaking now. "Did you ever need the surgery at all?"

He didn't answer.

"Oh my God," Emma whispered. "You didn't need it. You were never going to die."

"I was sick, Em. I needed help."

"You needed money," Emma corrected. "And you got me to marry someone by telling me you were going to die."

She walked to the bedroom. The bed was huge. Silk sheets. She opened the closet and found clothes she'd never seen. Designer brands. Expensive watches on the nightstand next to a bottle of champagne.

"Who's the girl?" she asked, holding up a lipstick she found on the bathroom counter.

"Just someone I met."

"After your surgery? After the surgery you needed so badly that you lied to your sister about dying?"

Tyler followed her into the bedroom. "You don't understand. You were working so hard, Em. Three jobs. Killing yourself. And this guy showed up and suddenly you had a way out. I just wanted to help."

"You wanted to help," Emma repeated. "By lying. By making me believe you were going to die if I didn't marry him."

"Yes."

She stared at him. "Do you understand what happened to me these past weeks? Do you have any idea?"

"You got money—"

"I got isolated," Emma said. "I got bullied. I got so depressed I stopped eating. I collapsed, Tyler. I literally collapsed from malnutrition and stress. And it was all because of a lie you told."

His face went pale.

"You were sick in that house?" he asked.

"Everyone hated me," Emma said. "Your grandmother in law, your aunt, the staff. They all treated me like I was nothing. And I let them because I thought I was saving your life."

"Em, I didn't know—"

"You should have," she said. "You should have told me the truth."

She walked past him and went back to the living room. Tyler followed, trying to grab her arm.

"Don't," she said. "Don't touch me."

"Please, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"How much did you spend?"

"Seven million."

Emma laughed but it didn't sound like her. "Seven million dollars. And what did you do with it? This place? A girlfriend? Champagne?"

"I was scared," Tyler said. "I didn't know how to handle suddenly having that much money. I panicked."

"You panicked," Emma repeated. "While I was living in hell."

She grabbed her bag and headed for the door.

"Wait," Tyler called. "Please don't tell him. Please don't tell Damien."

Emma paused with her hand on the doorknob. Part of her wanted to. Wanted Damien to know exactly what she'd sacrificed.

"I won't," she said finally. "But don't contact me again."

She left before he could respond.

The drive back to Cross Manor took two hours. Emma didn't cry. She was too angry to cry. She was furious at Tyler, at herself for being so stupid, at Damien for offering money that made all of this possible.

She was angry at everything.

When she got back, Damien was in his study. She found him there reading reports.

"I went to see Tyler," she said.

He looked up. "Okay."

"He lied to me," Emma said. "About being sick. About needing the surgery. About all of it."

Damien set down his papers. "Tell me."

She told him everything. Tyler's confession. The penthouse. The seven million dollars. The girlfriend.

Damien listened without interrupting. When she finished, he stood and pulled her close.

She let him hold her, but she felt numb. Like if she let herself feel anything, she'd fall apart completely.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"You didn't do anything."

"I know. But I'm still sorry."

That night, lying in bed, Emma stared at the ceiling. Damien was asleep next to her but she couldn't turn her brain off.

Everything felt wrong now. The money. The marriage. The way she'd thrown herself at Damien the night before like it meant something.

She thought about the necklace sitting on her dresser. About Katherine. About Damien's mother falling from a balcony.

About how many secrets were hiding in this house.