STITCH BY STITCH

The smell of gasoline was thick enough to taste, a toxic fog seeping under the heavy oak door.

"Get down," Dorian rasped.

I didn’t argue. I dropped to my knees, the plush white carpet pressing against my jeans. In the absolute blackness, I felt blindly for him, my hands finding the warm, wet mess of his shoulder. He hissed through his teeth, but didn’t pull away.

"They’re going to set the place on fire," I whispered, my voice shaking. The terror was a physical weight on my chest. "We have to break the window."

"We’re on the twenty-eighth floor, Catherine. The glass is reinforced. You won't break it with a chair, and if you do, we won't survive the fall." His voice was strained, but terrifyingly calm. "Besides, it’s not gasoline."

"What?"

"Smell it. It's too sweet. It's a chemical accelerant. Whoever is out there is trying to force us out, or smoke us out."

As if on cue, a sharp, rhythmic beeping cut through the silence. The fire alarm. It was quickly followed by the unmistakable hiss of the sprinkler system.

Except, no water came out.

"They bypassed the sprinklers," Dorian muttered, his breathing ragged. "They're pumping smoke into the ventilation system. We have minutes before this room becomes an oven."

Panic, hot and sharp, threatened to paralyze me. Think, Catherine. You’re a surgeon. You save lives. Do your job.

I shoved the fear down, locking it in a box in the back of my mind. I ripped open the hotel sewing kit, my fingers moving by memory rather than sight.

"Hold still," I ordered, my voice steadier than I felt.

"Not my first bullet wound, sweetheart," he said, but I felt the tension in his muscles. He was in agony.

"Where's the lighter?" I asked, my hands hovering over his ruined shoulder.

"My left pocket. But if you think I'm letting you cauterize this—"

"I’m a surgeon, not a butcher," I snapped, finding the cheap plastic lighter. I flicked it on. The tiny flame cast a flickering, demonic glow over his face. His skin was pale, slick with sweat, and those ice-blue eyes were glazed with pain.

I found the needle and thread. It wasn't surgical silk; it was heavy-duty hotel thread meant for mending suit jackets. It would have to do.

"This is going to hurt," I warned.

"Do it."

I didn't hesitate. I poured the tiny bottle of hotel mouthwash over the wound—he didn't scream, just let out a low, guttural growl that vibrated through the floorboards. I threaded the needle and pushed it through his flesh.

"Talk to me," I demanded, pulling the thread tight. "If you pass out, I swear to God I’ll leave you here to burn."

"Marcus," Dorian gritted out, his jaw clenched so tight I could hear his teeth grinding. "He's working with someone. Someone with deep pockets. A man named Victor Krane."

"Who is Victor Krane?" I pushed the needle through again. Dorian’s hand shot out, gripping my thigh with bruising force.

"My uncle," he bit out.

I froze. "Your uncle is trying to kill you?"

"Burning us alive in a hotel room wasn't exactly on the family reunion itinerary." He laughed, a wet, hacking sound. "Victor killed my parents when I was seven. Framed a man named Richard Ashford for it. He took me in, raised me, molded me into his little protégé. But I found out the truth. I was coming for his empire, and he knew it."

"And Marcus?"

"Victor’s pawn. Marcus is just another orphan Victor collected. He’s been running cons on wealthy women for Victor for years. Victor funds the operations, Marcus takes the fall, and Victor keeps the assets."

My hands were shaking. I tied off the last stitch, pulling it tight. The wound was ugly, the thread crude, but it was closed.

"There," I breathed, leaning back against the bed. "You won't bleed out. But we still have a smoke problem."

The acrid smell of burning plastic was starting to fill the room. A thin, grey haze was visible in the air, illuminated by the light of Dorian’s lighter.

"We can't go out the door," Dorian said, shifting his weight and testing his arm. He winced but pushed himself to his feet. "We go through the wall."

"Are you insane? It's a concrete hotel."

"Look at the blueprints." He pointed to his briefcase. "I stole them from the developer. The room next to us, 2806, is under construction. They haven't put the drywall up yet. It's just framing and insulation. The wall between us is hollow."

I scrambled to the briefcase, pulling out the rolled-up architectural plans. Even in the dim light, he was right. The wall connecting 2807 to 2806 was reinforced with steel studs and drywall, but behind the massive flat-screen TV on the wall, there was a weak point—a utility access panel.

I rushed to the TV. It was bolted to the wall.

"Help me," I said, grabbing the edge of the heavy metal frame.

Dorian stumbled over, his face a mask of pain, but he gripped the other side. We pulled. The bolts groaned, and the heavy television ripped away from the wall, crashing to the floor. Behind it was a small, square panel, no bigger than a medicine cabinet door.

"It leads into the closet of 2806," Dorian said. "I need you to open it and climb through."

"You first," I said. "You're bleeding. You're slower."

"Ladies first," he said, but his eyes were dark, unreadable. "I'm right behind you."

The smoke was thickening, stinging my eyes. I didn't have time to argue. I grabbed the panel, pried it open with my fingers until my nails bled, and pulled it off. A dark, narrow hole stared back at me.

I hoisted myself up, wiggling through the tight space. The drywall scraped my skin raw, but I pushed through, falling onto a pile of plaster dust in the darkness of Room 2806.

"Come on!" I turned back, reaching my hand into the hole.

Dorian didn't move.

He was standing in the middle of 2807, the flickering lighter in his hand, looking at the door.

"Dorian!" I screamed.

"They're coming through the door, Catherine," he said, his voice eerily calm. "I can hear the keycard."

"Then climb!"

He turned to look at me, and for a split second, I saw something that looked almost like regret. "If I come through, they'll follow us. They'll find the hole."

"What are you doing?"

"I'm ending this. Marcus isn't here. Victor isn't here. They sent their men."

The electronic lock on the door beeped.

Dorian dropped the lighter into the chemical-soaked carpet.

"Run, Catherine. Don't stop until you're out of the building."

The door flew open.

A man in a black tactical suit stepped in.

Dorian lunged.

The lighter hit the floor.

A wall of blue fire erupted, swallowing the doorway—and Dorian—in a blast of heat that knocked me backward.

---

I lay on the floor of the empty construction site, the breath knocked out of me, my ears ringing from the explosion. The smell of burning wood and flesh filled the air.

I scrambled to my knees, crawling back toward the access panel, but the heat radiating from the other side of the wall was unbearable. The room was engulfed.

"Dorian!" I screamed, coughing as smoke poured through the hole. "Dorian!"

Nothing.

I sat there in the pitch black, my hands covered in his blood, the flames roaring next door. I was alone. My husband was a monster. The man who had just saved my life was dead.

I had five million dollars in a check I couldn't cash, a wedding ring that felt like a brand, and a target on my back.

And then, I heard it.

A faint, mechanical buzzing from the floor.

Dorian's phone. It had fallen out of my pocket. The screen was lit up.

An incoming call. The caller ID read: UNKNOWN.

With trembling fingers, I swiped to answer.

"Did you kill them?" a voice asked. It was smooth, cultured, and utterly devoid of emotion.

I didn't speak.

"Marcus?" the voice said again. "Marcus, answer me. Is the Blackwood boy dead?"

I gripped the phone, my knuckles turning white. The flames next door crackled, illuminating my face in the darkness.

I brought the phone to my ear.

"Marcus is busy," I said, my voice a razor's edge. "But if you want to know who you're dealing with, I'll tell you."

The voice paused. "Who is this?"

"I'm the woman who just stitched up your nephew," I said. "And I'm going to ruin you."

I hung up the phone, dropped it on the ground, and crushed it beneath my heel.

Then, I stood up, wiped the blood on my jeans, and started walking toward the emergency stairs.

TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER 3: THE FIRST WIFE