The man didn’t hear the rest of the doctor’s statement. Glaring momentarily toward his wife, he opened the door and walked away. The entire room fell silent as the helpless door bounced against the wall, filling the room with only the sound of the echoing slam and the steady swoosh, swoosh, swoosh of the fetal heartbeat.

THE BACKDROP OF blue did little to temper the stagnant Florida heat. Peering through the windshield, I watched the hot, muggy air ripple through undetectable waves, as the impressive Miami skyline appeared to bow and arch in the heat-induced optical illusion. Stepping from the cool car, I longed for a breeze anything to shatter the oppressive weight of the unseasonal autumn humidity. Moist air saturated every void as my heels walked upon the concrete streets and between the glass castles. I was where others longed to be. This was the best of the best: the homes, offices, and shopping mecca to the elite of Miami society. To the unknowing tourist, or even the unaware Miamian, these buildings and monuments were an enticing testament to the power of wealth and influence. However, in reality, they were but a beautiful façade waiting patiently to entrap the unwilling participant. I should know. At one time I was that unwilling participant, dragged into the depths of malevolence. That was years ago. I’ve learned my lessons well and played my role. No longer willing to be a victim, today I’m insidious.

“Thank you, Mrs. Harrington.” The saleswoman’s voice reverberated throughout the pricey boutique.

Nodding in response, I took my purchase and strode toward the door. The five-hundred-dollar shoes weren’t a necessity. Hell, they weren’t even for a purpose: a dinner, a benefit, or any other excuse to show me off and parade me around Stewart’s business associates. They were just because: because they were tall and sleek, with a slender heel, and a thick platform. And because they were red. Red, as in the color of emotion: emotion that remained pent-up until its only acceptable outlet was a mundane visible reminder, a way to flaunt the loathing within to the world outside. Oh, I had covertly exercised other modes of release, yet at the moment, a pair of red shoes would suffice.

The gentleman in uniform spoke as he opened the door. “Thank you, Mrs. Harrington. Please come back to see us again.”

“Yes,” I said, my expression inscrutable.

“Ma’am, we’re all praying for your husband.”

“Thank you.” I looked down and bit my lip before I returned his gaze, bravely smiling, and added, “I’m afraid that’s our only hope.”

His eyes dulled as he sadly nodded, allowing me to exit through the open door. Rarely did a day go by that someone didn’t offer me his or her support or encouragement for Stewart, as he fought his unwinnable battle. I’d practiced my responses well. After all, very little went unseen. While we’d made headlines when we married, mostly surrounding our age difference, we were making them again as the tabloids and magazines discussed my impending widowhood at the young age of twenty-eight.

Moving onto the sun-drenched sidewalk, I covered my eyes with the dark glasses and braced myself for the wave of heat. Up from the depths of hell, like fire fanned by the devil himself, my legs tingled with the contrast in temperature. I bit my lip again, stopping the genuine smile that threatened to shatter my mask of grief. Assuming hell was real, soon it would have another resident. Before the bun of long brown hair secured low on my neck could mold to my skin, I settled into the backseat of the waiting taxi.

Though my car was parked only a few blocks away, I knew the wonders of technology. The GPS would show that I’d spent my afternoon in the Harbor Shoppes—at least until I was ready for it to indicate otherwise.

“To ONE Bal Harbour Resort,” I instructed, as the driver pulled the car into midday traffic.

After spending most of my life in southern Florida, I found little beauty in the city of Miami. What appeal it had was completely lost on me as I scanned the screen of my phone, reading my text messages. A sense of suffocation loomed omnipresent as I read one from my husband:

“WE HAVE A GUEST COMING TO THE WAREHOUSE THIS AFTERNOON. BE THERE AT 4:30. DON’T BE LATE.”

I closed my eyes, hid my expression behind my designer sunglasses, and sighed. Thankfully, due to Stewart Harrington’s recent rapid decline in health, we’d not visited the warehouse in some time: his text was sent months ago. Nevertheless, I refused to delete it. It served as my fuel and my daily reminder: a reminder of a time I refused to forget.

I would not. I could not.

I scanned back to the message I’d more recently received, one I’d first seen late last night:

“I NEED TO SEE YOU.”

I gave it one more glance, grinning at the shared sense of desperation, before I hit delete. I waited until this morning to respond:

“TODAY?”

After I’d hit send, his response came back almost immediately:

“NOW.”

We both knew that NOW hadn’t been an option, but a minor tweaking of my schedule and a slight juggle of my responsibilities would allow LATER to be a possibility. Smoothing the silk of my sundress over my lap while trying desperately to ignore the sweat-ladened stench of the taxi, I relished the reality: later was almost upon me. If only the car could fly instead of fight the midday traffic.

As Stewart’s time on earth drew nigh its end, I worried about the legalities of our prenuptial agreement. With Stewart’s network of good ol’ boys, finding an ally, someone to look out for my interests, had been difficult, but thankfully not impossible. Since I’d made my alliance with Brody Phillips, junior partner at Craven and Knowles, there was nothing I wouldn’t do to continue the flow of information. Besides, sex was nothing more than a tool, a weapon. It had been used against me, but I’d learned to use it in my favor. If sex helped me obtain my goal, there was no fucking reason not to use it.