Maximus Anderson drove like a man possessed, his speedometer needle climbing higher with every mile. He skidded into the hospital lot, his jaw tight.

He didn’t care about the law; he only cared about the woman who was currently making his life a living nightmare.

"If she thinks she can just punch her ticket and leave, she’s got another thing coming," he muttered, his hands white-knuckled against the steering wheel. "I haven't even begun to settle the score for this mess."

He stalked toward the ICU. Through the reinforced glass, he saw Rose Harrison hooked up to a frantic web of life support machines. Dr. Derek Gardner spotted him, marched over, and shoved a clipboard toward him. It was a critical condition notice.

"Is it that bad?" Maximus asked, his voice flat.

"She’s lost a dangerous amount of blood," Dr. Gardner replied, his eyes sharp with accusation. "If the nurse hadn't checked on her when she did, we’d be talking about a morgue pickup instead of surgery. She’s not out of the woods. Not by a long shot."

The doctor lingered for a moment, eyeing him with cold disgust. "She is your wife, isn't she?"

"Yes," Maximus spat the word out like it was poison.

"A husband is supposed to be a lifeline, not a ghost. She’s already mourning the loss of a child—the depression alone is lethal. Why wasn't there anyone there to watch over her?"

Maximus didn't answer. He turned his gaze back to the glass. Seeing Rose lying there, frail and barely clinging to life, a strange, suffocating pressure tightened his chest. He stood perfectly still, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of the monitors, and against his will, his mind drifted back to the day they said their vows.

"Post-miscarriage, the risk of suicide is incredibly high," the doctor continued, his tone softening into a grim warning. "Even if we pull her through this, she is in a very fragile state. You young people... you have no idea how precious life is until you’re staring at a flatline."

The doctor walked away, leaving Maximus alone with his memory. In the flashback, Rose was radiant in a custom-made gown by Vanderbilt. The thin, sheer fabric clung to her swan-like neck and dipped low to reveal her collarbones. The white lace traced the curves of her body, and as she walked, the pearl-encrusted train shimmered like stardust. Her long, raven hair was swept up, pinned with delicate, tiny yellow-budded white flowers—looking every bit the innocent bride.

The wedding march swelled through the air of the cathedral. The lighting was hypnotic, casting a golden haze over the white-feather carpet she traversed while clinging to Albert Harrison's arm. And then there was him—Maximus, standing at the altar in a stark white suit, a single white rose pinned to his lapel. His expression was a mask of granite. He watched her approach, but his eyes were empty, focused on a point light-years away.

He took her hand, his touch devoid of warmth, and led her to the center of the stage. Mark Boyd, the officiant, began the ceremony with rehearsed gravity.

"The exchange of rings," the officiant announced.

A massive diamond solitaire caught the harsh glare of the flashbulbs, sparkling with a cruel brilliance. It was a ring from the Harrison family collection—a singular design that could only be purchased by a man once in his lifetime. Maximus took the ring, sliding it onto Rose’s trembling finger. She looked at him with such raw, aching devotion that it felt like a lifetime had passed in a heartbeat.

That was the moment she became his wife. That was the moment she stepped into the trap.