Chapter 1

The sound Aria made when she hit the floor was small — a soft, damp thud that the heart monitor swallowed whole. The machine had been shrieking for four seconds already, a frantic electronic scream that filled the private suite and reached down the corridor, and Vivienne Ashford stood over her granddaughter with her arm still extended, the fingers of her right hand open where they had released the child's wrist.

Aria lay on the cold tile beside the bed, her worn grey rabbit pressed to her chest, its one button eye catching the cold white ceiling light. The girl's mouth was open. The scream that came out of her was thin and raw, a sound that had nothing left in it but pain.

"You'll do as I say," Vivienne said.

Her voice was sharp and flat, the voice she used with staff who had failed her, with drivers who were late, with the women on the hospital board who thought they could outvote her. She smoothed the front of her plum silk blouse with her left hand and looked down at her granddaughter with an expression that was mostly irritation. The gold knot earrings caught the light as she turned her head slightly, checking that the door was still closed.

It was not.

The heavy door banged open so hard the brass handle struck the wall behind it, and Miles Ashford came through it like a man who had been running for three floors. He was still in his tuxedo, the black jacket buttoned, the gold cufflinks flashing as his hands came up. His face was not angry. His face was something else entirely — a cold, focused fury that had no room for anything but his daughter.

He crossed the room in three strides and shoved his mother.

The shove was not theatrical. It was a hard, flat push to the shoulder that sent Vivienne stumbling back against the wall, her silk blouse catching on the edge of the framed print that hung there. She made a sound — an indignant gasp — but Miles was already past her, dropping to his knees on the tile beside Aria.

"Hey," he said, and his voice cracked. "Hey, baby. Daddy's here."

Aria's arms tightened around the rabbit. Her face was white beneath her olive skin, and there was a thin red mark on her shoulder where the hospital gown had pulled. The yellow ribbon in her dark hair had come loose on one side, and a strand of it stuck to her damp cheek.

Miles lifted her. He was careful — so careful — one hand under her back, the other cradling her head, and he set her back on the bed as if she were made of glass. The mattress dipped under her weight and the monitor's frantic beeping began to slow, the pitch dropping as her heart rate came down.

He settled the oxygen cannula against her cheeks, his fingers shaking as he adjusted the thin plastic tubes. The clear line ran from the wall outlet to the little prongs at her nose, and he checked it twice, three times, before he let his hand rest on the side of her face.

"Okay," he said. "Okay. You're okay."

Vivienne straightened her blouse and stepped forward. "Miles, don't be dramatic. The child needed to learn—"

"Don't," Miles said.