My breath caught. My fairy-tale romance hadn’t been love spoiled by a sudden act of cruelty. It had been a transaction from the first dinner. I was never a wife to Daniel Cross.

I was collateral for a bailout.

At two, Daniel finally came to the ward, carrying a wilted bouquet of gas-station carnations and a man who reeked of cheap cologne, whom he introduced as his attorney.

He approached the bed wearing manufactured sorrow. His apology lasted about twelve seconds.

“Claire, sweetheart, I’m so sorry about this whole mess. My mother reacted poorly to the wedding stress,” he said smoothly, reaching to pat my blanket.

“But you have to understand — going to the police would destroy our family name. Sign this small confidentiality agreement, and I’ll take you home, and we’ll forget it happened.”