Twelve hours.
That's how long I lay pinned under the wreckage of my husband's private jet, eleven thousand feet up a frozen Alp, tapping metal with a dying hand while he walked down the mountain without me.
He had reasons. A closing weather window. An injured crew. The math.
I had a compound femur, two cracked ribs, and forty-two meters of snow between me and being found.
Now Kellan Carmichael sits outside my building every morning like a man keeping vigil at a grave. He's sold the watch. Fired the fixers. Dismantled the entire empire that taught him how to calculate what a wife is worth.
I'm not the woman he left up there. She's still under the metal. This one has her own name back, her own scar, her own terms.
He wants forgiveness.
He'll have to survive me first.
