August Sandford’s jaw almost hit the table.

“Hello, August. Everybody.” Lexi smiled sweetly. “It’s been a while.”

Lexi had done her homework. She knew exactly which of Kruger-Brent’s businesses were viable and which had become dangerous drains on the firm’s resources. She could afford to pick and choose, buying up the cream of the crop at bargain-basement prices. The only area where she’d let her heart rule her head was in mining. Jamie McGregor had built Kruger-Brent on diamonds. Kruger-Brent without a mining division would be like Microsoft without Windows. Besides, she was convinced she could turn the business around, once she’d fired Tabitha Crewe and the rest of the lazy yes-men whom Max had allowed to bleed the company dry.

Once word got out that Lexi Templeton had bought the Kruger-Brent name and was rebuilding the firm, the press went wild for the story.

BLACKWELL BEAUTY BUYS BACK BUSINESS

KRUGER-BRENT RISES FROM ASHES

LEXI CLINCHES LAST-MINUTE DEAL

The American public didn’t think to question where Lexi had found the money for her epic business-buying spree. She was a Blackwell. Of course she was rich. Those closer to her were more suspicious.

“What’d you do? Rob a bank?” asked Robbie.

Lexi was coy. “Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.”

August, who had some idea how much money Lexi ought to have lost when her Kruger-Brent stock got wiped out, was even more perplexed. But he didn’t dare bring up the subject. Lexi had thrown him a lifeline. He was in no hurry to start cutting the rope.

One night in October, August and Lexi were working late, going through their European property portfolio. The smaller, leaner Kruger-Brent now operated out of Templeton’s old offices. They were a lot less grand, but half the price, a proposition that worked for August. Sitting on the floor of Lexi’s office amid a sea of paperwork-the new furniture had yet to arrive-they were both starting to get tired.

“All right. Italy.” August yawned, rubbing his eyes. “I say we keep the commercial stuff and ditch the residential.”

“Agreed.” Lexi put her hand over her mouth. “Oh God.”

“What?”

She staggered to her feet. “I think I’m gonna throw up.”

She came back from the bathroom a few minutes later looking white as a sheet.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine. I think I’m a little exhausted. Stress. Whatever.”

August remembered his conversation with Max Webster the day their shares started crashing. I’m fine. These Blackwells wouldn’t know “fine” if it bit them in the ass. No one had seen Max since the firm went under. Rumors were rife that he’d had a complete mental breakdown. August Sandford could well believe it.

“You should see a doctor,” he told Lexi.

“I’m fine.” She picked up the next bulging file. “Romania. Are we in or out?”

“Out. You should see a doctor.”

Lexi rolled her eyes. “If I still feel bad on Monday, I’ll go, okay?”

Lexi had no intention of seeing a doctor. For one thing, she didn’t have time. For another, medical science had yet to come up with a cure for heartbreak.

Running Kruger-Brent was all Lexi had ever wanted. She’d risked everything to beat Max, and she’d done it. She’d won. But without Gabe to share it, her victory felt joyless and empty: a beautifully wrapped birthday present with nothing inside.

Sleep, that’s what I need. And a vacation.

It was the stress. Stress made people sick all the time, right? If anyone found out that she and Carl had deliberately manipulated Kruger-Brent’s share price, they could both be looking at a decade in jail.

That’s what’s making me nauseous. Not Gabriel stupid McGregor.

George and Edward Webster found their mother in the garden.

“Mommy,” said George. “Daddy’s got a tummy ache.”

“I think he needs some pink medicine,” added Edward.

Annabel put down her gardening shears. Gardening was her therapy, her escape. Since Kruger-Brent’s collapse, she’d retreated to her rose beds more and more frequently, unable to bear watching Max tear himself apart with guilt. It was Eve’s disappointment that haunted him most. Tortured by the idea that he’d let his mother down, Max longed for her forgiveness. But of course, the crazy old bitch hadn’t called or returned a single one of Max’s calls.

“What were you doing in Daddy’s room? I told you not to go in there. Your father needs to rest.”

George said indignantly: “We didn’t go in.”

“He was lying on the floor in the hallway,” Edward explained. “We had to step over him to get our boots. Didn’t we, George?”

Annabel wasn’t listening. Running across the yard to the house, her face and hands smeared with soil, she found Max curled up in a fetal position on the floor, groaning.

“Darling! Max. What did you do? Have you taken something? MAX!”

She shook him hard. Max mumbled incoherently in response. Annabel could only catch a few words. “Eve…Keith…she made me do it…” Frantically, Annabel searched Max’s pockets for pills.

“Please, honey. Tell me what you’ve taken.” But it was no good. Leaving him clutching his stomach and moaning into the carpet, she dialed 911.

“The good news is there’s nothing physically wrong with him, Mrs. Webster.”

Annabel tried to focus on the psychiatrist’s words. She was sitting in an office on the ground floor of a private sanatorium. It was a calming room, painted a restful sky-blue, with a large window overlooking the gardens. The psychiatrist, Dr. Granville, was about Annabel’s age, blond-haired and handsome in a preppy, unthreatening sort of way. He seemed kind. At the general hospital, the staff had been too busy to reassure her. All their focus had been on Max. Understandably. By the time Annabel got him to the ER, he’d started having seizures, frothing at the mouth like a rabid dog. He had to be sedated before the doctors could examine him. It was awful.

“There was no overdose. No attempt at self-harm. That’s good, too.”

Right. It’s all good. It’s all completely fabulous.

“So what is wrong with him?” Annabel wrung her hands despairingly.

“Try to think of his body as an electrical circuit, with the brain as its center. Your husband’s circuit simply overheated. All the fuses blew at once.”

“A nervous breakdown?”

Dr. Granville grimaced. “I don’t like that term. I wouldn’t describe your husband’s symptoms as a nervous condition. He is deeply depressed. I believe he may have lived with untreated schizophrenia for many years. There appear to be repressed memories-”

Annabel interrupted. “What can you do?”

Schizophrenia…depression…these were just useless labels. She wanted to know that Max was going to get better.

Dr. Granville was sympathetic. “I know it’s very difficult. You want answers, and I don’t have them for you. Eventually we will put him on drug treatment and into therapy. With the right combination of medication, symptoms can often be effectively managed.”

“But not cured?”

Dr. Granville looked at the beautiful, exhausted woman in front of him and wished with all his heart he had the magic wand she needed.

“No one can be cured of being who they are, Mrs. Webster.”

For the next two weeks, there was no change in Max’s condition.

Annabel begged Eve to come and visit him.

“He asks for you constantly. For God’s sake, Eve, he’s your son! Whatever he’s done, or not done, whatever happened at Kruger-Brent, can’t you forgive him?”

But the old woman’s brain was as addled as her son’s. Max was her husband, Keith. Max was her sister’s husband, George Mellis. Max had raped her, disfigured her, stolen Kruger-Brent from her.