The triage nurse at Jackson Memorial did not ask questions until she had gently pressed saline-soaked gauze against my jawline.

Her name was Elena. Her badge was clipped to a faded pair of ceil-blue scrubs, and the moment she saw the blistering along the left crest of my collarbone, her eyes shifted from routine clinical appraisal to hard, cold recognition. Emergency rooms in Miami saw every brand of violence the human animal could invent, but hot-liquid assault carried a specific, unmistakable stench—scalded keratin, overheated cotton fibers, and the bitter, roasted oil of cheap Columbian roast that Derek insisted on buying in bulk.

“Who did this?” she asked.

I kept my hands flat against the cold vinyl of the examination table. If I curled them into fists, I was afraid I would shake apart. “My husband.”

“Is he in the waiting room?”

“No,” I whispered. My throat felt like sandpaper. “He’s at home. Waiting for his sister to come pick through my closet.”

Elena didn’t blink. She turned toward the doorway and flagged down a young resident who looked as though he hadn’t slept since Tuesday. “Bed four. Chemical and thermal second-degree scald. Face, neck, clavicle. We need the forensic camera, full photographic log, and call officer down at the security desk. We’re filing a mandatory report.”

The flash of the camera felt almost as hot as the coffee.

*Click. Flash.* The left cheekbone, mottled crimson and pale gray where the top layer of skin was beginning to slough away.

*Click. Flash.* The underside of my chin, where the liquid had pooled in the hollow of my throat before soaking into the silk-blend collar of my blouse.

*Click. Flash.* The ruined fabric itself, carefully snipped away with blunt-nosed trauma shears and sealed into a brown paper evidence bag labeled *VICTIM: SKYLAR VANCE*.

“You’re lucky,” the doctor said as he applied silver sulfadiazine cream that chilled my raw nerve endings until my teeth chattered. “Another two inches higher and it would have entered your eye socket. Another five degrees hotter and we’d be talking about split-thickness skin grafts from your thigh. As it stands, it’s going to blister, it’s going to peel, and it’s going to hurt like hell for three weeks. But the scarring should be minimal if you keep it out of the South Florida sun.”

“I don’t care about the scar,” I said.

The doctor paused, his gloved fingers hovering over the dressing. “You should. You’re a young woman.”

“I care about the arrest warrant.”

Thirty minutes later, Officer Marcus Vance—no relation to Derek, a grim coincidence that made the officer offer a tight, apologetic grimace—stood by the foot of the bed with his digital tablet. He didn’t make me sugarcoat a single syllable.

“He told you to give his sister your bank card?” Officer Vance asked, stylus poised.

“Yes.”

“You refused?”

“Yes.”

“And then?”

“He said, ‘If you don’t give my sister your bank card, get out of my house.’ I asked him what he meant by ‘his house.’ That was when he picked up the mug and threw it across the kitchen table. He was sitting approximately four feet away. It was a direct, intentional throw.”

“Did he attempt to render aid?”

“He told me to look at what I made him do. Then he told me his sister was coming over this afternoon to take my handbags, and that I was going to let her.”

Officer Vance’s jaw shifted. A muscle ticked near his ear. “That’s felony domestic battery with a deadly weapon or caustic chemical under Florida Statute 784.03 and 784.045. We don’t take statements like this and hand out citations, Mrs. Vance. We execute.”

“I know,” I said evenly. “And I need an escort back to the residence.”

“To pack?”

“To pack my personal effects. And to ensure the locks are changed before he understands what kind of building he’s actually standing in.”

While the nurse finished taping a wide, sterile dressing over my neck, I used my uninjured right hand to dial Arthur Campbell.

Arthur had been my late father’s lead corporate attorney for twenty-six years before becoming the managing director of the King Maritime Trust. When my father died four years ago, leaving me the sole heir to an intermodal freight operation spanning five ports between Jacksonville and San Juan, Arthur had made me make three promises: never sign a personal guarantee for another human being, never mix trust disbursements with joint checking accounts, and never, under any circumstances, allow a man to feel entitled to assets he didn’t bleed to build.

“Arthur,” I said when the call connected on the second ring.

“Skylar? You’re ten minutes late for the logistics briefing with the Santos Group. That isn’t like you.”

“Derek threw a mug of boiling coffee into my face this morning.”