Seven years of marriage. We had never fought. Not once. Now we fought constantly, and every single argument circled back to the same man.
I cut the thought short. I needed the doctor here, now.
But the physician told me Gretchen had already warned him. She said I'd use jealousy as an excuse to interfere with Cecil's treatment. Under no circumstances was he to follow any order I gave.
Norman's groans were getting worse. I swore under my breath, scooped up my keys, and drove for the nearest hospital myself.
I'd barely merged onto the highway when a cargo truck cut in from the side, matching my speed exactly, locking in on my left.
And ahead of me, a red Ferrari planted itself squarely in my lane.
I caught a glimpse of the driver in the Ferrari's right side mirror. The woman behind the wheel was my wife, Gretchen Frost.
I looked left. Cecil Fox sat high up in the truck's cab, both hands draped lazily over the steering wheel, staring down at me with open provocation in his eyes.
I blinked. Then my vision went red.
Cecil didn't have a single injury on him. So why had Gretchen pulled my doctor away?
Then, without warning—