She was fourteen when her father left her with Adrian Sinclair. She loved him like a god. He called her a child, rejected her for two years—then took her body for six. Eight times he sent her to the operating table. The eighth time, she heard him say through the phone: Don't call me until she's dead. The monitor flatlined. Then she woke up—two years earlier, the night he was drugged. This time, she didn't climb into his bed. She called Vanessa, the woman he truly loved, and gave him away. Her revenge isn't hate. It's walking away. He ends up in an ICU, breathing through a machine. She ends up in a garden in the Cotswolds, holding her daughter, saying: "Let's go home.''
