A giant hand is fencing my body as I wake this morning. Breasts bare, I wonder when I took off the T-shirt that I'm now naked in the arms of a man whose name is the only thing I know best. I should be angry but I'm not.

Knowing his real name isn't as satisfying as I thought it would be. In the end, I simply love this man for what he is and nothing more. He's still Red. My Red. But I can't deny the need to learn more about him and his past.

Raiden Hunter. And so I took deliberate measures to find the meaning of his name and my smile rose like a descending sun in the sky. The God of Thunder—Japanese origin. How ironic! I'm astraphobic and he's drawn from the thunder.

But I promised myself that I won't question his squalor behavior as long as he's real to me. To our unborn baby. I'm aware he came into my life as a camouflage and things changed on the way when I coerced him into intimacy.

Coerced? Nope, it was mutual. I felt it. We both wanted it. And here we are, huddling in bed like a just-married couple on the honeymoon, with a little human growing in my womb as a product of what I naively call love.

Does he really love me, though? I want to barricade my heart when I think of another betrayal coming in the name of love. I can stand and forgive anything from this point except another deception, and especially coming from him.

He growls as I try to waggle off his embrace. His warm skin makes me fizzle inside as I'd want nothing but to stay here now and forever. But I got a business to save, places to go, more battles to fight, and many calls to make.

I stare at the digital alarm clock that reads ten minutes to six o'clock. Already? Did I even sleep? I don't know, but I'm sure as hell that I can't close my eyes now that I'm wide awake with so much running in my hectic mind.

There's anger inside me, consuming me like a wildfire in the tropical forest. I need my divorce, I need to get away from Patrick, and I desperately need to get my life back on track. So I get up carefully and dress up.

Red looks beat up, a barrage of snoring sounds thumping his chest up and down. I just fix a cover on him and lay a gentle kiss on his forehead. He stirs but he doesn't move. From his wallet I grab a few bills and leave.

A cab drops me at Kenna's where I find Mom in the kitchen. A Spanish omelet foments my appetite when the baked crust aroma scents the air. She sighs heavily, laved with relief upon seeing me back safe and sound.

"You're not divorced yet, Mia Vera Diaz. You can't do that and expect things to be fine," she scolds me about sleeping at Red's.

"Tone down, Mama Mia. I have to change and go to the office right now." I give her a sound kiss on the temple and add, "Good morning, Mom. You look lovely in the kitchen, as always. And I'll definitely have a big bite of that omelet."

A sunny smile quirks up her lips.

"Morning, honey. Tell me you're feeling better today." Strewn with worries, her voice softens.

"Much better." I pour some water in a glass. "But we can't gossip yet, even though I'm dying to hear everyone's story in New Orleans."

She laughs lightly, her inherently olive skin baked with pink flush on the cheeks. She looks a bit at ease compared to yesterday, and her mood is infectious.

"You have no idea what you've been missing," she says.

"Ready for your meeting with the lawyer, Mamacita?" Kenna rumbles in a sleepy voice as she prowls into the kitchen, wearing a baggy T-shirt and bunny slippers.

"You bet!" I respond after a whole glass of water. "I'll meet her over lunch."

You got this, Mia. I sigh heavily as Kenna nods. It's about time.

As I stride through the MK entrance hall my scarpin heels ratchet from the sly motion of my long legs. It feels like forever since I was last here. But I'm back now, and my staff are ready for me when I arrive.

A sudden blow of confetti and Champagne regard me. Startled, I whimper, but break into a courteous smile, trying to oblige them. They hug me in turns, Cheering and muttering sorry for my time in the confinement.

"Thank you everyone. Really," I tell them, catching my breath of joy for this reunion. "However . . . Not intending to be a party popper or anything. . . We need to cut this celebration short and head to the boardroom. We have so much to do and I need you guys now more than ever."

Muffled exchange of voices follow before they all acquiesce. We have no time to play, unfortunately.

"But . . . I'll surely have a taste of that champagne." I reach the water dispenser and pluck a plastic cup on the shelf next to it.

They all laugh. Leslie pours me a little bit of it before I dash into my office.

The day goes on with a packed schedule. The lingerie samples have turned out great, appearance wise. The fabric quality is satisfying, even though the draping feels to be challenging in some of the designs. But I think it can be fixed with alterations.

I need to personally step in.

Another challenge is the lace material delivered. It can't be dyed so we won't have a variety of colors, and apparently men love different colors of lacey lingerie. Fun fact: they tend to buy more lingerie sets than women.

Regarding the wash, some fabric refuses to agree with dry cleaning. We'll see how we can tackle this situation later. As always, the design process is trial and error. It takes patience and resilience until we're satisfied and ready for the mass production.

"Good job, Ines," I tell Mrs. Robinson after going through each and every piece made. "Now I'm a bit concerned with stretch levels. We want the products that fit people, and not forcing people to fit into them. So I have an idea. Take measurements of every woman in this office and we'll draw a manual from that."

"All of us?" Minerva, a large and bustier woman among my staff, laughs.

Everyone joins her, which makes it difficult for me to resist.

"All of you," I reply musingly before pulling back my serious face. "And another thing. We're going to work extra—Saturdays included—for this whole month. I know it's gonna be hard for most of you, but we don't have any choice as we're running out of time. Of course, your overtime will be compensated accordingly. And as I always tell you, the success of MK . . ."

"Is the success of all of us!" they respond jubilantly, bonuses and salary raises running in their minds.

But of course. I aim to please.

An hour later I head onto another meeting with the board members. The recent fall of stock value being one of the agenda, it's their demand for an assurance that MK has a feasible plan to get out of this mess and ensure success of the next line.

They're the most annoying part of the business than the problems themselves. Leslie gives them the forecast and strategy employed, with numbers and figures—the profit margin—that they care so much about more than anything else.

"Suppose we believe in your plan," one of them says. "How can we be sure that nothing else will hinder the success of the new collection? Mind you, all the problems we've suffered are the result of your personal chaos, Mrs. Kingston. Understandable, though. Can't handle business and marriage at once—it doesn't work, does it?"

He's Andrew Myers. One of the men who strongly believe women are crafted to run the pantry and bake cookies. He had an intimate apparel business that failed miserably years ago, and I once disfavored his request to secure a managerial position here.

So I smirk and reply, "You have an option to back out, Mr. Myers. Easy, simply sell your shares to me and I'll be glad to buy them." I mean it, as arrogant as I may sound. He frowns and others murmur until I continue, "My point is . . . We work our ass off day and night to make this brand grow while some of you do absolutely nothing! I started this company while married and now it's a luxury brand! Don't ever throw me your chauvinist ideas just because I'm a woman holding the CEO title that you don't have. I won't stand still and watch!"

Anger sears through my veins.

"That was not my intention," Mr. Myers recoils. "I was only—"

"This is my company so if there's one person who won't let it crumble, that person would be me! All I'm asking for is your patience and support!" I snap, stood up to my feet. Silence congeals the room like a mortuary. I take a deep breath and say, "Now, gentlemen, can I count on you or not?"

Their answer closes the meeting. It's almost twelve and I feel like I haven't accomplished an ounce of what I intended to do today. Slumped in my office chair, I go through my phone and find no call or message from Red.

Disappointment cracks my heart.

He must be mad at me for sneaking out on him. Thinking of him gives me more headaches. I know the best thing is to stay away from him during the divorce procedure. Patrick may be tracking my every move now after I escaped his web.

Detective Smith's call derails my train of thoughts. I sent something for him this morning and I'm positive he's received it by now. I pick up to confirm, sitting straight in my presidential chair.

"Well received," he says. "But are you sure about this, Mia? Evidently you'll be the first person to be suspected by your husband if I go through with the operation."

"I know, Detective. Or what? Are you worried about me now?" I find amusement in his question.

He sighs. "I just wanted to know if you're aware of what you're doing. This is going to be a big blow for him after the recent scandal involving his mistress' death. But if you're absolutely sure—"

"Just do your damn job, Smith. I'm pretty sure you don't show that concern when you find a murderer in the street, do you?"

"I get you. Have a wonderful day." He hangs up.

"You, too, Detective," I mutter softly under my breath, placing my phone delicately on the desk beside my laptop. "Don't disappoint me or else I'll be really mad, Smith."

A bang on the doors is followed by Leslie's floral perfume as she walks in. I'm expecting the list of our clients and contact details of Dana Rodriguez, the most highly recommended real estate agent in Portland.

I need a house as soon as possible.

"I'm sorry, Ma'am. You have a visitor," says Leslie in an innervated tone of voice.

I frown. "Who is it?"

"Well, it's—"

A man steps in. "Hello, Mia! Long time no see."

I suck in a sharp breath. It's Derek Kingston.