Grayson chased her into the marble foyer. The heavy doors swung shut, muffling the sounds of the stunned party guests.

"You are insane!" Grayson yelled, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. He grabbed her arm again, spinning her around. "You just humiliated me in front of half of Wall Street! You go back in there and apologize to Belle right now!"

Isolde looked at his hand. Again.

"I told you," she said, her voice dropping an octave, "not to touch me."

She didn't use force this time. She just looked at him with such intense loathing that he instinctively let go.

She raised her left hand. The 5-carat diamond solitaire sparkled under the chandelier. It was heavy. It had always been heavy.

"You think this owns me?" she asked.

"Stop the drama, Isolde. It's a negotiation tactic, I get it. You want a higher allowance? You want that vacation house in Aspen? Fine. Just fix this."

Isolde laughed. It was a dry, sharp sound.

"You really don't see me, do you? You never have."

She gripped the ring. It was tight. Her finger had swollen slightly from the adrenaline. She twisted it hard, scraping the skin over her knuckle.

She yanked it off.

She held it up between two fingers.

"Here," she said.

She dropped it.

Ping.

The ring hit the marble floor. It bounced once, spun rapidly with a high-pitched whirring sound, and settled near Grayson's polished dress shoes.

"I want a divorce," she said.

Grayson stared at the ring, then up at her. He laughed, but it sounded nervous. "Divorce? You signed a pre-nup, Isolde. You leave with nothing. No alimony. No assets. You'll be on the street."

"I don't want your money," Isolde said. "I don't want the house. I don't want the cars. I don't want anything that has your name on it."

She pulled Effie closer.

"I just want her."

Grayson sneered. "And go where? Your mother's failing company? You have no job. You have no skills. You're a housewife, Isolde. You won't last a week."

Belle came bursting through the doors, breathless.

"Gray! The investors are asking questions," she said. She looked at Isolde, her eyes widening at the sight of the ring on the floor.

"Oh, Isolde," Belle cooed, stepping closer. "Please, don't do this. We're all just tired. Let's go upstairs, I'll make you some tea..."

Isolde looked at Belle. She looked through her.

"He's all yours, Belle," Isolde said. "No returns."

She turned to the valet stand. The valet was holding the keys to the Mercedes SUV.

"I don't need the car," Isolde said to the confused boy.

She pulled out her phone. She had downloaded the Uber app while walking through the hallway.

"You're taking a taxi?" Grayson scoffed. "With my daughter? Like a commoner?"

"I'm taking a ride I paid for," Isolde corrected. "And she's my daughter. You haven't looked at her in three years."

"I'm freezing your credit cards," Grayson threatened, stepping forward. "Right now. You won't get a block away."

"Go ahead," Isolde said.

A beat-up Toyota Camry pulled up to the curb. The driver looked confused by the luxury surroundings.

Isolde opened the door. She helped Effie inside.

"Where are we going, Mommy?" Effie asked, her voice trembling.

"On an adventure, baby," Isolde whispered. "A real one."

She got in and slammed the door.

The Toyota smelled of stale pine air freshener and old cigarettes. To Isolde, it smelled like freedom.

She watched the Manhattan skyline recede through the window. She wasn't looking at the buildings; she was looking at the timeline in her head.

One year.

She had one year to save Effie. One year to build a fortress that Grayson couldn't breach.

"Mommy, I'm hungry," Effie murmured, leaning her head against Isolde's arm.

Isolde checked her purse. She had the emergency cash stash she had sewn into the lining of her clutch years ago-a habit from her days as a racer, when you always needed 'getaway money.' Two thousand dollars. It wouldn't last long in New York.

"We're going to have a picnic," Isolde said.

They checked into a mid-range hotel in Midtown. It wasn't the Ritz, but it was clean. The room was small, with beige walls and a view of a brick alleyway.

Isolde paid in cash.

"No credit card on file," she told the clerk. "I value my privacy."

Once inside, she ordered a pepperoni pizza.

When it arrived, Effie looked at the greasy box with wide eyes. "Daddy says pizza makes you fat."

Isolde felt a spike of rage. "Daddy is wrong," she said firmly. She handed Effie a slice. "Pizza makes you happy."

Effie took a bite, cheese stretching. She giggled.

Isolde sat at the small desk. She reached into her bag and pulled out a second phone. A burner. She had bought it from the Uber driver for $50 cash during the ride.

She popped the back open and inserted a SIM card she had kept hidden in her locket for five years.

She booted it up. It was an old model, clunky, but secure.

She navigated to a ProtonMail login page.

User: Valkyrie_X7

Password:

She hit enter.

The inbox loaded. It was full. Hundreds of unread messages.

Sender: The Institute.

Subject: Where are you?

Subject: Project Phoenix needs you.

Subject: Contract Offer - Level 5 Clearance.

Isolde's eyes scanned the dates. They had been emailing her for five years.

Back at the penthouse, the party was over.

The silence was deafening.

Grayson walked into the master bedroom. It was empty. The closet door was open. Isolde's clothes were still there-the gowns, the shoes. She had taken nothing.

Mrs. Higgins knocked on the door frame. She looked terrified.

"Mr. Lancaster?"

"What?" Grayson snapped.

"I found this... in the trash compactor."

She held up a crumpled piece of paper. Grayson uncrumpled it.

It was a handwritten note.

I, Isolde Carson, hereby declare my intent to dissolve my marriage to Grayson Lancaster due to irreconcilable differences and emotional abandonment.

Grayson scoffed. He crumpled it again and threw it on the floor.

"She's bluffing," he muttered. "She'll be back when the credit card bill comes due. She can't survive out there. She doesn't even know how to book a flight."

From down the hall, a wail erupted.

"I want Isolde!" Kaiden was screaming. "Mommy Belle doesn't know how to make the cocoa!"

Grayson winced. He walked to the door.

"Belle!" he yelled. "Handle him!"

"I'm trying!" Belle's voice came back, shrill and stressed. "He won't stop crying!"

Grayson slammed the door. He walked to the mini-bar and poured a scotch. He looked at his hand. The ring finger felt light.

He took a drink. It burned, but it didn't numb the strange, gnawing feeling in his gut. The feeling that he had just lost something he didn't even know he owned.