The legal team Caspian assembled was unlike anything I'd ever seen. Three of the most formidable defense attorneys in New York sat around the conference table, their reputations preceding them like thunder before lightning.

"Ms. Dixon," the lead attorney—a silver-haired woman with eyes like flint—said, "we'll need everything you have on your brother's case. Every transaction record, every communication, every detail about his trading history."

I nodded, pulling out the USB drive I'd spent all night preparing. "Everything's here. But the SEC is saying—"

"We know what the SEC is saying," interrupted a younger man with a scar above his eyebrow. "We also know that cases like these often hinge on evidence that hasn't yet been discovered."

For the first time since Everett's arrest, I felt something other than despair. It was fragile, like holding a butterfly by its wings, but it was there.

"Your brother will have the best defense money can buy," Caspian said from the doorway. He hadn't moved closer, maintaining the professional distance he'd kept since our agreement. "That's my promise."

---

Weeks passed in a blur of legal preparations and strained silences. Benedict assumed I was sulking about his refusal to help Everett, sending occasional texts that ranged from condescending to dismissive.

"You're overreacting," he wrote one evening. "Your brother made his choices."

I didn't respond. What was there to say? The man I'd loved for seven years had shown his true colors when I needed him most.

Caspian communicated only through Vincent, his head of security—a quiet, efficient man who appeared at my apartment with updates and documents requiring signatures.

"Mr. Ford wants you to know the team is making progress," Vincent would say, his eyes never quite meeting mine. "He thought you might want to attend the pre-trial hearing tomorrow."

I would nod, grateful for the information but hungry for something more—a word from Caspian himself, perhaps, or some acknowledgment of what we'd agreed to. But there was only professional courtesy and the occasional glimpse of him across the street, watching from his office window as I entered the courthouse.

---

The verdict came on a Tuesday. I remember because I'd worn Everett's favorite color—blue—hoping it might somehow bring luck.

"Has the jury reached a verdict?" Judge Harmon asked.

"We have, Your Honor."

The courtroom fell silent. I gripped the edge of the bench, my knuckles white as bone.

"On the charge of securities fraud and insider trading, we find the defendant, Everett Dixon, guilty."

The room tilted. The air vanished from my lungs.

"Life imprisonment without possibility of parole," the judge continued, his voice distant through the roaring in my ears.

I tried to stand but my legs buckled. Someone caught me—Vincent, I think—as darkness closed in from all sides.

When I came to, I was lying on a bench in the courthouse hallway. Vincent stood nearby, speaking quietly into his phone.

"The evidence was planted," I whispered as he approached. "Someone set him up."

Vincent's expression remained neutral, but his eyes held something like sympathy. "Mr. Ford suspected as much. He's looking into it."

Too late. Too damn late.

---

The detention center smelled of industrial cleaner and despair. I signed the visitor log with trembling hands, following a guard down a sterile hallway to a row of visitation booths.

Everett looked smaller somehow, the orange jumpsuit hanging loosely on his frame. His eyes lit up when he saw me, but I could see the defeat in them.

"Hey, Chlo," he said, his voice rough with exhaustion.

"I'm so sorry," I whispered, tears blurring my vision. "I tried everything—"

"You did enough," he interrupted gently. "More than enough."

We stared at each other through the glass, the minutes ticking away with cruel efficiency.

"Promise me something," he said finally, leaning forward. "Don't let this destroy you. Don't spend your life trying to fix something that can't be fixed."

"But I can't just—"

"You have to." His voice broke slightly. "You have to be happy, Chloe. That's all I want now."

I pressed my palm against the glass, and he matched it with his own—our fingers separated by an insurmountable barrier.

"I love you," I said.

"I love you too," he replied. "Always."

I walked out of the detention center feeling like a ghost, my body present but my soul shattered into a thousand irreparable pieces. The world continued around me—people laughing, arguing, living—while I moved through it like smoke, purposeless and undone.

Somewhere in the distance, I could feel Caspian watching, waiting for me to fulfill my part of our bargain. But all I could think about was Everett's face behind that glass, and how I'd failed the only person who had ever truly loved me.

I returned to the penthouse with rain-soaked shoes and a hollow chest. The security guard's sympathetic nod as I entered the lobby had been the only kindness I'd received since leaving the courthouse. Now, I just wanted to sink into Benedict's arms and feel something other than this numbing emptiness.

The penthouse was dark except for the glow of Manhattan's skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I found Benedict in his study, his silhouette sharp against the city lights as he reviewed documents on his laptop.

"I'm back," I said quietly, my voice still raw from crying.

He didn't look up. "You're making noise."

I stood there, dripping rainwater onto his pristine hardwood floors, waiting for him to acknowledge what had happened. To ask how Everett was. To offer some semblance of comfort.

Instead, he sighed and closed his laptop. "This merger is already complicated enough without your family drama distracting everyone."

The words hit me like ice water. "Family drama?"

"Chloe, you've been a mess for weeks." He finally looked at me, his expression a mixture of annoyance and impatience. "The entire office is walking on eggshells around you."

"I just lost my brother," I whispered. "He's going to prison for something he didn't do."

"And that's tragic," he said, checking his watch. "But it's not my fault, and I have a company to run."

I pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to stop fresh tears. "I thought... I thought you'd understand."

"Understand what? That your brother is a criminal?" He stood up, straightening his tie. "Stop crying and make yourself useful. We have the Wilson deposition tomorrow."

---

I stumbled to the master bathroom, needing a moment alone. The cool tile floor was solid beneath my feet as I gripped the marble countertop and stared at my reflection. My mascara had smudged, creating dark shadows beneath my eyes. I looked like a ghost.

I splashed cold water on my face and reached for a towel. As I turned, something caught my eye—a flash of emerald green hanging on the back of the door.

A silk robe.

Not mine.

I stepped closer, my fingers trembling as I touched the delicate fabric. The robe was expensive, the kind that whispered of luxury and intimacy. It wasn't Benedict's style—too feminine, too bold.

I checked the label: Ivanna's size.

The realization hit me with sickening clarity as I buried my face in the fabric. The faint scent of Ivanna's distinctive perfume—something expensive and cloying—clung to it like a secret finally revealed.

How long had this been going on? How many times had I been in this apartment while they...

---

"Explain this," I said, my voice steadier than I expected as I walked back into the living room.

Benedict looked up from his phone, his expression shifting from annoyance to something like resignation when he saw the robe in my hands.

"It's not what you think," he said automatically.

"It's exactly what I think." I threw the robe at him. It landed on his lap like an accusation. "How long?"

He didn't deny it. Instead, he sighed and set the robe aside. "Chloe, you've been unavailable lately. Depressing. Ivanna understands what I need."

"What you need?" The words felt like acid on my tongue.

"You've been so focused on your brother's problems," he continued, as if explaining something simple to a child. "Do you know how that feels? To be with someone who's constantly bringing you down?"

I stared at him, seeing him clearly for perhaps the first time. "So you slept with your colleague."

"I didn't say that." He stood up, smoothing his pants. "But you're being hysterical again."

"Hysterical?" My voice rose. "My brother just got a life sentence! And you're—" I gestured wildly at the robe.

"Get over it," he said coldly. "Where else are you going to go?"

Something inside me snapped—or perhaps, healed into armor.

Without another word, I walked to our bedroom and pulled a suitcase from the closet. I packed mechanically, grabbing essentials without thought or care.

Benedict appeared in the doorway, watching with a mixture of disbelief and amusement. "You'll be back in a week," he said. "You always come back."

I zipped the suitcase closed and straightened my spine. For seven years, I'd believed his love was conditional. Now I knew it was nonexistent.

I placed my key on the entryway table and walked out into the rain, not looking back as the door closed behind me with a final click.