The coffee shop was tucked away in the West Village, dark and smelling of roasted beans. Cara sat in a booth with Zack, going over the timeline for the fake romance rollout.

Suddenly, the bell above the door jingled aggressively. Cara looked up. Hali Moody walked in. She wasn't alone. She had two of her minions with her. She scanned the room, locked eyes with Cara, and marched over.

She didn't say hello. She slammed an iPad onto the table. The screen was bright, illuminating the dim corner.

"Thought you should see this," Hali said. "Since you clearly don't check the news."

Cara looked down. It was a photo. High resolution. Paparazzi style.

The location tag said JFK International Airport.

In the center of the frame was Brittain. He was wearing his signature charcoal coat. But he wasn't looking at his phone. He was looking at the woman next to him.

Caryn Newman.

She looked fragile. She was wearing white-she still insisted on that. Brittain's hand was resting on the small of her back. It was a protective gesture. A possessive gesture. It was the way a man touches something precious. He had never touched Cara like that in public. With Cara, he walked a step ahead. With Caryn, he was a shield.

Cara's stomach dropped. It felt like she had swallowed a stone.

"Looks like your contract is expired," Hali sneered. "The placeholder is officially retired."

Zack started to stand up. "Hey, watch it-"

Cara put a hand on Zack's arm to stop him. Her fingers were cold. She kept her face completely blank. She had practiced this face for two years.

"Thanks for the update, Hali," Cara said. Her voice was steady, boring even. "Saves me the trouble of refreshing my feed."

Hali blinked. She wanted tears. She wanted a scene. When she didn't get it, she snatched the iPad back.

"You're pathetic," she spat, and turned on her heel.

As soon as the door closed behind her, Cara crumbled. Her shoulders slumped. She grabbed her water glass, but her hand shook so hard water sloshed over the rim.

She pulled out her phone. She opened her text thread with Brittain. The last message was hers. Safe travels.

Read: Tuesday 9:00 AM.

He hadn't told her. He hadn't warned her. He just let her find out through a gossipmonger in a coffee shop.

It wasn't the breakup that hurt. She knew that was coming. It was the erasure. To him, she wasn't even worth a goodbye text. She was furniture.

She took a sip of water. It tasted like metal.

"Zack," Cara said. Her voice was hard now. "Launch Plan B. I want the rumors about me and Brady everywhere by tonight."

Zack looked nervous. "The contract penalty..."

"I'll handle Brittain," Cara said.

She stood up. She walked out of the coffee shop into the biting wind. She dialed Brittain's private number.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.

Click.

He sent her to voicemail.

That was it. The final disrespect.

She hailed a taxi. "Austin Media Tower," she told the driver.

She pulled a compact mirror out of her bag. She looked at her pale lips. She took out a tube of lipstick. Not the nude shade Brittain liked. A deep, blood red. She applied it thick. She darkened her eyebrows.

She wasn't going there to beg. She was going there to burn the bridge.

The taxi stopped in front of the glass monolith. She looked up at the top floor.

She stepped out. Her heels clicked against the pavement like gunshots.

Cara walked into the lobby of Austin Media like she owned it. She was wearing a sharp black blazer over her dress, sunglasses on. She headed straight for the private elevators.

She tapped her access card against the reader.

BEEP. A red light flashed. Access Denied.

She tried again. Red light.

She laughed, a short, dry sound. He had already cut her off. He was efficient, she'll give him that.

A security guard, a man she had brought coffee to three times, stepped forward. "Ms. Clay, I'm sorry, I can't let you up."

Cara took off her sunglasses. She didn't plead. She stared him down.

"I am here to return Mr. Austin's house keys," she said loudly. "Unless you want me to leave them right here on the floor where anyone can pick them up?"

The receptionist behind the desk looked panicked. She picked up the phone. "Mr. Wong? Ms. Clay is here. She's... causing a scene."

Two minutes later, Burrel came out of the elevator. He looked tired.

"Cara, please," he said, trying to steer her toward a side room. "He's in a meeting."

"Is it a strategy meeting on how to rehabilitate Ms. Newman's image?" Cara asked. Her voice carried across the marble lobby. Heads turned.

Burrel winced. "Come with me."

He swiped his badge. They rode the elevator in silence. The numbers climbed. 40. 50. 60.

"He's busy, Cara," Burrel said softly. "Mr. Austin cut his London trip short. An urgent matter regarding Ms. Newman came up."

"Busy rekindling old flames?" Cara asked.

The doors opened. The top floor was all glass and steel. Cara walked past Burrel's desk. Through the glass wall of the main office, she saw him.

Brittain wasn't in a meeting. He was sitting alone at his desk, reading a document. He looked annoyed, not busy.

Cara pushed open the heavy glass door. It didn't slam, thanks to the expensive hinges, but it made a solid thud.

Brittain looked up. His brows knit together. "Who let you up here?"

Cara didn't stop until she reached his desk. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the ring of keys-the penthouse, the Hamptons house, the Malibu villa.

She slammed them onto the mahogany desk. The metal jangled violently.

Brittain looked at the keys, then at Cara. His expression was bored. "What is this tantrum, Cara?"

She didn't sit. She towered over him, or tried to. She pulled the printout of the airport photo from her bag and slid it across the desk.

"Your muse is back," she said. "I'm returning my badge."

Brittain glanced at the photo. He didn't look guilty. He looked irritated that his privacy was breached.

"It was just a ride from the airport," he said. "You're overreacting."

Cara laughed. It was a bitter sound. "A ride? Your hand is on her waist, Brittain. You don't touch friends like that."

He stood up then. He was tall, looming over her. The air in the room grew heavy.

"Watch your tone, Cara. Remember who you are talking to."

Cara straightened her spine. She looked him dead in the eye.

"I know exactly who I am talking to," she said. "My ex-boyfriend. That's my new identity."

The word ex-boyfriend hung in the air between them.

Brittain's eyes narrowed. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. He walked around the desk, closing the distance between them. He used his height as a weapon.

"You don't get to decide when this ends," he said. His voice was low, dangerous. "You are under contract."

Cara took a step back, maintaining the gap. "The contract expires on Wednesday. I am not renewing."

Brittain scoffed. It was a dismissive, arrogant sound. "Not renewing? You think you can survive in this town without me? You'll be back to auditioning for toothpaste commercials within a month."

The insult landed. It stung. But it also clarified everything. He didn't respect her. He never had.

"We'll see," she said. "Let's see if I can breathe without the Austin oxygen supply."

He looked annoyed now, like she was a malfunctioning appliance. He reached into his drawer and pulled out a checkbook. He uncapped a fountain pen.

"How much?" he asked. "For the photo? For the hurt feelings? Name the price so I can get back to work."

She looked at the checkbook. She looked at his hand, poised to write away his guilt.

She reached out and placed her hand over his. Her skin was warm against his cold fingers. She pushed his hand down.

"No," she said.

Brittain froze. He looked at her hand, then at her face. Confusion flickered in his eyes.

"I don't want your money, Brittain. I want to be even."

She turned around. She walked toward the door. Her legs felt heavy, but she kept moving.

"If you walk out that door," Brittain called out, his voice striking her back, "I will freeze every account. You won't be able to buy a cup of coffee."

She didn't turn back. "Do it," she said. "That money was for the doll you wanted me to be anyway."

She pulled the door open. Burrel was standing there, holding a file, looking like he wanted to disappear.

"Goodbye, Burrel," she said. She gave him a genuine smile.

She stepped into the elevator. As the doors slid shut, she leaned her head against the cool metal wall. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

Back in the office, Brittain crumpled the photo of him and Caryn into a ball and threw it into the trash.

He hit the intercom button. "Freeze Cara Clay's supplementary cards and trust accounts linked to Austin Media. All of them. Now. And tell PR to pull her name from the Met Gala list."

He sat back in his chair. He was sure. She would be back. She had nowhere else to go.

His phone rang. It was Caryn.

Brittain? Are we still on for dinner? Her voice was soft, needy.

He looked at the empty spot where Cara had stood. "Yes," he said. "I'll pick you up at eight."

Down on the street, Cara walked out of the building. Her phone buzzed.

Bank Alert: Credit Card ending in 4098 has been suspended.

She stared at the screen. She had zero dollars in that account now. She laughed, and a tear slipped out and ran down her cheek.

She wiped it away. She texted Zack.

I'm free. Let's work.

She walked toward the subway station. She merged into the crowd, just another girl in New York, invisible and free.