Julian froze. His hands stilled on his cufflinks. He turned around slowly, as if he hadn't heard Evelyn correctly.

"What did you say?"

Evelyn grabbed the handle of her suitcase. "I said, draw it yourself. I'm not your maid, Julian."

She tried to walk past him, but he shot out a hand and grabbed her forearm to stop her. His grip was tight, landing directly on the patch of skin where the fire had licked her, right beneath the edge of her sleeve.

"Ah!" Evelyn gasped, the pain sharp and blinding. She yanked her arm back, cradling it against her chest.

Julian looked at his hand, then at Evelyn's wrist. She pulled up her sleeve, revealing the angry red skin, blistering at the edges of the gauze she had applied earlier. His eyes widened.

"What is that?" He reached out again, but stopped short of touching her. "How did you get that?"

"The fire," Evelyn said, stepping back. "The one you called a 'kitchen accident.'"

"I didn't know you were hurt," he said, his voice dropping. A flicker of something that looked like guilt passed over his face, but he blinked it away instantly. "Why didn't you tell me on the phone?"

"You were too busy asking about the hotel water pressure for Serena."

His jaw tightened. "Stop bringing her up. She was hysterical. I couldn't just leave her alone at the hotel."

"You could have," Evelyn said quietly. "You just didn't want to."

She turned and walked into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. She needed a minute. Her leg was throbbing, the adrenaline wearing off and leaving behind a dull, aching agony.

"Evelyn! Open the door!" Julian pounded on the wood. "We're not done talking!"

Evelyn ignored him. She turned on the shower, letting the steam fill the room. She stripped off her clothes, wincing as the fabric peeled away from her skin.

She looked in the mirror. Her neck, her forearm, her thigh. Patches of angry red, welts raised like brands. She looked broken.

She stepped into the shower. The water was too hot. It hit her burns like liquid fire.

Evelyn cried out, stumbling back. Her foot slipped on the slick tiles.

She went down hard.

Her hip slammed against the marble floor. The breath was knocked out of her. A cry of pain tore from her throat before she could stop it.

CRASH.

The bathroom door burst open. The lock splintered.

Julian stood there, chest heaving. His eyes swept over the room and landed on Evelyn, curled naked on the floor, water streaming over her burns.

For a second, nobody moved.

He saw the horror in his eyes. He was seeing the extent of the damage for the first time. The raw, physical proof of his negligence.

"Evelyn..." The word was a strangled gasp.

He was on his knees in an instant, ignoring the water soaking his expensive suit pants. He reached for a towel, wrapping it around her with trembling hands.

"Don't touch me!" Evelyn screamed, pushing at his chest.

"Stop it!" He grabbed her shoulders, pinning her, but careful-so careful-not to touch the burns on her neck. "You're hurt. You're badly hurt. Why didn't you tell me it was this bad?"

"Because you didn't ask!" Evelyn sobbed. The fight was draining out of her.

He scooped her up. He was strong, effortlessly lifting her from the wet floor. She squeezed her eyes shut, hating the fact that his arms still felt safe, even though she knew they were the most dangerous place in the world.

He carried her to the bed and laid her down gently. He ran to the cabinet and grabbed the first aid kit. His hands, usually so steady when signing billion-dollar deals, were shaking as he opened the antiseptic.

"I can do it," Evelyn said, trying to sit up.

"Stay still," he barked. But there was no anger in it anymore. Just panic.

He applied the ointment. He was clumsy, unsure of how much pressure to apply. He had never done this. Evelyn had nursed him through flu, through hangovers, through sports injuries. He had never so much as put a band-aid on her.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, his eyes fixed on her leg. "I didn't know."

"Ignorance isn't an excuse, Julian. It's a choice."

He looked up at her. His blue eyes were storm-dark. "I am your husband. I take care of you. That's the deal."

"The deal is over."

Evelyn reached for the nightstand, where the folder Sarah had given her lay. She pulled out the document.

DIVORCE SETTLEMENT AGREEMENT.

She threw it on the bed between them.

Julian looked at it. He read the title. His face went blank. The panic vanished, replaced by a cold, hard mask. The Julian Vance of the boardroom returned.

"Is this a joke?" he asked quietly.

"Does it look like a joke?"

He stood up, towering over Evelyn. "You're divorcing me? Because of a fire? Because I helped a friend?"

"Because I am alone in this marriage, Julian. I have been alone for three years."

He laughed. It was a harsh, cruel sound. He picked up the papers.

"You can't survive without me, Evelyn. You have no career. No family. No money. You think the world is kind to thirty-year-old divorcees with no resume?"

"I'll take my chances."

He stared at her, waiting for her to crack. Waiting for her to apologize and beg for forgiveness like she usually did when they fought.

When Evelyn didn't blink, his pride snapped.

He ripped the papers in half. Then in quarters.

"I'm not signing these," he said, letting the confetti rain down on the bed. "You're upset. You're traumatized. You're not thinking clearly."

"I have never been clearer."

His phone rang.

The ringtone cut through the tension like a knife. He looked at the screen.

Serena.

Evelyn looked at him. "Answer it."

"Evelyn..."

"Answer it, Julian. Show me I'm wrong."

He hesitated. His thumb hovered over the decline button. For a second, Evelyn thought he might actually choose her.

Then he swiped green.

"Serena?" His voice was tight.

Evelyn sat on the edge of the bed, pulling the towel tighter around herself. She watched him.

"Julian!" Her voice was shrill, loud enough for Evelyn to hear. "The paparazzi are inside the hotel! They're in the lobby, trying to get to the elevators. I can't leave my room! I'm scared, Julian, I can't breathe!"

Julian's posture shifted instantly. The tension in his shoulders turned into protective alertness. "Did you call hotel security?"

"They're trying to clear them out, but it's a zoo! Please, come back. You're the only one who can handle them. Please, Julian." Sobs racked her voice.

Julian looked at Evelyn. He looked at her bandaged leg, then at the torn papers on the bed. He was torn. Evelyn could see the calculation in his eyes-Evelyn is here, she's safe, she's just angry. Serena is trapped.

"I'll be there," he said.

He hung up.

"Harrison is downstairs," he said to Evelyn, not meeting her eyes. "He'll stay with you. I'll send a doctor. I just... I need to handle this. She's fragile, Evelyn. You're strong. You've always been the strong one."

Evelyn stood up. Her legs were shaking, but she forced them to hold her.

"Go," she said. "But know this: if you walk out that door, you don't come back."

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. He walked over to Evelyn, intending to kiss her forehead-a reflex, a habit.

As he leaned in, the smell hit her again. That cloying, sweet gardenia scent clinging to his lapel. It mixed with the smell of her own burnt hair and the antiseptic.

It was the smell of betrayal.

Evelyn's hand moved before her brain registered the decision.

Smack.

The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet room.

Her palm stung. Julian's head snapped to the side. He froze, his hand coming up to touch his cheek. He looked at Evelyn, his eyes wide with shock. She had never raised a voice to him, let alone a hand.

"You disgust me," Evelyn whispered.

Julian's shock turned into a cold fury. He straightened his jacket. "We will discuss your behavior when I return. When you are less... hysterical."

He turned on his heel and walked out.

Evelyn listened to his footsteps fade. She listened to the front door slam. She listened to the silence rushing back in to fill the void he left.

She didn't cry. She was done crying.

She moved with mechanical precision. She dressed in the jeans and t-shirt she had packed. She put on a pair of sneakers, wincing as she tied the laces.

Evelyn walked into the massive walk-in closet. It was filled with thousands of dollars of clothes he had bought her. She grabbed armfuls of them-Chanel, Dior, Prada-and threw them onto the floor. She kicked a pair of Louboutins across the room.

She took only what was hers. Her laptop. Her hard drive. Her passport.

She walked out to the foyer. On the marble console table, there was a crystal bowl where they kept keys.

Evelyn twisted the diamond ring off her finger. The 'Vance Rose,' a five-carat pink diamond that weighed down her hand like a shackle. It left a pale indentation on her skin, a ghost of a marriage.

She dropped the ring into the bowl. Clink.

She took the elevator down. The doorman, Ralph, looked surprised to see her with a suitcase at 11 PM.

"Mrs. Vance? Do you need the car?"

"No, Ralph."

"But... sir just left. Did you miss him?"

Evelyn pushed through the revolving doors into the cool night air. A black Uber was waiting at the curb.

"I didn't miss him, Ralph," she said over her shoulder. "I finally escaped him."

She got into the car. "Brooklyn," she told the driver.

As the car pulled away, Evelyn didn't look back at the Vance Tower piercing the sky. She looked forward, into the dark, unknown city.

Two days later. The Met Gala.

Evelyn sat on a lumpy futon in a fourth-floor walk-up in Bushwick. The apartment belonged to Sarah's cousin, who was backpacking in Peru. It smelled of stale coffee and old books. It was perfect.

Sarah was sitting on the floor, surrounded by paperwork. "New social security number request is pending. Name change application filed. You are officially becoming a ghost."

Evelyn was nursing a bowl of lukewarm congee. Her throat was still too raw for anything solid or hot, the smoke damage lingering like a phantom hand around her windpipe.

"Turn it up," she said, pointing at the small television in the corner.

The screen showed the red carpet of the Met Gala. And there he was.

Julian Vance. He looked impeccable in a Tom Ford tuxedo, though there were dark circles under his eyes that makeup couldn't quite hide. And on his arm, wearing a shimmering silver gown that looked like liquid mercury, was Serena.

Reporters thrust microphones in their faces.

"Mr. Vance! Where is Evelyn?"

Julian didn't flinch. His face was a mask of polite indifference. "Evelyn is recovering from a minor injury at home. She insisted I bring Serena as the ambassador for the Vance Foundation."

"Liar," Sarah muttered, throwing a crumpled ball of paper at the screen.

Serena smiled at the camera. It was a predatory smile. She leaned into Julian, her hand resting possessively on his chest.

"Look at her dress," Evelyn said, squinting. "That's the Fall collection from two years ago. Julian must have cut the wardrobe budget."

"Petty," Sarah grinned. "I like it."

On screen, Julian looked distracted. He kept checking his phone. He looked toward the entrance, as if expecting someone. He had been texting Evelyn for forty-eight hours. Demands. Questions. Where are you? Stop this nonsense. Come home. She hadn't replied to a single one.

At the Gala, Julian felt like he was suffocating. The flashbulbs were blinding. Serena's hand on his arm felt heavy, like a shackle.

He checked his phone again. Nothing. Evelyn hadn't texted. She hadn't called to yell at him for bringing Serena. She hadn't called to apologize for the slap.

The silence was unnerving. He had stayed at the Pierre for two days, giving her "space" to cool down-and avoiding the guilt that gnawed at him whenever he thought of her burns. But she should have cracked by now. She always cracked.

Harrison, his assistant, appeared at his elbow, looking pale.

"Sir."

"What is it? Did the stock drop?"

"No, sir. I... I stopped by the penthouse to pick up some files you requested. I found something in the foyer."

Harrison held out a small, black velvet pouch.

Julian frowned. He took it. He loosened the drawstrings and tipped the contents into his palm.

The Vance Rose. The ring he had placed on Evelyn's finger three years ago.

The noise of the gala faded into a dull roar. The champagne in his stomach turned to acid.

She took it off.

She actually took it off.

"Oh my god," Serena squealed, leaning in. "Is that Evelyn's? Did she send it to get cleaned? It looks so... heavy."

Julian's hand closed into a fist around the diamond, the edges digging into his palm. Pain. He needed the pain to ground him.

"Sir?" Harrison whispered.

"Get the car," Julian said. His voice was rough.

"But the dinner hasn't started..."

"Get the damn car!" Julian roared.

Heads turned. The paparazzi nearby swiveled their lenses toward him. Julian didn't care. He shoved the ring into his pocket and turned away from Serena.

"Julian? Where are you going?" Serena grabbed his arm.

He shook her off. "Home. I'm going home."

He strode down the red carpet, ignoring the shouts of the photographers. He needed to see her. He needed to see that she was still there, pouting in the guest room, waiting for him to grovel. She had to be there.

Because if she wasn't...

He got into the limo, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He pulled out his phone and dialed her number.

"The number you have dialed is no longer in service."

The phone slipped from his fingers and fell onto the floor mats.