It was 2:00 AM in London.

Cash sat in his hotel suite, a tumbler of scotch in his hand. The IPO roadshow had been a success. The investors were eating out of his hand.

Chante was asleep in the bedroom, wrapped in 800-thread-count sheets.

Cash looked at his phone. No texts. No "Goodnight, I miss you." No "Did you eat?"

Isidora always texted.

The silence on his screen was an insult.

The alcohol buzzed in his head, making him reckless. He pulled up the number for Harper's landline-information his private investigator had scraped from the web hours ago.

In Brooklyn, the phone rang. It was a shrill, mechanical sound that cut through the loft.

Isidora was awake, sitting at Harper's desk, outlining the structure of a short-selling report. She stared at the phone.

She picked it up. "Hello?"

"Isi?" Cash's voice was slurred, thick with scotch and arrogance. "How's the squatting going? Enjoying the cockroaches?"

Isidora felt her fingers turn to ice. She gripped the receiver. "Mr. Ferguson. If this is about the divorce, call my lawyer."

Cash laughed. It was a wet, ugly sound. "Lawyer? With what money? I cut you off, Isidora. You can't even buy tampons right now."

The crudeness of it made her stomach churn. He was trying to humiliate her into submission.

"Is that what you think this is about?" she asked quietly. "Money?"

"Come home," Cash said, his voice shifting to a mock-soothing tone. "Apologize. We can talk about... the kid. I don't mind supporting you. I can afford a pet."

Isidora closed her eyes. "A pet."

"You're an orphan, Isidora," Cash spat, the venom surfacing. "You have no one. I gave you a life. I gave you a name."

"You stole my life," she said. Her voice didn't shake. "And now I'm taking it back."

"You have nothing!" Cash shouted.

"I have the truth," Isidora said.

She slammed the phone down. Then she reached behind the base station and yanked the cord out of the wall.

In London, Cash stared at his phone. The line was dead.

He roared, a sound of pure, frustrated rage, and hurled his scotch glass across the room. It shattered against the wall, amber liquid dripping down the silk wallpaper.

Chante appeared in the doorway, rubbing her eyes. "Cash? What's wrong?"

Cash looked at her. Her hair was messy. She looked needy.

He felt a sudden wave of revulsion. He pushed past her into the bathroom and locked the door.

In Brooklyn, Isidora stared at the disconnected phone. Her heart was racing, but her mind was clear.

She turned back to the computer. She typed the header of her document: Project Icarus: The Sun is Melting.

The next morning, Isidora put on Harper's leather jacket. It was too big in the shoulders, but it made her feel armored.

"We're not going to Tate's house yet," she told Harper. "I checked the pawn records online last night."

Harper blinked over her coffee. "You hacked the pawn shops?"

"Public records, if you know where to look," Isidora said grimly. "Frank sold the brooch three years ago. It ended up at L'Eclat."

"That bastard," Harper hissed.

"I need to see if it's still there," Isidora said. "I can't buy it. But I need to know it exists."

She walked out into the Brooklyn sunlight. She wasn't the wife anymore. She was the hunter.

In London, Cash woke up with a pounding headache. He remembered the phone call. He remembered the feeling of losing control.

He needed to reassert dominance. He needed to prove he didn't care.

He picked up his phone and called his personal shopper in New York.

"Go to L'Eclat," he rasped. "Buy something expensive. The most expensive vintage piece they have. Send it to Chante's apartment."

"Yes, Mr. Ferguson."

Cash hung up. He rubbed his temples. He would buy his way out of this feeling. He always did.

L'Eclat smelled of old money and lavender.

Isidora and Harper walked in. The security guard eyed Harper's combat boots with suspicion. The sales clerk, a woman with a face pulled tight by surgery, didn't even look up from her ledger.

Isidora ignored them. She walked straight to the central display case.

Her heart stopped.

There it was. The emerald brooch. It was shaped like a peacock feather, the gems glowing with a deep, verdant fire under the halogen lights. It was the only thing her mother had left her before the state took her away.

Isidora pressed her hand against the glass. The cool surface felt like a barrier between worlds.

"Excuse me," Isidora said. Her voice trembled slightly.

The clerk looked up, bored. "Yes?"

"That brooch. How much is it?"

The clerk glanced at the item, then back at Isidora's borrowed leather jacket. "That is a Victorian original. It is listed at two hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

The number didn't shock her; the betrayal behind it did. Two hundred and fifty thousand. He had sold her last connection to her mother for the price of a mid-range sports car.

"He stole it," Harper whispered fiercely behind her. "Frank stole it from you."

"Can I... can I see it?" Isidora asked. "Just hold it for a second?"

"I'm afraid not," the clerk said, turning back to her papers. "We only open the case for serious inquiries."

The bell above the door chimed.

Isidora turned.

Gavin walked in.

He looked nervous, checking his phone. He walked straight to the manager, who materialized from the back room instantly.

Isidora grabbed Harper's arm and dragged her behind a marble pillar.

"That's Cash's assistant," she hissed.

They watched through the reflection in a large, gilt-framed mirror.

"Mr. Ferguson sent me," Gavin said, his voice echoing in the quiet shop. "He wants the emerald peacock brooch. Wrap it up."

Isidora felt like she had been punched in the throat.

The manager beamed. "Excellent choice. For Mrs. Ferguson?"

Gavin shifted his weight. He looked uncomfortable. "Uh, no. Send it to this address." He handed over a card. "It's for Ms. Duran. And keep it discreet."

Isidora slid down the pillar until she was crouching on the floor.

Cash was buying her mother's heirloom. For his mistress.

It was a cosmic joke. A cruelty so precise it felt engineered.

"I'm going to kill him," Harper whispered, her hands balling into fists. "Let me go over there."

Isidora grabbed Harper's wrist. Her grip was iron.

"No," Isidora said. Her eyes were dry, burning with a cold, hard light. "Not here. Not like this. He has the money. But I have the intelligence."

She watched as the clerk removed the brooch. The emeralds flashed one last time before disappearing into a velvet box.

Gavin swiped a black card. He took the bag. He left.

Isidora stood up. She smoothed the leather jacket.

She walked to the counter. The manager was still smiling, holding the receipt.

"That brooch," Isidora said. Her voice was steady. "When it gets returned, call me."

The manager scoffed. "Mr. Ferguson doesn't return gifts."

"This one he will," Isidora said. "Trust me."

She turned and walked out of the store. The sun outside was blinding.

"He's going to give it back," Isidora said to Harper on the sidewalk. "He's going to get on his knees and hand it to me."

She didn't look back at the shop. The target was locked.

Three days later, Rockefeller Center was a hive of tourists and suits.

Isidora and Harper were walking back from a meeting with a headhunter. Isidora held a greasy paper bag from Shake Shack. They hadn't finished their fries.

"That guy was a jerk," Harper said, kicking a pigeon. " 'Overqualified but under-experienced'? What does that even mean?"

"It means I scare him," Isidora said.

She stopped.

Fifty feet away, sitting at an outdoor café table, was Cash. He was laughing, leaning back in his chair, talking to a silver-haired man in a suit. An investor.

Gavin stood nearby, holding a briefcase and a familiar black gift bag with the gold L'Eclat logo.

Harper gasped. "Is that..."

"The brooch," Isidora said. "He hasn't given it to her yet."

Cash looked up. His eyes locked onto Isidora.

He paused. He said something to the investor, stood up, and buttoned his jacket. He walked toward her, a smirk playing on his lips.

He saw the Shake Shack bag in her hand.

"Well, well," Cash said, stopping in front of her. His gaze flickered from her face to the greasy bag, his expression a mask of condescending amusement. "Isi. Downgrading, are we?"

He thought she was begging. He thought the bag of cold fries was her white flag.

Isidora looked at him. She looked at the bag in Gavin's hand.

An idea formed. It was petty. It was dangerous. It was perfect.

"Some things are an acquired taste," Isidora said, holding up the paper bag. She smiled. It was a sharp, brittle thing. "You wouldn't understand."

Cash's smirk widened. "See this, Isi?" He nodded toward the L'Eclat bag in Gavin's hand. "This is for a woman who appreciates value. A woman who understands her place. You, on the other hand..." He gestured dismissively at her Shake Shack. "You seem to have found yours."

Isidora's smile didn't falter. She sidestepped him and thrust her bag at Gavin.

"Gavin," she said. "Hold this for your boss. A reminder of what he threw away."

Gavin fumbled. He had to juggle the briefcase and the L'Eclat bag to take the grease-stained paper sack.

Cash's eyes narrowed. He had expected tears, not a counter-attack. The investor was watching. He had to save face. "There's a charity gala tonight. You could come. If you can find something to wear."

"I'm busy," Isidora said.

"Oh," she added, her eyes locking on the L'Eclat bag. "I see. That one's spoken for."

She looked at the Shake Shack bag in Gavin's arms.

"Well," she said, tapping the paper sack. "Enjoy the leftovers, Cash. That one is spoken for, too."

She hooked her arm through Harper's. "Come on. We have work to do."

They walked away. Isidora kept her back straight, her stride long.

"Did you see his face?" Harper whispered, trying not to laugh. "He looked like he swallowed a bug."

"He treats people like props," Isidora said. Her voice was cold. "He thinks he can just swap us out."

Behind them, Cash stood fuming. He snatched the Shake Shack bag from Gavin and looked inside.

Cold fries. A used napkin.

He crushed the bag in his fist. Grease leaked onto his cuff.

"Gavin," he growled. "Get the car."

Isidora didn't turn around. But she knew. She had just declared war.