The atmosphere in the VIP lounge had shifted. It was subtle, like a drop in air pressure before a storm. The music was still playing-a smooth, saxophone-heavy jazz number-but Catarina couldn't hear it.

All she could hear was the echo of that automated voicemail.

The subscriber is not available.

She slammed the empty wine glass onto the marble table. A few drops of red liquid splashed onto the white tablecloth, blooming like fresh blood.

"Cat, darling, easy," Atticus said, his voice dripping with that smooth, practiced concern that usually made her knees weak. He reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "Don't let him ruin my birthday. That's what he wants. He's probably sitting in a tow truck right now, sulking, waiting for you to panic."

"I'm not panicking," Catarina snapped. She pulled away from his touch. "I'm annoyed. There's a difference."

"Of course," Atticus soothed. He stood up, buttoning his jacket. He didn't have the matching vest, but he still looked the part of the dashing artist. "Let's change the mood. Remember college? The karaoke nights at the frat house?"

Catarina's college friends, a gaggle of women in sequins and men in loafers, started to cheer.

"Yes! Sing something!" one of them yelled. "Forget the husband, Cat. He's a buzzkill."

Someone thrust a microphone into Catarina's hand. Another was given to Atticus.

The DJ, reading the room (and the tips), cut the jazz and faded in the intro to a classic duet. "Endless Love."

It was their song. Or at least, the song Atticus always claimed was theirs.

Atticus flashed a winning smile at the crowd, then turned his gaze to Catarina. He looked at her with that intensity that she had spent three years pining for. The intensity that Jorden never had. Jorden was safe water; Atticus was fire.

Atticus began to sing. His voice was decent-trained, theatrical. He moved closer to her, invading her personal space, creating an intimate bubble in the middle of the crowded room.

"My love, there's only you in my life..."

The crowd swooned. Phones came out to record the "perfect couple."

Catarina raised the microphone to her lips. She knew the words. She had sung this with him a hundred times in her head.

But as she opened her mouth, her eyes darted to her phone sitting on the table.

The screen was black.

Still no text. No "I'm sorry, Cat." No "Are you mad?" No "Please forgive me."

Usually, by now, Jorden would have sent a paragraph-long apology. He would be promising to buy her a new dress, promising to make it up to her. His desperation was her safety net. It was annoying, yes, but it was hers.

Now? Nothing.

"The only thing that's bright..." Atticus sang, reaching for her waist.

Catarina missed her cue.

She was staring at the phone. Was he hurt? Chloe said the car was a total loss.

If he's hurt, why didn't he ask for me?

The thought was a splinter in her mind. Jorden always needed her. He was codependent. He couldn't make a decision about dinner without asking her opinion. If he was in a wreck, he should be calling her screaming for help.

His silence wasn't just out of character. It was alien.

"Cat?" Atticus whispered, covering the mic. "Your line."

Catarina shook her head slightly, snapping back to reality. She forced a smile. It felt brittle.

She joined in on the chorus, but her voice was flat. She was going through the motions.

Atticus noticed. His eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of irritation crossing his face before he masked it with a passionate high note that drowned her out. He stepped in front of her, soaking up the spotlight, turning the duet into a solo with a backup singer.

When the song ended, the applause was polite but enthusiastic. Atticus beamed, bowing theatrically. He turned to hug her.

Catarina took a half-step back.

It was instinct. A physical rejection she didn't plan.

Atticus froze. His arms hovered in the air for a second before he smoothly converted the hug into a pat on the shoulder.

"You seem tense," he murmured, his breath smelling of expensive scotch and mint. "Here."

He signaled a waiter. A tray of shots appeared. Tequila.

"Let's loosen up," Atticus said, handing her a glass. "To us. And to cutting out the dead weight."

Catarina took the glass. The smell of the tequila hit her nose-sharp, chemical.

Her stomach lurched.

"You can't drink tequila on an empty stomach, Cat. Your ulcer."

Jorden's voice echoed in her memory. He always monitored her drinks. He would have swapped this for a glass of water or ordered her some tapas first. He was annoying about her health. Suffocatingly attentive.

Atticus didn't know about her ulcer. Or he didn't care.

She looked at Atticus. He was already throwing his shot back, laughing with her friends. He looked... shiny. Superficial.

Suddenly, the noise of the club was too much. The laughter sounded shrill. The perfume in the air was cloying.

"I can't," Catarina said, putting the glass down hard.

"What?" Atticus frowned.

"I'm tired," she said. She grabbed her clutch. "I'm going home."

"Home?" Atticus looked offended. "It's barely ten o'clock. And it's my birthday."

"I have a headache," she lied. "And I need to see if... I need to handle the car situation."

"Leave it to the lawyers," Atticus dismissed, grabbing her arm. His grip was a little too tight. "Stay. Don't let him win by ruining your night."

Catarina looked down at his hand on her arm. Her skin crawled.

"Let go, Atticus," she said coldly.

He released her immediately, putting his hands up in mock surrender. "Okay, okay. Just trying to help."

"I'll call you tomorrow," she said, turning on her heel.

She walked out of the VIP lounge, ignoring Chloe's frantic wave. She marched toward the elevator, her heart beating fast.

She wasn't going home to sleep.

She was going home to confront Jorden. She was going to scream at him until he broke, until he apologized, until the world made sense again.

Because this new Jorden-this silent, phone-hanging-up Jorden-terrified her more than she was willing to admit.

The rain had not stopped. It hammered against the roof of the black Mercedes sedan as it wove through the Manhattan traffic.

Catarina sat in the back seat, her arms crossed over her chest. The city lights blurred past, streaks of neon reflecting in her eyes.

She checked her phone again.

Still nothing.

She opened her text history with Jorden.

Yesterday, 4:00 PM.

Cat: Pick up the dry cleaning tomorrow. Don't forget.

Jorden: On it, Cat. <3 Will have it ready for you.

That heart emoji. It looked pathetic now. A symbol of his weakness.

"He's playing games," she said aloud.

The driver, a stoic man named Stevens who had worked for the Evans family for a decade, glanced in the rearview mirror but said nothing.

"He wants me to worry," she continued, convincing herself. "He thinks if he acts tough, I'll respect him. It's some stupid advice he read in a men's magazine."

She pulled up her contacts and dialed Mr. Henderson, the family lawyer.

"Ms. Evans?" Henderson's voice was groggy. It was late.

"Henderson," Catarina said, her voice clipped. "If Jorden violates the 'public image' clause of the prenup, what are the penalties?"

"Um," Henderson shuffled some papers on the other end. "Well, usually it results in a reduction of his monthly allowance. Or a suspension of discretionary funds."

"Cut it," Catarina said. "Cut it all. Freeze his credit cards. Tonight."

"Ms. Evans, that seems extreme. If he's in an emergency-"

"He's not in an emergency. He's throwing a tantrum. Cut the funds. I want him to have to ask me for money to buy a coffee tomorrow morning."

"Understood. I'll initiate the freeze."

Catarina hung up. She felt a surge of satisfaction. This was her language. Power. Money. Control. Jorden lived in her world, on her dime. If he wanted to bite the hand that fed him, he would starve.

The car pulled into the underground garage of the Tribeca penthouse building.

"Wait here, Stevens," she said as she got out. "I might need you to take me back out if he's being difficult."

She took the private elevator up to the penthouse.

As the numbers climbed-10, 20, 30-she composed her face. She practiced her look of disdain. She expected to find Jorden in the living room, perhaps nursing a drink, looking sullen. Or maybe pacing, waiting to beg for forgiveness.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft ding.

Darkness.

The penthouse was pitch black.

Catarina stepped out, her heels clicking loudly on the hardwood floor. The motion-sensor lights in the hallway flickered on, illuminating a pristine, empty space.

"Jorden?" she called out.

Her voice echoed.

She walked into the living room. It was cold. Usually, Jorden kept the thermostat at a cozy 72 degrees because she got cold easily. Now, it felt like a tomb.

She looked at the entryway. Jorden's house slippers, which were always perfectly aligned by the door, were missing.

She walked to the kitchen. The counter was spotless. No smell of dinner keeping warm in the oven. No note.

A strange sensation clawed at her throat. Panic? No, it couldn't be panic.

She walked to the bedroom. Empty. The bed was made, perfectly tight, the way the maid left it this morning.

He wasn't here.

He hadn't come home.

Catarina stood in the middle of the master bedroom, clutching her expensive bag. For the first time in three years, she was alone in this massive apartment.

She looked at the nightstand on his side of the bed.

His reading glasses were there. His book-some biography of a chef-was there.

But he wasn't.

She sat down on the edge of the bed. The silence was deafening. It pressed against her ears.

"Where are you?" she whispered.

She had cut off his money. She had prepared her speech. She was ready to crush his rebellion.

But you can't crush someone who isn't there.

She realized then that she didn't know where he went when he wasn't with her. Did he have friends? She didn't know. Did he have a favorite bar? She didn't know.

She knew nothing about the man she had lived with for three years, other than how he served her.

And now that the service had stopped, she felt naked.

She grabbed her phone and dialed the one number she knew would have answers, even if she hated asking.

She dialed the police.

"911, what is your emergency?"

"It's not... I need to check on a car accident," Catarina said, her voice trembling slightly. "My husband. Jorden Nash. On I-95."

"One moment."

The hold music was cheerful. It mocked her.

"Ma'am?" the dispatcher came back. "Yes, we have a report of a collision involving a vehicle registered to a Jorden Nash. The report indicates a rollover with entrapment. The driver was extricated and transported to New York-Presbyterian Hospital."

"Extricated?" Catarina's hand flew to her mouth. That meant the Jaws of Life. That meant crushed metal.

"Is he... is he okay?"

"I can't release medical details over the line, ma'am. You'll need to contact the hospital directly."

The phone slipped from Catarina's fingers. It bounced on the plush carpet.

He wasn't sulking. He wasn't playing games.

He had been crushed inside that car.

And she had just frozen his credit cards.

Catarina snatched the phone from the carpet as if it were burning.

Extricated. Transported.

The words bounced around her skull like a rubber ball in a steel room.

She stood up, her knees shaking. She had to go. She had to go to the hospital. Not because she loved him-she told herself-but because this was a PR nightmare waiting to happen. Heiress's Husband Dies While She Partied. The headlines wrote themselves.

But before she could move, a wave of dizziness hit her. She hadn't eaten since lunch. The tequila shot was churning in her empty stomach, burning a hole through her lining.

She stumbled to the kitchen. She needed food. Just a bite, to steady her hands.

She yanked open the massive Sub-Zero refrigerator.

It was stocked. Jorden always kept it stocked. Rows of organic vegetables, expensive cuts of meat, imported cheeses.

But nothing was ready.

Usually, there was a container of cut fruit. A bowl of pasta salad. A pre-made smoothie. Jorden prepped everything so she never had to work for her food.

Now, it was just ingredients. Raw. Useless.

She stared at a block of cheddar cheese. She needed a knife.

She scanned the countertops. Where were the knives? She opened a drawer. Spatulas. She opened another. Towels.

Finally, she spotted the heavy wooden block pushed into the far corner under the cabinets. She grabbed the handle of a chef's knife. It felt alien in her hand, heavy and unbalanced. She had never actually used this thing. She sliced at the cheese, the blade slipping and nearly taking off her thumbnail. She dropped the knife with a clatter.

"Useless!" she screamed, though she wasn't sure if she meant the knife or herself.

She felt like a child in her own home. A helpless, incompetent child. And she hated Jorden for making her feel this way. He had enabled this. He had crippled her with his service.

She grabbed a carton of milk. She would just drink a glass of milk.

She checked the date. It expired yesterday.

Jorden never let expired milk stay in the fridge. He rotated the stock like a military quartermaster.

This meant he hadn't been paying attention for days. Even before the crash.

She threw the carton into the trash with a satisfying thud.

She pulled out her phone and opened a delivery app. Her fingers trembled as she ordered a pizza. A greasy, carb-loaded pizza. Jorden would disapprove. He would say it was bad for her skin.

Good, she thought viciously. I hope it gives me a zit. That'll show him.

While she waited, she paced the living room.

Meanwhile, uptown at New York-Presbyterian.

Jorden was eating lime Jell-O.

It tasted artificial and sweet, but he ate it with mechanical precision. His ribs ached with every breath, a dull, constant throb that reminded him he was alive. Every movement sent a spike of white-hot pain through his chest, but he categorized the sensation, acknowledged the nerve signals, and compartmentalized them. The Archive provided breathing techniques used by free divers to minimize oxygen consumption and manage pain. He breathed shallowly, efficiently.

Dr. Stein walked in, looking perplexed.

"Mr. Nash," the doctor said, flipping through a chart. "Your vitals are... remarkable. Your blood pressure has normalized. Your cortisol levels are down. Usually, after a trauma like this, the body is in shock for days."

Jorden swallowed the Jell-O. "The body follows the mind, Doctor. I've removed the stressor."

"The accident?"

"The marriage," Jorden corrected.

Dr. Stein raised an eyebrow but didn't pry. "Well, whatever you're doing, keep doing it. We might be able to move you out of the ICU tomorrow if this continues."

"Good. I have work to do."

"Work? You need rest."

"I have three years of lost time to make up for," Jorden said. He looked at his phone. He had asked Nurse Joy to help him order a replacement online, but for now, the cracked screen was still responsive to his touch.

He had unblocked Chloe just long enough to check the social media fallout. The algorithm, cruel and efficient, had already fed him a video.

It was from an hour ago. Chloe's Instagram Story.

Catarina and Atticus. Singing. Endless Love.

The caption: True Soulmates. EvansDeleon BirthdayBoy

Jorden watched the video. He watched Catarina's eyes.

The old Jorden would have been weeping. He would have been analyzing every pixel, looking for proof that she didn't mean it.

The new Jorden saw something else.

He saw the micro-expressions. The way Catarina leaned away when Atticus got too close. The tension in her jaw. The way her eyes kept darting to the table where her phone was.

She wasn't happy. She was distracted.

And Atticus? Jorden analyzed the man's posture. The narcissistic preening. The way he positioned himself to catch the best light, blocking Catarina.

Analysis: Atticus Deleon is a parasite. Catarina Evans is a host beginning to reject the transplant.

It didn't make him feel sorry for her. It made him feel vindicated.

He double-tapped the screen. He liked the video.

Then, he typed a comment.

Perfect match. Best wishes.

He hit send. It wasn't petty. It was a digital signature on a death certificate. A public acknowledgment that he was stepping aside, leaving them to their fate.

Then he turned off the phone.

Back at the penthouse, the pizza arrived. Catarina ate a slice standing up over the sink, grease dripping onto her chin. It tasted like cardboard and regret.

Her phone pinged.

A notification from Instagram.

Jorden Nash commented on Chloe Vance's post: Perfect match. Best wishes.

Catarina froze. A piece of pepperoni fell from her mouth into the sink.

He was awake.

He was online.

And he was... wishing them well?

"The audacity," she whispered. Her face flushed hot.

He wasn't dying. He was mocking her. He was sitting in a hospital bed, probably perfectly fine, making fun of her public humiliation.

"Best wishes?" she hissed. "I'll give you best wishes."

She threw the pizza crust into the disposal and grabbed her keys.

She was going to the hospital. And she wasn't going to hold his hand. She was going to strangle him.