The door to Room 304 flew open with enough force to bang against the wall.

Jorden didn't jump. He didn't even look up from the notebook he had requested from the nurse. He was sketching a diagram-a complex schematic for a high-efficiency battery cell that had popped into his head ten minutes ago.

Catarina stood in the doorway. She was a mess. Her hair was frizzy from the humidity, her silver dress was wrinkled, and her eyes were wild.

"You're alive," she accused. It sounded more like an insult than a relief.

Jorden finished the curve of a cathode before looking up. His face was pale, the bruising around his eye stark against his skin. He looked fragile, physically broken, but his eyes were steady.

He looked at her. Really looked at her.

For three years, she had been the sun in his solar system. Every mood, every whim, every glance of hers had dictated his orbit.

Now? She was just a woman in a wrinkled dress standing in a hospital doorway.

"Disappointed?" Jorden asked. His voice was raspy but calm.

Catarina stomped into the room. "Don't you dare. Do you have any idea what you put me through tonight? I was calling hospitals! I was calling the police!"

"You were singing karaoke," Jorden corrected. He pointed the pen at his phone on the table. "I saw the video. You were a little flat on the bridge, by the way."

Catarina's mouth opened, but no sound came out. He criticized her singing? Jorden? The man who used to applaud when she sneezed?

"I... I was trying to cover for you!" she sputtered. "People were asking where you were! I had to pretend everything was fine!"

"And now you don't have to pretend," Jorden said. He closed the notebook. "I'm fine. You're fine. Atticus is fine. Go back to the party."

Catarina walked to the side of the bed. She saw the bandages on his chest. The bruising on his face. The cast on his left arm.

The anger deflated slightly, replaced by that uncomfortable guilt she hated.

"Why didn't you call me?" she asked, her voice softer, but still demanding. "When you crashed. Why didn't you call me?"

"I called Chloe," Jorden said. "She made it very clear that your priority was the dress."

"I didn't know you were hurt! Chloe didn't tell me!"

"Because you didn't ask," Jorden said simply. "You asked about the dress. Atticus asked about the vest."

Catarina gripped the bed rail. Her knuckles were white. "That's not fair. You're twisting things."

"Am I?" Jorden looked at her. His eyes were like X-rays. "Catarina, look at me. Look at the monitor. I almost died tonight. My heart stopped in the ambulance for ten seconds."

Catarina gasped. She hadn't known that.

"And when I woke up," Jorden continued, "I realized something. If I had died, your biggest problem would have been finding a plus-one for the next gala."

"That is not true!" Catarina cried. Tears pricked her eyes. "I love you, Jorden! How can you say that?"

"You love having a fan," Jorden said. "You love having a servant. You don't love me. You don't even know me."

"I'm your wife!"

"For now," Jorden said.

The words hung in the air. Heavy. Suffocating.

"What does that mean?" Catarina whispered.

"It means," Jorden said, leaning back against the pillows and letting out a slow, controlled breath to manage the spike of pain in his ribs, "that I'm tired, Ms. Evans. I'm tired of the chase. I'm tired of the apology tour. I'm done."

"You're... you're breaking up with me? In a hospital bed?"

"I'm setting you free," Jorden said. "You want Atticus. Go have him. He's all yours. No more guilt. No more hiding. I'm removing myself from the equation."

Catarina stared at him. This was the moment she should feel relieved. She had told her friends a thousand times that she felt "trapped" with Jorden. That she wished he would just leave so she could be with her soulmate.

But now that he was saying it? Now that he was looking at her with that cold, indifferent stare?

She felt panic. She felt like the floor was dropping out from under her.

"You're in shock," she said quickly. "It's the concussion. You're talking crazy."

"Maybe," Jorden said. He picked up his pen again. "But I've never thought more clearly in my life."

He opened the notebook and started drawing again.

"Go home, Catarina. You look exhausted. And your eyeliner is smudged."

Catarina reached up and touched her face. She looked at her finger. A streak of black.

She felt small. She felt ugly.

"I'm not leaving," she said petulantly. She sat down in the uncomfortable plastic chair next to the bed. "I'm staying right here until you come to your senses."

Jorden didn't look up. "Suit yourself. But don't expect me to entertain you."

He continued to sketch. The scratching of the pen against the paper was the only sound in the room.

Catarina sat there, arms crossed, watching him. She waited for him to break. She waited for him to look at her and smile.

He didn't.

Ten minutes passed. Twenty.

Jorden was lost in his world of equations and diagrams. He had forgotten she was there.

For the first time in their marriage, Catarina Evans was invisible.

The hospital chair was designed to be uncomfortable. It was hard plastic, angled in a way that made slouching impossible and sleeping a torture.

Catarina shifted for the hundredth time. Her back ached. Her feet, still encased in the Jimmy Choo heels, were throbbing.

It was 2:00 AM.

Jorden was asleep. Or at least, his eyes were closed. His breathing was rhythmic, matching the slow beep of the monitor.

Catarina watched him.

His face was bruised-a nasty purple and yellow blotch on his left cheekbone. But he looked peaceful. More peaceful than she had seen him in years. Usually, he slept with a furrowed brow, grinding his teeth, stressed about her schedule or her moods.

Now, his face was slack. Relaxed.

He didn't care.

That realization stung more than the insults. He wasn't angry anymore. He was indifferent.

She pulled out her phone. She needed a distraction.

She opened Instagram again. The comments on Chloe's post were blowing up.

User123: "Wait, did the husband actually comment 'Best Wishes'? Is he being sarcastic or is he a cuck?"

GossipGirlNY: "I heard he was in a massive crash tonight. And she's posting karaoke vids? Savage."

TeamAtticus: "Finally! Cat needs a real man, not a purse holder."

Catarina felt sick. The narrative was spinning out of control. She looked like a monster.

She texted Chloe.

Cat: Delete the post. Now.

Chloe: But it has 10k likes! And Atticus looks so good!

Cat: I don't care. Delete it. And you're fired.

She typed the last sentence before she could stop herself. Then she backspaced.

Cat: And your quarterly bonus is suspended.

She hit send.

It felt petty. It felt small. But she needed to hurt someone, and she couldn't hurt Jorden right now.

Jorden stirred in the bed. He groaned low in his throat.

Catarina jumped up. "Jorden? Do you need water?"

He opened his eyes. For a second, there was a flicker of confusion. Then, the ice returned.

"No," he said. "I need you to stop hovering. You're blocking the airflow."

Catarina recoiled. "I'm just trying to help."

"You're trying to assuage your guilt," Jorden said. "It's not working."

He reached for the button to raise the bed. He winced as his ribs protested.

"Atticus called me," Catarina blurted out. She didn't know why she said it. Maybe to make him jealous. Maybe to remind him of the competition.

Jorden looked at her. "And?"

"He... he wants to visit. He feels bad about the car."

Jorden laughed. It was a dry, rasping sound. "He feels bad about the car? Did he ask about the driver?"

"He's worried about you, Jorden. He's a good friend."

"He's a thief," Jorden said.

"Excuse me?"

"He's stealing from you, Cat."

Catarina stiffened. "Don't start with the conspiracy theories. Just because you're jealous of his talent-"

"Talent?" Jorden scoffed. "The man paints circles on canvas and calls it 'The Void'. He's laundering money through that gallery in Chelsea. Why do you think he insists on cash transactions for the 'private' sales?"

Catarina froze. "How... how would you know anything about his gallery finances?"

"I had a lot of time to think in the ambulance," Jorden said, his voice deceptively casual. "And even more time to browse public records just now."

He tapped his phone screen.

"I accessed the state business registry. Did you know Atticus's gallery shares a registered agent address with three shell companies formed last month? And if you cross-reference his 'sold out' show dates with the timestamped photos on his own Instagram, the gallery was empty during the supposed buying frenzy. It's sloppy, Cat. Basic forensic accounting would tear him apart."

Catarina stared at him. He wasn't guessing. He was citing data. The old Jorden barely knew how to balance a checkbook.

"Check the books, Cat," Jorden said, closing his eyes again. "Look for recurring payments to 'Smith Holdings.' I bet you'll find his secretary, Deborah, is the signatory."

"Deborah?" Catarina whispered. "How do you know about Deborah?"

"She's tagged in his photos," Jorden lied smoothly. In reality, he had traced the digital footprint of the shell company to a personal email address listed on a forgotten LinkedIn profile.

"You're delusional," Catarina said, standing up, though her voice lacked conviction. "The concussion has made you paranoid."

"Then verify it," Jorden said. "Ask to see the ledger."

Catarina stared at him. Specifics. He gave specifics.

"I'm going home," Catarina said. Her voice shook. "I can't listen to this poison."

"Good," Jorden said. "Take the door with you. It's drafty."

Catarina grabbed her bag and stormed out.

She marched down the hallway, her heels clicking like gunshots.

She got into the elevator. She was shaking.

Smith Holdings.

Why did that name sound familiar?

She pulled out her phone. She logged into her company's vendor portal. She searched for "Smith Holdings."

Nothing.

She switched to the public business registry.

Smith Holdings LLC. Registered Agent: Deborah Maldonado.

Deborah. Atticus's secretary. The one with the fake nails and the chewing gum.

Catarina's breath hitched.

Why was Atticus's secretary buying his paintings for fifty thousand dollars a pop?

She leaned against the elevator wall. The metal was cool against her burning skin.

Jorden was right.

How was he right?

And more importantly... why didn't she care that he was right?

She realized, with a sinking feeling, that she wasn't angry at Atticus for stealing. She was angry at Jorden for ruining the fantasy.

She wanted the lie. She wanted the romance. She wanted the white knight.

And Jorden, damn him, was forcing her to look at the rust on the armor.