Three days later, the trap tightened.

Foster sat Celena down in the living room. He wore his serious, "CEO" face-the one he used when he was about to screw someone over in a deal.

"Ava's apartment has a mold problem," he said. "Toxic black mold. It's unsafe for Leo."

Celena sat with her hands folded in her lap. She was wearing a vintage Chanel dress she had found at a consignment shop years ago. It was one of the few nice things she owned.

"That sounds terrible," she said neutrally.

"It is. They need a place to stay while it's remediated. I told them they could take the guest wing."

He didn't ask. He told.

Celena knew there was no mold. This was the move-in. The replacement.

Before she could answer, Leo came sprinting into the room. He was holding a large plastic cup filled with green sludge-some kind of kale smoothie Ava had made.

Ava followed him, walking slowly, a smirk playing on her lips.

Leo saw Celena. He didn't slow down. He ran straight at her.

"Move!" he yelled.

He "tripped." The cup flew from his hands.

The lid popped off. Thick, green liquid exploded over Celena's lap. It soaked instantly into the vintage cream silk, cold and slimy.

Celena gasped, jumping up, but the damage was done. The dress was ruined.

"Leo!" Foster sighed, but he looked more annoyed by the mess on the rug than the state of his wife. "Celena, why were you standing in his way?"

"He ran at me," Celena said, wiping a glob of kale from her thigh. Her hands were shaking.

"He has spatial sensitivity issues," Ava chimed in, leaning against the doorframe. "You need to be more aware of his boundaries."

The audacity hit Celena like a physical blow. The sticky liquid dripped down her leg.

She looked at Foster. He was checking his watch.

Something inside her snapped. But it didn't break. It calcified.

"They can stay," Celena said. Her voice was steady, cutting through the room's noise.

Foster looked up, surprised. "Good. I knew you'd be reasonable."

"But I need space," she continued. "I feel crowded."

"What do you mean?" Foster asked.

"The Hamptons estate on Dune Road. The one listing for fifteen million."

The room went silent. Foster choked on his spit.

"The... what?"

"Buy it for me," Celena said. "As a retreat. If I have a place to go on weekends, I can be the perfect hostess for your... guests during the week."

Foster stared at her. He blinked rapidly, calculating. Fifteen million was a hit, but he needed her compliant. He needed her to finish the PR strategy for the merger. And if he bought the house, he could keep it in his name. Or so he thought.

Ava whispered something in Foster's ear. Get her out of here.

Foster cleared his throat. "That's a lot of capital, Celena."

"It's cheaper than a divorce," she said softly.

Foster's eyes widened. He didn't know she knew the marriage was fake. He thought she meant a messy public split.

"Fine," he said. "I'll have legal draw it up."

"In my name," Celena added. "As a post-nuptial gift. Sole ownership."

"Celena-"

"Or Ava and the boy leave. Now."

Foster looked at Ava. He looked at the "mold" lie he had just constructed. He was trapped in his own web.

"Fine," he snapped. "In your name."

Celena turned and walked toward the bedroom to change. She left the green-stained dress on the floor where she stood.

It was worth five thousand dollars. The house was worth fifteen million.

She smiled. It was a good trade.

---

The next morning, Celena placed a folder on Foster's desk in his home office.

"The deed transfer documents," she said. "I had a friend in real estate draft them up to save you time."

Foster looked at the papers with distaste. "You move fast when you want something."

"Cash flow is tight this quarter," he muttered, reaching for a pen but hesitating. "Maybe we should wait until-"

"I saw the Q3 reports, Foster," Celena interrupted. "You have the liquidity. The offshore accounts in the Caymans are doing very well."

Foster froze. He stared at her, a flicker of genuine fear in his eyes. He hadn't realized she had access to those files. He had underestimated her intelligence for so long he forgot she was the one who practically ran his company's operations.

Just then, the door opened. Ava walked in. She was wearing Celena's white terrycloth bathrobe. The one embroidered with CB.

Celena felt a muscle in her jaw jump.

"Babe, do we have any espresso?" Ava asked, ignoring Celena completely.

Foster looked at Ava, then at Celena. His ego flared. He couldn't look weak or poor in front of his mistress.

He grabbed the pen. He logged into his private banking portal on his laptop.

"Fine," he said, signing the paper and authorizing the transfer. "My banker will execute an expedited transfer to the escrow account. It will be initiated by noon. Happy?"

Celena's phone buzzed in her pocket. A text from the attorney Sterling had provided. Escrow agent confirms wire transfer has been initiated. Closing can proceed.

"Ecstatic," Celena said. Her voice was ice.

"Give me a thank you kiss," Foster demanded, leaning back in his chair, reclaiming his dominance.

Celena leaned down. She offered her cheek. It was cold as marble against his lips.

"Thank you, darling," she said.

She turned and walked out, brushing past Ava.

She went straight to the guest room, shut the door, and locked it. She sat at her small desk and opened her laptop.

She logged into the secure server Sterling had given her access to. The Kensington Trust portal.

The balance flashed on the screen.

$5,200,000,000.00

Five billion.

The fifteen million she had just wrestled from Foster was a rounding error. It was lunch money.

But it wasn't about the amount. It was about taking his piece of the pie.

She minimized the bank tab and opened a new window. She inserted a flash drive into the USB port.

She accessed the Baird Group's internal server using Foster's admin password-which he had never changed because he was too lazy.

She began downloading. Unfiled tax returns. Embezzlement records. The fake invoices to shell companies that paid for Ava's "consulting."

The progress bar crawled across the screen. 20%... 40%...

A knock on the door made her jump.

"Celena?" Foster's voice. "Are you in there?"

She minimized the window instantly. "Changing!" she called out.

"Well, hurry up. Ava wants to go to brunch."

"Coming!"

She watched the bar hit 100%. She ejected the drive and slipped it into her bra.

She opened the door. Foster was standing there, looking impatient.

"Are you happy now?" he asked, referencing the house.

"I've never been happier, Foster," she lied.

He nodded, satisfied that he had bought her silence. He had no idea she had just stolen his future.

---

Sunlight streamed into the penthouse kitchen, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. It was a beautiful Manhattan morning, the kind that usually made Celena feel hopeful.

Today, she felt nothing but a cold, clinical detachment.

She walked into the kitchen dressed in a sharp, charcoal suit. No apron. No house slippers.

The smell of burnt toast and greasy bacon hung heavy in the air. Ava was at the stove, wearing a frilly apron over a black lace slip. It was a caricature of domesticity.

Foster was reading the Wall Street Journal at the island. Leo was in his high chair, throwing scrambled eggs onto the floor.

"Morning," Ava chirped. "Hope you don't mind, I took over the kitchen. You looked tired."

Foster looked up, admiring Ava's backside. "Domestic goddess," he murmured.

Celena walked past them to the coffee machine. She poured herself a black coffee.

"I want her cup!" Leo screamed, pointing a sticky fork at Celena's mug. It was a custom ceramic mug, a gift from a friend years ago.

Ava turned, spatula in hand. "Oh, give it to him, Celena. It's just a mug. He likes the color."

Ava reached out to take the mug from Celena's hand.

Celena moved her hand back sharply. "No."

The single word hung in the air like a gunshot.

The kitchen went silent. Foster lowered his paper.

"It's hot coffee," Celena said flatly. "He'll burn himself. And it's mine."

"Just get him a juice, Celena," Foster grumbled. "Stop making a scene."

"I'm not the maid," Celena said, her eyes locking with his. "Ava is right there. She's the... motherly figure, isn't she?"

Foster blinked. He wasn't used to this tone. He was used to apologies.

Celena took a sip of her coffee, the heat grounding her. She checked her Cartier watch-a fake one Foster had given her for their first anniversary.

"I have a viewing," she said.

Foster sneered. "Enjoy your little house hunting. Don't buy anything tacky."

He thought she was going to look for furniture for the Hamptons house.

"I won't," she said.

She was actually going to sign the final closing documents at the title company.

As she turned to leave, she heard Ava whisper, loud enough to carry, "She's so cold. Poor Leo."

"She's just jealous," Foster replied, stroking Ava's arm. "Ignore her."

Celena grabbed the keys to the Porsche Panamera from the bowl. Foster thought it was his car. But he'd insisted the Porsche be leased through the company and, for tax purposes, had put her down as the primary driver on the corporate account. A convenience, he'd called it. Another form of control. Now, it was her escape.

"Don't wait up," she called out.

She walked out the door, the sound of Leo's tantrum fading as the heavy wood clicked shut.

In the elevator, she leaned her head against the cool metal wall and exhaled. A long, shuddering breath.

She wasn't jealous. She was liberated.

---