Emerson POV:

I gasped, my eyes snapping open. My head throbbed. I was dangling in mid-air, ropes cutting into my wrists and ankles. Below me, a dizzying height. Beside me, swaying precariously, was Alicia. Her eyes were wide with terror, her face streaked with tears.

Masked figures stood below, their voices muffled. A familiar voice, laced with a cold, calculating edge, cut through the din. "Axel Flynn! Your choice. Her," the voice indicated me, "or her," pointing to Alicia. "Only one leaves here alive."

My heart pounded. This was it. The final act. He would choose Alicia. He always chose Alicia.

But Axel's voice, calm and even, surprised me. "You're not in a position to make demands." He didn't even acknowledge the choice. "Release them now, or you'll regret it."

A flurry of movement below. Axel's men, swift and brutal, swarmed the masked figures. Gunshots. Shouts. It was over almost as quickly as it began.

Axel stood below us, his gaze sweeping over the scene. His eyes, for a fleeting moment, landed on me. Then, they darted to Alicia. A fractional hesitation. A choice, already made.

He pointed to Alicia. "Lower her first!"

My stomach clenched. I knew it. Right up until the end, it was her. Always her.

As Alicia was lowered, one of the masked figures, now subdued, blurted out, "She hired us! The one still hanging! She paid us to kidnap Alicia and frame you!"

My blood ran cold. The sheer audacity. The calculated cruelty. I had just been released from his isolation room, half-starved, half-mad. How could I have arranged this? The irony was so bitter, it almost made me laugh.

But Axel believed it. I saw it in his eyes. A flash of chilling certainty. He didn't even question it. He just accepted it, readily.

He caught Alicia as she was lowered, cradling her in his arms. He looked up at me, his eyes filled with a cold, hard disgust. "You truly are a monster, Emerson. How could you?"

Alicia, nestled in his arms, met my gaze. A tiny, almost imperceptible smirk. A flicker of triumph. She gave the subdued masked man a barely there nod.

The ropes holding me were suddenly cut. I plummeted, crashing to the ground with a sickening thud. Pain, searing and intense, shot through my body. Before I could even register the agony, a flurry of kicks and punches rained down on me. The masked figures, still enraged by their capture, took their frustrations out on me.

I curled into a ball, my arms wrapped around my head, trying to shield myself from the blows. I couldn't scream. Couldn't move. All I could feel was the crushing weight of their hatred, and Axel's silent, condemning stare.

I hate him. I hate him for everything. The thought, raw and primal, echoed in my mind. I regret every second I wasted loving you. We are over.

I thought I was going to die. This was it. The end of Emerson Boone.

Then, a sliver of dawn broke through the shattered window, painting the grimy room with a fragile, ethereal light. I was alive. Still alive.

My phone, miraculously still in my pocket, buzzed. A notification. Your divorce certificate is ready for collection.

A cold, determined resolve settled over me. I wasn't dead. And I was free. Free from Axel, free from Alicia, free from this toxic, suffocating life.

I dragged myself onto a plane, leaving everything behind. New York, Axel, the Boones, the Flynns – all of it was a bitter memory. My destination: London. A new life. A new beginning.

My phone rang. Axel. His voice, strained and irritable, pierced through my fragile peace.

"Emerson! What the hell are you doing now? Running away? Are you trying to make things worse for Alicia?"

I closed my eyes. "What do you want, Axel?"

"Alicia has forgiven you," he said, as if bestowing a great honor. "She's willing to let bygones be bygones. She even wants you to come to the ribbon-cutting ceremony for her new studio. To show solidarity."

A hysterical laugh bubbled up in my throat. Solidarity? After she stole my company, had me locked up, and framed me for kidnapping?

"You want me to attend her ribbon-cutting, Axel?" I asked, my voice trembling with suppressed rage. "Are you out of your mind? Or are you just trying to humiliate me further?"

He sighed, a long, exasperated sound. "Emerson, don't be dramatic. It's for the best. It shows unity. You wouldn't want to cause any more trouble, would you?"

"Why? Are you afraid I'll expose her?" I challenged, a bitter smile on my lips. "Are you afraid I'll tell the world what a manipulative, scheming bitch she truly is?"

A moment of silence. Then, his voice, softer now, almost pleading. "Emerson, just... stay home. Rest. Don't do anything rash."

Suddenly, the airport announcer's voice boomed over the intercom. "Flight BA286 to London, now boarding at Gate E3."

"Where are you?" Axel demanded, his voice sharp with alarm. "What was that?"

"Just going for a walk, Axel," I said, my voice light, airy. "A very, very long walk."

A surge of panic, raw and immediate, flashed through him. Emerson? Is that really you?

"Find her!" he barked into the phone, his voice tight with desperation. "Find her now! Before she does something stupid!"

But his words were cut short by a sudden, chaotic roar. My flight was boarding. I switched off my phone.

Back in New York, the scene at Alicia' s ribbon-cutting ceremony was chaos. Protesters. Dozens of them, chanting, holding signs. "Thief!" "Plagiarist!" "Flynn's Puppet!" The words echoed, loud and clear.

Emerson POV:

The in-flight entertainment screen was a tiny window into the world I'd left behind. A news report flashed across it: "Scandal erupts at Flynn Tower: Alicia Shaffer's studio launch disrupted by angry protestors."

My heart, which I thought had turned to ice, gave a small, inexplicable flutter. I leaned closer, my gaze fixed on the grainy footage. The protestors were familiar faces. My team. My loyal, brilliant team.

I frowned, a wave of confusion washing over me. Why were they protesting Alicia? I had assumed they would be angry at me for "abandoning" them, for letting their studio be stolen.

Then, one of them, a tech-savvy intern I had personally mentored, pulled out his phone and started a live broadcast. His voice, clear and resonant, cut through the noise.

"We are the original team of ThrillSeeker Media!" he declared, his eyes blazing with righteous anger. "And we are here to expose the truth! This woman, Alicia Shaffer, is a fraud! She stole our work! She stole Emerson Boone's work!"

The screen then showed a montage. Photos of me, in various states of focus and determination, working late nights, brainstorming ideas, my face smudged with dirt after a long shoot. There I was, covered in mud from a mountain biking trail, then meticulously editing footage, my brow furrowed in concentration. My life. My passion. My effort.

A raw, unexpected emotion tightened my throat. They remembered. They cared. Even after everything, they were fighting for me. My eyes burned, a warmth spreading through my chest.

On the live broadcast, Alicia's face contorted in a mask of pure fury. She lunged at the intern, trying to snatch his phone, her carefully constructed facade crumbling.

"Axel! Do something!" she shrieked, clutching his arm. "Arrest them! Sue them! They're ruining everything!"

Axel. His gaze was fixed on the screen, not on Alicia. His eyes, dark and intense, were locked on my image. He saw me, in those photos, vibrant and alive, immersed in my craft. He saw the passion, the dedication. The reality.

He saw my work. The thought, small and fragile, formed in my mind. He saw me.

He remembered my pleas, my desperate cries to save the studio, to save my team. He remembered dismissing it as a "hobby," an "indulgence." The cruel irony of his words now hung heavy in the air.

Alicia was still crying, her makeup streaking down her face, a grotesque caricature of a victim. But Axel wasn't looking at her. He was looking at the screen. At me.

Then, with a visible effort, he pulled himself away from the intoxicating pull of my image. He took a deep breath, straightened his tie, and stepped forward, facing the cameras. The CEO. The magnate. The master of damage control.

"I apologize for this unfortunate disruption," he announced, his voice calm and authoritative, cutting through the chaos. "I assure you, we will investigate these allegations thoroughly. Justice will be served." He paused, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. "The ribbon-cutting ceremony is postponed indefinitely."

A collective gasp. Alicia stared at him, aghast.

One of his security guards approached him. "Sir, how do you want us to handle the protestors?"

Axel rubbed his temples, a flicker of exhaustion crossing his face. He thought of my photos, my earnest face. He thought of the desperate plea in my eyes.

"Don't hurt them," he commanded, his voice low. "Just... contain them. And make sure they get paid for their signs. Offer to buy their pictures. Politely."

Alicia, her face a mask of disbelief, stomped her foot. "Axel! How can you? They're attacking me! They're accusing me!" She followed him into the car, still fuming.

"They're lying, Axel! She put them up to this! Emerson is trying to ruin me!" she wailed, clutching his arm. "She just won't let me be happy! She's so jealous!"

Axel sighed, a pained expression on his face. Her shrill voice grated on him. He had always found it... charming. Now, it was just grating.

He thought of me. My quiet, determined focus when I worked. My easy laughter with my team. I never bothered him when he was working. Never interrupted his calls. Never demanded his attention.

Alicia, sensing a shift, a dangerous distance, suddenly stopped her theatrics. Her eyes widened, a flicker of panic in their depths.

"Axel?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "What's wrong? Are you... still mad at me?" She tried her old trick, a fragile, pitiful pout.

He turned to her, his eyes cold and distant. "Don't, Alicia," he said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "Just... don't."

Axel POV:

Alicia froze, her mouth agape. She had never heard that tone from me before. Never.

"You're yelling at me," she stammered, her voice thin. "For her? After everything she's done?" She dissolved into fresh tears. "She kidnapped me, Axel! She tried to ruin me!"

My head pounded. The endless cycle of accusations, the constant drama. It was exhausting. "Alicia, please. Just calm down." I pulled out my phone, my fingers flying across the screen. I needed to call Emerson. Now.

Her phone went straight to voicemail. Again. And again. A cold dread seeped into my veins. Where was she?

I reached for my cigarette case, a desperate need for nicotine. Empty. I threw it across the car, a surge of irritation. Then, I remembered Emerson, her small, thoughtful gestures. The little tin of artisanal mints she would leave on my desk, a gentle reminder when she noticed me reaching for a cigarette. She always said, "These are better for your lungs, darling."

Darling. The word echoed in my mind, a ghost of a memory. She wasn't here. She wouldn't be leaving mints on my desk anymore.

Alicia's voice, shrill and insistent, cut through my thoughts. "She's guilty, Axel! That's why she's not answering! She's scared! You have to report her! Have her arrested!" She leaned in, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. "If you don't, Axel, I swear... I'll go back. I'll leave. I can't stay here, not with her trying to destroy me."

My head throbbed. Threats. Always threats. From the victim. From the one I owed everything to.

"I'll handle it, Alicia," I said, my voice tight. "Just... go back to the penthouse. I'll deal with this."

She looked at me, confusion in her eyes. "Go back? Where?"

A strange unease settled over me. "To the penthouse, of course. Where else?"

She looked around the opulent interior of the car, then back at me. "Axel, darling. I live there. With you. I have for weeks."

My blood ran cold. The penthouse. Our penthouse. My home with Emerson. And Alicia had been living there. For weeks.

A wave of nausea washed over me. This wasn't right. It was never right.

We arrived at the penthouse. It was silent, sterile. Too quiet.

"Where's Emerson?" I demanded, my voice sharp, my eyes scanning the empty rooms.

The housekeeper, a kind, elderly woman who had been with Emerson since our wedding, wrung her hands. "Mr. Flynn, Mrs. Flynn... she hasn't been back since you had her... removed." Her voice trembled slightly. "She was so weak, sir. After being in that room..."

My heart lurched. That room. The isolation room. I had locked her in there. For three days. No food, no water. And I had forgotten. I had actually forgotten.

Alicia, ever the opportunist, stepped forward, her voice sweet. "She's just being dramatic, Axel. Trying to get your attention. She'll be back. She always comes back." She glanced at the housekeeper, a warning in her eyes. "She's probably just sulking somewhere."

Sulking. The word felt wrong. So utterly wrong.

I remembered Emerson's "moods," her "tantrums," her "little fits." The times I had dismissed her anger, her hurt, as childish petulance. I had always believed she would return, would apologize, would melt into my arms. Because she loved me.

My gaze fell on the plush, cream-colored sofa in the living room. Emerson's favorite. Alicia was sprawled across it, a satisfied smirk on her face. A sudden, irrational anger surged through me. She was in Emerson's spot. In Emerson's home.

I turned away, the anger churning in my gut. I retreated to my study, desperate for the solitude.

The next morning, I walked into the dining room, a flicker of hope in my chest. Maybe she was back. Maybe she had come to her senses.

And there she was. Sitting at the head of the table, sipping coffee, her hair tousled, wearing Emerson's silk robe.

Alicia.

My face contorted in a snarl. "What are you doing in that, Alicia?" My voice was low, dangerous.

She looked up, her eyes wide. "It was cold, Axel. And it's just a robe." She smiled, a faint, innocent curve of her lips. "I thought you told me to make myself at home."

"Take it off. Now." My voice was a soft growl. "Emerson has a delicate allergy to certain perfumes. She wouldn't want her clothes contaminated." It was a lie. Emerson was allergic to nothing. But the thought of Alicia's scent on Emerson's robe, on Emerson's skin, made my stomach turn.

Alicia pouted. "Axel, you're being so petty! It's just a robe. Besides, you told me I could have anything. You told me this was my home. That we would finally be together, like we always wanted." Her eyes welled up. "You said you'd marry me, Axel. Four years ago. Before you married her."

I froze. The words hung in the air, thick with unspoken history. The promise. The debt. The reason for everything.

This was Emerson's home too. The thought, sharp and clear, pierced through the fog of my obligation. My home with Emerson.

I pulled out my wallet, extracting a black card. "Go shopping, Alicia. Buy whatever you want. Get a new wardrobe. A new apartment. Anything."

She snatched the card, her eyes wide with greed, her tears immediately forgotten. She watched me leave, a triumphant glint in her eyes.

Days blurred into weeks. Every evening, I would walk into the penthouse, my eyes scanning the empty rooms, a gnawing anxiety in my gut. No Emerson. My fingers hovered over her contact in my phone, ninety-nine times, but I never pressed call. I didn't know what to say.

Then, Alicia called, her voice shrill and panicked. "Axel! Help me! She's here! She's going to kill me!"

My heart leaped into my throat. Emerson. My mind painted a terrifying picture: Emerson, wild with rage, finally snapping. I grabbed my keys, bursting out of the penthouse. I had to find her. I had to stop her. I had to see her.

I raced to the address Alicia had given me. A derelict warehouse district. I found her tied to a chair, her eyes wide with fear. And then, I saw him. The masked man, standing over her.

"Emerson!" I roared, my voice raw with desperation. "Where is she?!"

Alicia screamed, "Axel! She was here! She tried to kill me! She threatened me!"

I rushed to Alicia, cutting her free. The masked man, now subdued by my security, blurted out, "She paid me! The one who called you! She paid me to fake her kidnapping!"

I stared at him, then at Alicia, who was now weeping dramatically in my arms. A cold, chilling certainty settled over me. The lies. The manipulation. The constant drama. It was all her.

I looked at Alicia, really looked at her. Her face, devoid of genuine emotion, was a mask of calculated fear. The truth, stark and brutal, hit me with the force of a tidal wave.

"Take her away," I commanded, my voice flat, pointing at Alicia. "And bring me Emerson. Now."

I had to see her. I had to talk to her. I had to apologize. My heart ached with a longing I hadn't realized was there, a desperate need for her presence.

I arrived at her parents' house, adjusting my tie, trying to appear composed. It was the first time I had cared about my appearance in weeks. A wry, self-deprecating laugh escaped me. How pathetic. How utterly pathetic.

The housekeeper, seeing me, gasped, her eyes wide with shock. "Mr. Flynn? You're here?"

I remembered the countless evenings I'd left Emerson here, alone, in this grand, empty house, while I pursued my own ambitions. My gut twisted with guilt.

Emerson's parents, usually so solicitous, greeted me with cold, distant looks.

"Where's Emerson?" I asked, my voice tight. "I need to speak with her."

Her mother looked at her father, a silent communication passing between them. Then, her father, his face grim, said, "She's not here, Axel. And frankly, it's none of your business anymore." He paused, his voice filled with a quiet dignity. "You and Emerson are divorced."

My world tilted. "Divorced? What are you talking about? No! That's not possible! She's just... she's just angry. She always says that when she's angry."