By three in the afternoon, Delinda's feet were numb. She had stood beside Ace through a grueling four-hour global teleconference.

They moved in perfect sync. Every time Ace reached out his hand, Delinda placed the exact document he needed into his palm before he even asked.

They walked back into his private office. Ace pinched the bridge of his nose, his shoulders tight with exhaustion.

Delinda handed him a glass of room-temperature water.

Ace took it. He looked at her. "Thank you."

Delinda gave a small nod and turned to leave to type up the meeting minutes.

A harsh buzzing sound vibrated against the wood of the desk. Ace's private, encrypted phone was ringing. The caller ID flashed "Matilda."

Ace's face darkened instantly. The muscles in his jaw clenched tight. He picked up the phone.

"What?" he snapped, his voice rough.

Delinda froze by the door. She shouldn't be hearing this.

"I know," Ace growled into the phone, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'll buy her a gift... No, I am not going to Brooklyn."

He threw the phone onto the desk. It skidded and hit a pen cup.

The air pressure in the room plummeted. Delinda couldn't breathe.

Ace looked up. His dark eyes locked onto Delinda standing by the door.

Delinda swallowed hard. "I'll leave you to your privacy, sir."

"Wait," Ace said. His voice was tight, almost strained. "Howell. If a woman... hasn't seen her husband in a year. What kind of compensation should he buy her?"

Delinda's brain misfired.

She stared at him. "Are you talking about... your partner, sir?"

Ace looked away, staring at the wall. "My wife."

A sharp, physical sting hit the center of Delinda's chest.

This ruthless, terrifying oligarch was married. And from the venom in his voice, he despised the woman he was tied to.

Delinda forced her facial muscles to remain completely still. She put on her professional mask.

"It depends on her tastes, sir," Delinda said smoothly. "If it is purely material compensation, high jewelry or limited-edition handbags are standard."

Ace let out a harsh, mocking laugh. "Oh, she definitely needs the material things."

The absolute disgust in his voice made Delinda's stomach turn. She felt a sudden, bizarre wave of sympathy for the unknown woman sitting at home, waiting for a husband who spoke about her like she was a parasite.

"I can contact a personal shopper at 5th Avenue for you," Delinda offered, her tone dropping ten degrees.

Ace noticed the shift in her voice. His eyes narrowed as he studied her face. "Do it."

Delinda walked out of the office and pulled the door shut. She leaned against the wall for a second, pressing a hand to her chest.

Julian walked by and whispered, "Why is he in a mood?"

Delinda shook her head. She walked to her desk and opened a browser, searching for high-end diamonds.

She had no idea she was curating a list of apologies meant for herself.

The smell of baked lasagna and fresh basil filled the small Brooklyn apartment.

Delinda kicked off her heels. Her toes ached. She collapsed onto the worn fabric sofa, pulling her tablet onto her lap to review the jewelry catalogs.

Berkley poked his head out of the kitchen, wiping flour off his apron. "Food's almost ready!"

Across the river, in a dimly lit private club in Manhattan, Ace sat alone in a leather booth.

A glass of Macallan neat sat on the table. Next to it was his private phone.

He stared at the black screen. His grandmother's ultimatum echoed in his head. He had to make contact.

Ace's jaw ticked. He picked up the phone and pressed the only saved number.

In Brooklyn, Delinda's personal cell phone vibrated against the couch cushions. The screen showed an unsaved number.

She swiped the screen and pressed the phone to her ear. "Hello?"

Silence.

Ace listened to the soft, tired voice on the other end. His throat tightened. He didn't know what to say to the woman who had sold her life to his family's trust fund.

He cleared his throat. "It's me," he said, his tone dropping into a freezing, authoritative register.

Delinda frowned. The voice had a familiar deep, gravelly timbre, but the connection was poor and it sounded rougher, distorted by static and the tinny speaker of her phone. It lacked the controlled, polished resonance of her CEO's voice in the quiet of his office. The loud jazz music playing in the background of the call further muddled the audio. The voice sounded deep, but she didn't connect it to the CEO she had just left at the office.

"I'm sorry, who is this?" she asked.

Ace's grip on the phone tightened until the plastic creaked. She didn't even recognize his voice.

Before he could speak, a loud, booming male voice echoed from the Brooklyn kitchen.

"Sweetheart! Lasagna is ready! Get in here before Elva eats it all!" Berkley yelled.

The words traveled through the phone speaker and hit Ace like a physical blow.

The blood drained from Ace's face. The air in the private booth turned to ice.

"Sweetheart?" Ace hissed, the word scraping against his teeth like broken glass.

Delinda didn't catch the lethal danger in his tone. She turned her head toward the kitchen and yelled back, "Coming!"

She put the phone back to her mouth. "Look, my roommate is calling me for dinner. If this is a sales pitch-"

"Roommate?" Ace interrupted.

He let out a laugh that sounded like a death rattle.

He ended the call.

Ace stood up. He slammed the phone onto the marble table with so much force the screen shattered into a spiderweb of cracked glass.

He grabbed the glass of whiskey and threw it down his throat. The alcohol burned, but it did nothing to touch the violent, consuming fire in his chest.

The image of a man's voice calling his wife 'sweetheart' seared into his brain. It wasn't just the word; it was the casual intimacy, the domestic warmth. A ferocious, possessive fury ignited within him, a dark certainty taking root that his wife was living a life with someone else, making a fool of him. The humiliation tasted like ash in his mouth.

In Brooklyn, Delinda stared at the disconnected call. She shrugged, tossed the phone onto the coffee table, and walked into the kitchen to eat.

She had no idea that in the mind of her billionaire husband, she had just signed her own death warrant.

Delinda cut into the steaming lasagna. The cheese stretched perfectly.

Elva raised a glass of cheap red wine. "To the new Chief Assistant! May your stock options vest quickly!"

Berkley laughed, taking a massive bite. "Did your MIA billionaire husband send flowers for the promotion?"

Delinda rolled her eyes, chewing her food. "He's a signature on a piece of paper, Berk. Mutual ignorance is the best policy."

She took a sip of water. "Besides, I have enough male ego to deal with at work. The CEO is a machine. A terrifying, cold machine."

Elva squinted at her. "You look a little too excited when you talk about him."

"I'm excited about the year-end bonus," Delinda lied, her face perfectly smooth.

The next morning, the air on the top floor of the Suarez Group was toxic.

Delinda stepped out of the elevator. Julian rushed up to her, his face pale. "Don't go in there. He's in a nuclear state."

Delinda tightened her grip on her tablet. She walked to the coffee machine, poured a black coffee, and pushed open the CEO's doors.

Ace was standing by the floor-to-ceiling window. His suit jacket was off. His tie was pulled loose, the collar of his shirt unbuttoned. He radiated pure violence.

Delinda walked to the desk and set the coffee down. "Good morning, sir. Your first meeting is-"

Ace spun around. His eyes were bloodshot.

He grabbed the thick risk assessment binder from his desk and hurled it at the floor right in front of Delinda's feet.

The binder cracked open. Hundreds of pages spilled across the carpet.

"This is garbage," Ace snarled, his chest heaving. "The projections are weak. The analysis is pathetic. Do it again."

Delinda stared at the papers. She had run those numbers three times. They were flawless. He was being completely irrational.

She didn't argue. She didn't defend herself.

Delinda slowly crouched down. She kept her spine straight as she began gathering the scattered papers, one by one.

Ace stood over her. He looked down at the pale skin of her exposed neck, at the stubborn set of her jaw.

His blood boiled. He kept hearing that man's voice. Sweetheart.

He was projecting every ounce of his rage toward his cheating wife onto the woman kneeling at his feet. He wanted to break her calm exterior. He wanted her to scream back at him.

Delinda stood up. She tapped the papers against the desk to align the edges.

She looked him dead in the eye. Her face was a flawless mask of professionalism. "I will have the revisions on your desk in one hour, sir."

She turned on her heel and walked out, closing the door quietly behind her.

Inside the office, Ace let out a roar of frustration and kicked the heavy metal trash can across the room. It smashed against the wall.

He dragged his hands through his hair, breathing heavily. He was losing his mind.

At her desk, Delinda rubbed her aching wrists. She opened the file on her computer, her jaw clenched so tight her teeth hurt.