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.

The tires of the black Maybach crunched against the white gravel of the Hamptons country club.

Delinda stepped out of the car. She wore a tailored white tennis skirt and a fitted polo, holding a tablet tight against her chest.

Mitch Dolan, the CEO of Soren Tech, was waiting at the first tee.

Mitch walked forward, his hand outstretched to Ace, but his eyes were glued to Delinda's legs. The look in his eyes was wet and hungry.

Delinda's stomach churned. She forced a polite smile and handed Mitch the briefing folder.

The golf game started. Ace swung his club with brutal, terrifying power. The ball vanished into the horizon.

Mitch played terribly. He kept laughing loudly, making crude jokes to cover his embarrassment.

At the ninth hole, Ace walked ahead to the green to check the slope. He left Delinda standing by the golf cart.

Mitch saw his chance. He waved his caddy away and stepped uncomfortably close to Delinda.

"You know," Mitch whispered, his breath smelling of cigars and stale alcohol, "if you help smooth over the valuation numbers for me, I can make sure you're very well taken care of."

Delinda took a step back, her face freezing over. "The numbers are final, Mr. Dolan."

Mitch's face flushed red with anger. He lunged forward and grabbed Delinda's wrist.

His fingers were thick, rough, and slick with sweat. He squeezed her skin hard, rubbing his thumb over her pulse point.

The physical contact was a violent shock to Delinda's nervous system.

Instantly, the green grass vanished.

The smell of cigars turned into the sharp, metallic stench of copper and gasoline.

Delinda was five years old again. She was trapped in the crushed backseat of a car. A pair of hands, slick with bright red blood, were reaching through the shattered window, grabbing her wrist, trying to pull her out as her father screamed.

Her PTSD ripped through her brain.

Delinda's face turned the color of ash. Her lungs locked up. She couldn't breathe. Her muscles paralyzed completely. She just stood there, staring blankly, shaking violently.

Mitch smiled, thinking she was submitting. He reached his other hand out to grab her waist.

A massive hand clamped down on Mitch's shoulder like a steel vice.

Ace spun Mitch around. The look in Ace's eyes was pure, unadulterated murder.

Ace shoved Mitch backward with so much force that the older man's feet left the ground. Mitch crashed hard into the manicured grass, crying out in pain.

Ace stood over him, his chest rising and falling rapidly. "Get your filthy hands off her."

Mitch scrambled backward like a crab, stuttering, "It-it was a misunderstanding, Ace-"

Ace pulled his phone from his pocket. He dialed Julian.

"Cancel the acquisition," Ace ordered, his voice echoing across the quiet golf course. "Leak the intel on their inflated earnings to the press. Start a proxy fight to oust their board. I want his company dismantled and his name ruined by next Friday."

Mitch let out a pathetic sob, burying his face in his hands.

Ace hung up. He turned around.

Delinda was still standing by the cart, her arms wrapped around her stomach, her whole body trembling.

The rage in Ace's eyes vanished. A sudden, sharp panic seized his chest.

He stripped off his suit jacket. He stepped close to her and wrapped the warm, heavy fabric tightly around her shaking shoulders.

He didn't care who was watching. He put his arm around her waist, pulling her solid against his side.

"We're leaving," Ace said softly.