Hailey Hogan POV:

Jackson didn't even bother to put on slippers. He charged down the grand spiral staircase barefoot, his silk robe flapping open like a crazed animal breaking out of a cage.

I heard his heavy, frantic footfalls slapping against the marble before I saw him.

He sprinted straight past me and out the front doors, lunging toward the driveway. He reached out into the empty air, trying to grab the back of the garbage truck as it rolled out of the heavy iron gates. He missed completely, his hands grasping nothing but diesel exhaust.

Jackson spun around. His chest heaved, and his eyes were completely bloodshot.

He locked onto me. I was standing calmly in the foyer, adjusting the collar of my trench coat with slow, deliberate movements.

He charged up the steps, his face contorted in absolute rage. He raised his right hand high, his palm open, aiming a strike directly at my face to put the "crazy" woman back in her place.

I didn't blink. I didn't flinch.

Before his hand could even begin its descent, my right arm snapped out.

*Smack.*

The sound of my palm colliding with his cheekbone cracked through the cavernous foyer like a gunshot.

The force of the blow snapped Jackson's head violently to the side. He stumbled back, his bare feet slipping on the polished marble. A thin line of dark blood instantly welled up at the corner of his split lip.

He brought a trembling hand to his face, his eyes wide with utter shock. In five years of marriage, I had never raised my voice, let alone struck him.

I calmly reached into my coat pocket and pulled out an individually wrapped antibacterial wet wipe. I tore the foil open, pulled out the cloth, and began slowly, methodically cleaning my right hand.

"Are you out of your fucking mind?!" Jackson roared, spitting a drop of blood onto the floor. "That was our entire luggage! Everything for St. Barts!"

I finished wiping my fingers. I balled up the wet wipe and flicked it with pinpoint accuracy. It hit him squarely in the chest.

I looked at him with pure, unadulterated disgust.

"I bought those clothes, Jackson," I said, my voice dropping to a deadly, quiet register. "I bought the bags. I bought the jewelry. They were bought with my money. Which means I have the absolute right to treat them exactly as what they are. Trash."

Rapid footsteps echoed from the second-floor landing. Amber appeared at the top of the stairs, clutching her sheer silk robe around her waist. Her hair was a mess, and her eyes darted wildly around the empty foyer.

"Where are the bags?" Amber shrieked, her voice pitching into a hysterical whine. "Where are my limited-edition resort dresses?!"

I slowly shifted my gaze to her. I looked at her the way one looks at a rat crawling out of a sewer drain.

"You mean the dresses you charged to Jackson's supplementary card?" I asked, my tone dripping with ice. "The card that draws directly from my personal checking account?"

Amber's face drained of all color. She froze on the bottom step, her eyes darting to Jackson. She quickly scrambled behind his broad back, clutching his arm and putting on a pathetic, trembling act.

Jackson immediately puffed out his chest, wrapping a protective arm around Amber.

"You are acting like an insane, jealous shrew, Hailey!" Jackson yelled, trying to regain his dominant footing.

I let out a short, breathy laugh. The sound was completely hollow, echoing off the high ceilings and wrapping around the two of them like a noose.

Through the open front doors, tires crunched softly against the gravel.

A custom, armored black Maybach glided silently to a halt right at the base of the portico steps.

A man in a sharp black suit stepped out of the driver's seat. He walked around the hood and pulled open the heavy rear door, standing at rigid attention.

Jackson stared at the car. His mouth opened slightly. He had never seen that vehicle in his life. He had no idea I possessed the resources to summon a private driver in the middle of the night.

I reached down and picked up my minimalist black carry-on. I didn't look back at the staircase. I walked straight toward the open doors.

Panic suddenly flashed in Jackson's eyes. The reality of my departure finally pierced his thick skull. He lunged forward, reaching out to grab my forearm. "Hailey, wait—"

A shadow moved.

The bodyguard who had opened the car door stepped forward with terrifying speed. He planted himself directly between Jackson and me. He was built like a brick wall, his cold, dead eyes staring down at Jackson's bare feet and silk robe.

Jackson hit the invisible wall of the bodyguard's aura and stopped dead in his tracks, his hand falling limply to his side.

I paused at the open door of the Maybach. I turned my head slightly, looking over my shoulder. I let my eyes sweep over Jackson and Amber one last time. They looked small. Insignificant. Like ants scurrying on a sidewalk.

I stepped into the spacious, leather-scented rear of the Maybach.

The bodyguard slammed the heavy door shut. The sound was deep, final, and absolute.

The Maybach's engine purred. The car pulled away from the estate, its sleek red taillights slicing through the dark Beverly Hills night like a bleeding wound.

Jackson bolted out the front door, stopping at the edge of the steps. He choked on a lungful of exhaust fumes. With a feral scream, he kicked a priceless Ming dynasty replica vase sitting by the door. It shattered into a thousand pieces.

Amber crept out behind him. She slipped her arms around his waist, resting her chin on his shoulder. Her eyes gleamed with a hidden, victorious thrill.

"Darling, with her gone, we don't even have a change of clothes for tomorrow's flight."

Hailey Hogan POV:

The Maybach bypassed the chaotic public terminals of LAX entirely, gliding seamlessly onto the private tarmac of the PS luxury terminal. There were no lines. There were no TSA agents barking orders.

This was the world I belonged to. The world I had locked myself out of for five years just to stroke the fragile ego of a mediocre man.

A Gulfstream G650ER sat waiting on the tarmac, its sleek white fuselage gleaming under the floodlights. The captain and two flight attendants stood in a perfect line at the base of the stairs. As I stepped out of the car, they bowed their heads in deep, respectful synchronization.

I walked up the steps and entered the cabin. The interior was a sanctuary of custom walnut paneling and hand-stitched Hermès leather seats, designed specifically to my tastes.

I sank into the main captain's chair. A flight attendant immediately approached, offering a crystal flute filled with chilled Dom Pérignon.

I took the glass. I held it up to the window, watching the sprawling grid of Los Angeles city lights twinkle in the distance.

The twin Rolls-Royce engines spooled up. The massive thrust pressed me firmly back into the soft leather as the jet tore down the runway and punched through the cloud cover.

I set the champagne down and opened my iPad.

A secure financial dashboard filled the screen. I watched a green progress bar slowly fill. It was tracking the real-time freezing of every single supplementary credit card, joint checking account, and credit line attached to Jackson Dorsey's name.

The bar hit one hundred percent. The screen flashed: *All Assets Locked.*

I took a slow sip of the champagne. The crisp, dry vintage burned perfectly down my throat. I let out a long breath, feeling the last knots in my shoulders dissolve.

***

Jackson Dorsey POV:

The morning sun stabbed directly through the gaps in the master bedroom curtains, hitting me right in the eyes.

I groaned, rolling over in the massive bed. My head was pounding with a vicious, throbbing ache. I hadn't slept a wink after Hailey drove off in that ridiculous rented car.

"Hailey," I grumbled, my voice thick with sleep. "Get me a black coffee. Two sugars."

Silence.

I waited three seconds, annoyance flaring in my chest. "Hailey!"

Only the faint echo of my own voice bounced off the walls. I sat up abruptly, rubbing my temples. The memory of the garbage truck and the slap hit me like a physical blow. The crazy bitch actually left.

From down the hall, my sister Jordan's shrill, piercing scream shattered the morning.

"Where is my white crochet beach dress?! I can't find anything!"

I threw off the covers and stomped out into the hallway. My mother, Cornelia, was standing at the top of the stairs, her face red with fury as she screamed down at Mark, the butler.

"What do you mean there's no breakfast? We have a flight to the Caribbean in three hours!" Cornelia shrieked.

Mark stood in the foyer, his hands clasped behind his back. His face was entirely devoid of its usual subservience. "The household grocery accounts have been frozen, madam. There is only half a loaf of dry bread left in the pantry."

"You useless piece of trash!" I roared, leaning over the banister. "Go buy something with your own money and I'll reimburse you!"

"I'm afraid I cannot do that, sir," Mark said flatly, turning and walking toward the kitchen.

Amber stepped out of the guest room. She was wearing a flimsy silk camisole, her arms crossed over her chest, shivering slightly. She looked at me with wide, teary eyes.

"Jackson," she whimpered, tugging lightly at my sleeve. "I literally have nothing to wear to the airport. My entire vacation wardrobe is gone."

I looked at Amber, then at my mother, then at Jordan who had just emerged, sobbing over her ruined Instagram aesthetic. I felt the absolute necessity to maintain my dominance as the head of this family. Hailey was just throwing a tantrum to get my attention. I wouldn't let her win.

I puffed out my chest and waved my hand dismissively.

"Everyone, calm down," I ordered, projecting total confidence. "When we get to the airport, we'll go straight to the first-class duty-free boutiques. Gucci, Prada, whatever you want. Pick out the newest collections. It's on me."

Jordan's tears vanished instantly. She threw her hands in the air. "Oh my god, yes! You're the best brother ever!"

Cornelia smoothed down her dressing gown, a smug, triumphant smile spreading across her wrinkled face. "See? We don't need that miserable woman. Her little stunts mean absolutely nothing."

We didn't even bother to shower properly. We threw on whatever wrinkled clothes were left in the laundry hampers and piled into the garage, squeezing into the stretch Lincoln Town Car.

"LAX," I snapped at the driver. The car rolled out, the cabin buzzing with excited chatter about the shopping spree to come.

***

Hailey Hogan POV:

I woke up naturally on the plush, queen-sized bed in the rear cabin of the Gulfstream.

I sat up and reached for the nightstand. Resting there was a heavy, leather-bound book: *Advanced Microsurgical Techniques in Neuro-Oncology*.

I ran my fingertips over the embossed gold lettering. It was my bible. For five years, I had buried my genius, hiding my surgical hands in dishwater and dry-cleaning bags so Jackson wouldn't feel inferior.

No more.

Under the blazing sun of St. Barts, I was going to resurrect the brilliant surgeon I was born to be.

The plane banked gently, the landing gear engaging with a heavy thud. Through the window, the blinding turquoise waters of the Caribbean Sea stretched out to the horizon.

I slid a pair of dark Tom Ford sunglasses over my eyes. The cabin door opened, letting in the hot, salty air.

I stepped out onto the stairs, ready to claim my new life.

Jackson Dorsey POV:

I led the charge through the sliding glass doors of the Tom Bradley International Terminal.

With Amber clinging tightly to my right bicep and my family trailing behind me, I walked with the heavy, purposeful strides of a man who owned the building. We bypassed the chaotic, winding lines of the economy check-in, heading straight for the frosted glass enclosure of the First Class VIP Lounge.

Amber leaned her head against my shoulder. I saw her eyes dart toward the miserable, sweating crowds in the standard lines, a smug, triumphant smirk playing on her lips.

"I'm going straight for the Chanel boutique after this," Jordan chirped loudly from behind me, making sure the people in the nearby economy line heard her. "I need at least three new bags for the beach club."

We reached the plush, red-carpeted counter. The female ground agent looked up from her monitor, flashing a practiced, brilliant smile.

"Good morning, sir. Welcome to First Class. Passports, please?"

I didn't say a word. I just snapped my fingers, took the six passports from my mother, and dropped them onto the polished marble counter.

The agent picked them up smoothly, her fingers flying over her keyboard. "Thank you, Mr. Dorsey. And where is your luggage today? I'll have the porters tag them immediately."

I waved my hand in the air, a gesture of absolute, careless wealth. "We don't have any luggage. We're flying empty. We're just going to buy a whole new wardrobe on the island."

A microscopic flicker of confusion crossed the agent's eyes, but her professional smile remained glued in place. "Certainly, sir. Let me just pull up your reservation."

She typed for another three seconds. Then, her fingers stopped.

"Ah, Mr. Dorsey," she said, her voice dropping a fraction in volume. "It appears your reservation for the six first-class suites is currently on hold. The final balance of forty-two thousand dollars has not been processed."

I rolled my eyes. Hailey must have canceled the pending wire transfer just to be a nuisance.

Without missing a beat, I reached into the inner pocket of my jacket, pulled out my custom leather wallet, and extracted the heavy, titanium Centurion Black Card.

I tossed it onto the marble counter. It landed with a heavy, arrogant *clack*.

"Run it," I said, looking past her toward the VIP security lane.

The agent picked up the black card. She swiped it through the terminal.

The screen facing her instantly flashed a blinding, violent red.

The machine let out a sharp, electronic *BEEP-BEEP-BEEP*.

The agent's smile faltered. She looked at the screen, then at the card, then up at me. She slid the heavy metal card back across the marble.

"I'm so sorry, sir," she said, her tone suddenly cautious. "This card has been declined."

My brow furrowed. I glared at the little black machine. "Your system is broken. That's a no-limit card. Run it again, and do it right this time."

Cornelia pushed her way to the front of the counter, slapping her hand on the marble. "Do you know who we are? We are VIPs! Get your manager out here right now before I have you fired!"

The agent maintained her composure, though her jaw tightened. "Ma'am, I will try it one more time."

She wiped the magnetic strip and swiped it again.

*BEEP-BEEP-BEEP.* The red box on her monitor practically glowed: **DECLINED - ACCOUNT FROZEN.**

The sharp noise echoed in the quiet VIP area. A wealthy businessman at the next counter turned around, eyeing us with blatant irritation.

Amber shifted her weight, pulling her arm away from mine just a fraction. Her face flushed pink. "Jackson," she whispered nervously. "People are staring."

My face felt hot. My heart kicked against my ribs. "Fine," I snapped, pulling out my wallet again. "The chip must be damaged."

I yanked out a Platinum Visa and shoved it at the agent.

She swiped it. *Declined.*

Cold sweat broke out on the back of my neck. My hands started to tremble. I pulled out a Sapphire Reserve. Then a Gold Amex. Then a standard Mastercard. I threw them onto the counter in a desperate, frantic rhythm.

*Declined. Declined. Declined.*

The agent didn't even try to hide her expression anymore. The polite smile was gone, replaced by the cold, calculating look of someone dealing with a fraudster. She pushed the pile of useless plastic back to me.

"Sir, every single card is returning a code for frozen assets or insufficient funds."

"Bro, are you kidding me right now?" Jordan's shrill voice cut through the tension like a knife. "Do you even have any money?! I need to buy my bags!"

The words hit me like a physical slap across the face. My stomach dropped into a bottomless pit.

I stared at the pile of cards. My vision blurred.

Every single one of those cards... they were all supplementary. They were all tied to Hailey's primary accounts. I had never bothered to open my own credit lines because Hailey's limits were infinite.

She had actually done it. She had cut my throat.

A tall man in a sharp suit—the VIP lounge manager—stepped up behind the agent. He looked at my sweating face, then at my lack of luggage.

"Sir," the manager said, his voice firm and completely devoid of warmth. "I'm going to have to ask you and your party to step aside. You are blocking the lane for our actual premium guests."

A security guard materialized nearby. The wealthy businessman next to us scoffed loudly.

Under the burning stares of the entire first-class cabin, I grabbed my useless plastic cards, turned around, and was shoved out of the VIP lane like a stray dog.

I retreated behind a massive concrete pillar near the bathrooms, my chest heaving. I pulled out my iPhone, my fingers shaking so badly I could barely unlock the screen.

"I'm going to kill that bitch!" I hissed through my teeth, pressing Hailey's contact name.