Monday morning at Meyers Media was a catastrophe.

"Anaya!" Barrett yelled, staring at the empty desk outside his office.

Silence answered him.

A terrified temp assistant hurried in, spilling coffee on the saucer. "Sir? I... I don't know where the files are."

Barrett swept the cup off his desk. It shattered against the wall.

"Get out!"

The temp fled.

Barrett ran a hand through his hair. He was unraveling. The office was in chaos. The Townsend merger was stalling because the due diligence team had found "irregularities" in the logistics subsidiary-exactly what Anaya had warned him about.

How did she know?

The door opened. His PR director, Marcus, walked in, looking pale.

"Boss, we have a problem. The video from the Hamptons. It's on TMZ."

Barrett stared at the tablet Marcus handed him. There it was. Anaya, looking like a vengeful goddess in a summer dress, shoving Adele into the pool. The paper airplane landing.

The comments were brutal. But not for Anaya.

"Finally someone pushed that plastic doll."

"Who is the girl in the dress? She's iconic."

"Townsend's lawyers want a statement," Marcus said. "They drafted this. It condemns Anaya as a disgruntled, violent ex-employee."

Barrett looked at the draft. It called Anaya "unstable" and "jealous."

He picked up his pen. He should sign it. It was the smart business move.

But he remembered the look in Anaya's eyes at the pool. It wasn't jealousy. It was indifference.

He threw the pen down. "Bury it. No statement."

"But sir-"

"I said bury it!"

That night, Barrett drove his Aston Martin too fast on the LIE. The rain was coming down in sheets, mirroring the storm inside his head.

He reached for his phone to call Anaya again. He needed to hear her voice. He needed to yell at her, or maybe beg her. He didn't know which.

The car hydroplaned.

The world spun. Metal screeched against concrete. The airbag deployed with a punch to his face that knocked him into darkness.

In a cozy kitchen in New Jersey, Anaya was kneading dough. Nana Rose sat in her rocking chair, knitting.

"You okay, child?" Nana asked.

"I'm fine, Nana."

Anaya's phone rang. A strange number.

She answered. "Hello?"

"Ms. Rowe? This is the OnStar emergency service. We have a crash alert for a vehicle registered to Barrett Meyers. You are listed as the primary emergency contact."

Anaya's hands paused in the flour. She remembered the day she'd set that up. Barrett had tossed her the keys and said, "Handle this," too important to fill out his own paperwork. He never would have thought to change it. He never thought she would leave.

In her past life, she would have been in the car. Or she would have been rushing to the hospital, sobbing, holding his hand while he yelled at her for his own reckless driving.

She looked at the flour on her fingers.

"Is he alive?" she asked.

"The paramedics are on scene. He is conscious but disoriented."

"Good," Anaya said. "You have the wrong number."

"Ma'am? The system says-"

"His fiancée is Adele Townsend. Call her. And remove my number from your database."

She hung up.

She tapped the screen and blocked the number. Then she went back to the dough. She pressed her palms into it, folding it over, burying the past.

Barrett woke up in the ER. His head throbbed.

"Anaya?" he croaked.

His assistant, Marcus, was standing by the bed. He looked uncomfortable.

"Sir... Ms. Rowe... we called her."

"Where is she?" Barrett tried to sit up.

"She said to call Ms. Townsend. She hung up on the operator."

Barrett froze. The pain in his head was nothing compared to the hollow ache in his chest. She didn't come. She didn't care.

The door flew open. Adele rushed in, followed by a photographer.

"Oh, my poor darling!" Adele cried, posing perfectly by the bedside. "Did you get the shot?" she hissed at the photographer.

Barrett looked at Adele. He looked at the camera lens.

Suddenly, a vision flashed in his mind. A cold, gray cell. Anaya, curling on a cot, alone. Dying alone.

It was so vivid, so real, it made him nauseous.

He pulled his hand away from Adele.

"Get out," he whispered.

The VIP room at Mount Sinai was quiet, but Barrett couldn't sleep.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her.

Not the Anaya who pushed Adele. But a different Anaya. Thinner. Her hair lackluster. Wearing an orange jumpsuit.

The Dream:

She was standing behind bars. She turned to look at him. Her eyes were empty sockets.

"You promised," she whispered. "You said twenty million dollars."

Then, she coughed. Blood splattered onto his hands. Warm, sticky blood.

Barrett jerked awake, gasping.

The heart monitor beeped rapidly. Beep-beep-beep.

Dr. Evans rushed in. "Mr. Meyers? Are you in pain?"

Barrett looked at his hands. They were clean. But he could feel the phantom warmth of the blood.

"Doctor," Barrett said, his voice shaking. "Is it possible for a concussion to cause... incredibly vivid nightmares? Nightmares that feel like memories?"

Dr. Evans checked his pupils. "You have a mild concussion, Barrett. And you're under immense stress. The brain plays tricks."

The door opened. Adele walked in. She was carrying an Hermès bag and a thermos.

"Barrett, darling," she said, her voice grating on his nerves like sandpaper. "The board is panicking. The stock dropped two points because of the accident. We need to post a selfie. Show them you're strong."

Barrett looked at her. Really looked at her.

In his nightmare, just before Anaya died, he had heard Adele laughing in the background.

"Is that all you care about?" Barrett asked. " The stock price?"

Adele blinked. "It's our future, Barrett. Don't be naive."

"Get out," he said.

"Excuse me?"

"I said get out! Leave me alone!"

Adele huffed, grabbed her bag, and stormed out.

Barrett ripped the IV tape off his hand. He ignored the sting. He grabbed his phone.

He dialed Anaya.

Call failed. Blocked.

He threw the phone across the room. It cracked against the wall.

"Marcus!" he yelled.

His assistant ran in.

"Get me a burner phone. Now. And find out where she is."

Ten minutes later, Marcus handed him a cheap prepaid phone. "She's in New Jersey, sir. At her grandmother's house. But... there was a search history on her work laptop before she wiped it. 'Investment Visas for Portugal'."

"She's leaving the country?" Barrett felt a spike of pure terror.

He dialed her number on the burner phone. His fingers trembled.

Ring... Ring...

"Hello?"

Her voice was cool, calm. Like water.

Barrett let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "Anaya."

Silence on the other end.

"Why did you block me?" he asked. It was the wrong thing to say. He knew it instantly. He sounded possessive, controlling. But he couldn't help it.

"Mr. Meyers," she said.

The formality was a slap in the face.

Anaya stood in Nana Rose's garden. She was pruning the hydrangeas. Snip. Snip.

"Mr. Meyers," she repeated. "Ex-employees are not obligated to be your emotional support animals."

"I didn't release Adele's statement," Barrett said quickly. "I stopped it. I protected you."

Anaya laughed softly. "Protected me? You've been killing me slowly for years, Barrett. A little piece of my soul for every deal closed, every lie I covered. You just never noticed."

"For years?" Barrett was confused. "What are you talking about?"

"It doesn't matter." She cut a dead branch. It fell to the ground.

"Come back," he said. His voice cracked. "I'll double your salary. I'll... I'll postpone the wedding. We can talk about the merger. You were right about the logistics accounts."

He was bargaining. He was desperate.

Anaya looked at the setting sun. "Barrett, listen to me closely. I don't love you anymore."

"You're lying. You're angry."

"No," she said. "I don't hate you, either. Hate implies passion. I just... don't care. You are nothing to me. Just a bad memory."

Genuine Indifference.

She heard his breath hitch over the phone line. She heard the beep of a machine in the background.

"Don't look for me," she said. "If you do, I'll send the files I have on the Cayman accounts to the FBI. I'm not bluffing."

She hung up.

She popped the back off the cheap burner phone she was using. She took out the SIM card and snapped it in half. She tossed the pieces into the trash can.

In the hospital, Barrett stared at the phone.

Nothing.

She was gone.

He ripped the sensors off his chest. The monitor flatlined, screaming a high-pitched alarm. Nurses came running.

"Mr. Meyers! You can't leave!"

"Watch me," he snarled.

He grabbed his clothes. He had to stop her. Portugal. She was going to Portugal.

He had to get to New Jersey before she left for the airport.