Boston stood up, adjusting his jacket. He looked like he wanted to burn the suit he was wearing just because it had touched her furniture.

"The ring," he demanded, extending his hand. "Give it to me. We're leaving."

Florrie didn't move to get the ring. Instead, she reached into the folder again and pulled out a single sheet of paper.

She slid it across the glass table.

It wasn't a legal document. It was an invoice.

TO: Boston Travis

FOR: Reimbursement of Custom Vera Wang Bridal Gown

AMOUNT: $1,000,000.00

Boston stared at the number. His brow furrowed. "A million dollars? The dress cost fifty thousand. I saw the bill."

"That was the retail price," Florrie said, her voice smooth as silk. "This invoice includes the 'Expedited Retrieval Fee' and the 'Used Goods Depreciation'."

"Used goods?" Boston looked confused.

"Asia is wearing it," Florrie said, a look of utter disgust crossing her face for a fraction of a second. "Once she puts her traitorous body in my dress, it's contaminated. It's trash. I can't wear it. I can't sell it. So you're paying for the replacement value. Plus emotional damages."

"You are disgusting!" Genevieve shrieked from the sofa, finding her voice again. "My niece is dying, and you talk about her like she's... she's a contagion!"

"She's been poisoning my life since she was born," Florrie said. "Now she's just doing it with more flair."

She looked at Boston. "Pay it. Or I add it to the lawsuit."

Boston looked at her. He took a deep breath, and suddenly, the anger in his eyes shifted. It cooled. It morphed into something slimier. Something that looked disturbingly like admiration.

He chuckled. A dry, humorless sound.

"You know," Boston said, tilting his head. "I never knew you had teeth, Florrie. I always thought you were just... soft. Pretty. Decorative."

He took a step toward her. Buster growled low in his throat, but Boston stopped just out of biting range.

"This fire..." Boston gestured to her suit, her hair, her eyes. "It's sexy. Much sexier than the weeping victim I expected to find."

Florrie felt her skin crawl. "Don't."

"Listen," Boston said, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Asia... she really is dying. Three months. Six at the most. Once she's gone... I'll be a widower."

He smiled. It was the smile of a wolf looking at a lamb chop.

"Why don't we keep this channel open?" he suggested. "You keep the money. Keep the beach house. And when Asia passes... you can come back. We can try again."

Florrie stared at him. Her brain struggled to comprehend the sheer depravity of what he was suggesting.

"You want me to wait for my sister to die so I can be your second choice?"

"Not second choice," Boston corrected smoothly. "My permanent choice. Asia is just... an obligation. A PR move. You know I don't love her like I love you. In the meantime... I'll need comfort. I'll need a friend. A secret companion."

He winked. He actually winked.

"You could stay at the beach house," he added. "I could visit on weekends. It would be our little secret."

The nausea hit Florrie again, but this time, it was hot. It was a volcano erupting in her stomach.

She looked at the glass of whiskey Cherry had poured earlier. The ice had melted, leaving a layer of cold water at the top.

She stood up slowly. She picked up the glass.

Boston smiled, thinking she was raising a toast to his brilliant plan.

"To us," he said, reaching out.

Florrie threw the contents of the glass.

She didn't aim for his face. That would be too dramatic. Too cliché.

She aimed lower.

The ice water hit the crotch of his charcoal trousers with a splash.

Boston gasped, jumping back. The cold liquid soaked instantly into the expensive wool, creating a dark, spreading stain right between his legs.

It looked exactly like he had wet himself.

"What the hell!" Boston yelled, batting at his pants. "Are you crazy?"

"That," Florrie said, her voice vibrating with rage, "is for suggesting I be your whore."

Genevieve scrambled off the sofa. "You assault my son! I'm calling the police!"

"Call them!" Florrie shouted. She pointed a finger at Genevieve. "And I'll show them the bruises on my soul from your family's abuse for the last ten years!"

She turned back to Boston. He was looking down at his pants, humiliated. The stain was undeniable. He couldn't walk out of the building like this without looking like a toddler who had an accident.

"Get out," Florrie said. Her voice was low, dangerous. "Get out of my house. Get out of my life. If I ever see you again, Boston, I won't use water. I'll use acid."

"Buster!" she commanded. "Escort!"

The dog barked, a savage sound, and took a step forward.

Boston and Genevieve stumbled backward toward the door.

"You'll regret this!" Boston shouted, trying to cover his crotch with his hands. "You'll die alone, Florrie! No one wants a damaged, bitter woman!"

"I'd rather die alone than live with you!" Florrie screamed back.

She grabbed the invoice from the table. She crumpled it into a ball and threw it at him. It hit him in the chest.

"Don't forget to pay the bill!"

The hallway was quiet, but the air inside the penthouse felt charged, like the atmosphere before a lightning strike.

Boston and Genevieve scrambled into the elevator. Boston was still clutching the front of his trousers, his face a mask of purple rage. Genevieve was muttering curses, fixing her pearls with trembling hands.

Florrie stood in the doorway, Buster at her side, watching them retreat.

Just as the elevator doors began to slide shut, Florrie remembered.

"The key card!" she shouted.

Boston looked up. His eyes met hers through the narrowing gap. The hate in them was pure, distilled.

He reached into his wet pocket. He pulled out the black access card to her building.

He didn't hand it over. He threw it.

It clattered onto the marble floor of the hallway, sliding to a stop near Florrie's feet.

"Keep your damn fortress," he spat.

The doors closed. The numbers above the elevator began to descend. PH... 40... 39...

Florrie stared at the digital display until it hit L.

Then, her legs gave out.

She sank to the floor, the adrenaline crashing out of her system all at once. Her hands, which had been so steady holding the pen, began to shake violently.

"Miss Jefferson!" Cherry came running from the kitchen.

Florrie waved her away. "I'm fine. I'm fine."

She wasn't fine. She felt hollowed out. She wrapped her arms around Buster's neck, burying her face in his thick, warm fur. He smelled like dog shampoo and safety.

She stayed there for a minute, just breathing. Inhale. Exhale. You survived. You won.

But it didn't feel like a victory. It felt like an amputation.

She lifted her head. The hallway was empty. The Settlement Agreement was on the table. She had the house. She had her mother's trust back.

But she didn't have her dignity. Not completely. Not while her dress was currently being fitted onto Asia's body. Not while her engagement ring was still in her jewelry box, a heavy, glittering lie.

She stood up. The shaking stopped. A new resolve hardened in her eyes.

"Cherry," she said, her voice crisp again. "Call the building management. Tell them to change the penthouse codes immediately. And put the entire Travis family-Boston, Genevieve, his sister Brittnie-on the permanent ban list. If they step foot in the lobby, I want them arrested for trespassing."

"Yes, ma'am," Cherry said, already dialing.

Florrie walked into her bedroom. She went to the safe.

She took out the engagement ring box. She opened it. The emerald stared back at her, cold and green.

She went to her jewelry armoire. She swept everything Boston had ever given her into a pile. The diamond tennis bracelet. The Cartier love bangle. The pearl earrings.

They were beautiful. They were expensive.

They were garbage.

She grabbed a plain brown paper grocery bag from the kitchen. She shoved the jewelry inside. No velvet pouches. No boxes. Just loose diamonds rattling against cheap paper.

"Where are you going?" Cherry asked, hanging up the phone.

"To the hospital," Florrie said. She pulled on a pair of heavy combat boots. She traded her suit jacket for a leather trench coat.

"Florrie, no," Cherry pleaded. "Don't go there. It's a shark tank. They'll eat you alive."

"Let them try," Florrie said.

She walked to the storage closet near the entrance. It was filled with leftover party supplies from the engagement party she had hosted last month.

Her eyes landed on a box of long, sparkler candles. The kind meant for champagne bottles. The kind that burned hot and bright.

She grabbed a handful. She shoved them into her coat pocket along with a silver lighter.

The cold metal wires in her pocket didn't feel like whimsical toys. They felt like fuses.

"Why do you need those?" Cherry asked, eyeing the sparklers warily.

"For a celebration," Florrie said. A dark, reckless smile touched her lips. "If they want a wedding, I'll give them fireworks."

"Florrie, please..."

"Stay here with Buster," Florrie ordered.

She walked out the door. She didn't look back.

The elevator ride down was smooth. The mirrored walls reflected a woman who looked like she was going to war.

Outside, the sky had turned a bruised purple. Thunder rumbled in the distance. The storm was coming.

Florrie stepped out into the humid air. She hailed a cab.

"Mount Sinai Hospital," she told the driver. "And step on it."

As the city blurred past the window, Florrie touched the sparklers in her pocket.

She wasn't just going to return the ring. She was going to burn the bridge so thoroughly that even the ashes wouldn't be able to find their way back.

The VIP wing of Mount Sinai Hospital didn't smell like sickness. It smelled of fresh lilies and expensive coffee. The floors were polished to a mirror shine, and the silence was respectful, heavy with money.

Florrie's combat boots squeaked against the linoleum as she marched down the corridor.

She heard them before she saw them.

"I can't believe she did that to your pants, Boston! It's assault!" Deirdre's shrill voice drifted from Room 402. "And demanding the trust back? Arlin, you have to do something. Call the lawyers."

"I can't," Arlin Jefferson's gruff voice replied. "If she leaks that recording about the tax evasion, we're all finished. We have to let her have it."

Florrie paused outside the open door. Through the glass, she saw the tableau.

Asia was in the bed, propped up by a mountain of pillows. She looked pale, yes, but her hair was perfectly brushed, and she was wearing a silk robe, not a hospital gown. Boston sat by her side, holding her hand. He had changed into a pair of hospital scrubs pants-presumably borrowed from a doctor-which looked ridiculous with his dress shirt.

Deirdre was pacing. Arlin was rubbing his temples.

Florrie pushed the door open. It hit the stopper with a loud thud.

Everyone jumped.

"Did someone order a delivery?" Florrie asked.

She walked to the foot of the bed. She upended the brown paper grocery bag.

Clatter. Clink. Crash.

Thousands of dollars worth of diamonds and gold spilled onto the rolling table at the foot of the bed. The emerald ring spun on the plastic surface and fell onto the floor.

"My jewelry!" Genevieve, who was sitting in the corner, gasped. "You brought it in a paper bag? Like takeout?"

"It's what it deserves," Florrie said. She looked at Asia. "Here. You like my leftovers so much? Take them. Wear the ring. It's a bit loose, though. You might need to fatten up."

"Florence!" Arlin stood up, his face red. "Have some respect! Your sister is dying!"

"Is she?" Florrie tilted her head. She looked at the monitor. The heart rate was steady. The oxygen levels were 99%. "She looks remarkably energetic for someone on death's door."

"Get out!" Boston shouted, standing up. "You've done enough damage."

"Not yet," Florrie said.

She reached into her pocket. She pulled out the long, silver sparkler.

The room went silent.

"What is that?" Deirdre asked, her voice trembling.

"A candle," Florrie said. "For the happy couple."

She flicked the lighter. Click.

The flame roared to life. She touched it to the tip of the sparkler.

HISSSSSS.

A fountain of gold and silver sparks erupted from the stick. It was blindingly bright in the dim room. The smell of sulfur and burning magnesium filled the air instantly. The fire alarm on the ceiling began to shriek-a piercing, electronic scream-but no water came. It was a smoke detector, not a heat sensor.

"Are you crazy?" Boston screamed, shielding his eyes. "There are oxygen tanks in here! You'll blow us up!"

"Relax," Florrie said, her voice calm amidst the blaring alarm. She waved the sparkling wand like a conductor's baton. "I'm not an arsonist. I'm just creating a diversion."

She took a step closer to the bed, the sparks dancing dangerously near the silk sheets. Nurses and a security guard were now running down the hall toward the noise.

"Congratulations," Florrie said, her voice cutting through the chaos. "I wish you a long and happy marriage." She paused, her eyes locking onto Asia's. "Oh, wait. You don't have long, do you?"

She reached into her other pocket and pulled out a small, crumpled piece of paper-a pharmacy receipt she'd fished out of the trash at their shared Hamptons house last month.

She held it up. "Funny thing, Asia. Your chemotherapy drugs have a severe interaction warning. 'Avoid all contact with Lilium pollen.' It can cause anaphylaxis. Seizures. Sores."

She gestured with the sparkler toward the enormous bouquet of white lilies on the bedside table-Genevieve's contribution.

"You've been surrounded by your own personal kryptonite for hours," Florrie said sweetly. "And yet... not a single rash. Not one sneeze. You look radiant. How do you do it?"

Asia's face went white. Arlin and Deirdre stared, confused. But Boston... Boston looked from the lilies, to the receipt, to Asia's terrified face. For the first time, a seed of pure, undiluted doubt was planted.

"What is she talking about?" Boston asked, his voice low.

"She's lying! She's crazy!" Asia shrieked, but her protest was drowned out by the arrival of security, who grabbed Florrie by the arms.

Florrie didn't resist. She dropped the dying sparkler onto the linoleum floor, where it fizzled out. She had done what she came to do.

As they pulled her from the room, she looked over her shoulder at Boston. "Ask her doctor," Florrie called out. "Ask to see the allergy panel on her chart."

She was shoved out into the hallway, leaving behind a family frozen in a tableau of suspicion and a room that stank of smoke and lies.