Charlie unlocked the front door of the penthouse and stepped inside. The apartment was silent and empty. Claudius was still at the office, as she had known he would be.

She walked straight down the hallway to the walk-in closet. The motion sensor lights flickered on, illuminating the 300-square-meter space.

Rows and rows of haute couture dresses, organized by color and season. Hundreds of pairs of Christian Louboutin shoes, lined up like soldiers. An entire wall of Hermès Birkin bags, in every color and every leather.

Once, these things had made her feel special. Once, she had thought they were proof of his love.

Now, they just made her sick.

She pulled out her phone and opened Instagram again, scrolling back through Vivianne's feed. And one by one, she made the connections.

That Himalayan crocodile Birkin? Vivianne had carried it to Paris Fashion Week.

That Chanel tweed suit? Vivianne had worn it to a yacht party in the Hamptons.

That Cartier bracelet? That Gucci dress? That Jimmy Choo clutch? All of them. Every single gift he had ever given her. Vivianne had the exact same one.

And the worst part? Even Vivianne's poses. Even her makeup. Even her hairstyle. They were all terrible, cheap imitations of Corina.

Claudius wasn't just cheating on her with his wife. He was running two parallel relationships, with two different women, both of whom were just replacements for the woman who had rejected him.

He was a monster. A sick, twisted, psychopathic monster.

Charlie screamed and threw her phone as hard as she could against the wall. It hit the cashmere carpet and skidded across the floor, the screen shattering into a spiderweb of cracks.

She stood there, breathing heavily, her chest heaving with rage. And then she knew exactly what she had to do.

She picked up her broken phone and dialed the VIP customer service line for The RealReal, America's largest luxury consignment platform.

"This is Charlie Powell," she said, her voice cold and steady. "I need your top appraisal team at my penthouse immediately. I want everything with the Buchanan name on it gone. Everything."

Less than an hour later, the doorbell rang. Four appraisers in crisp black uniforms stood in the hallway, rolling large hard-shell cases behind them.

Charlie led them to the closet. "All of it," she said, gesturing around. "The bags. The shoes. The clothes. The jewelry. Pack it all up."

The appraisers stared in shock. They had never seen anyone get rid of so much brand new, limited edition luxury goods all at once. But they knew better than to ask questions. They got to work immediately, carefully wrapping each item in tissue paper and packing it into the cases.

Just as the last case was about to be sealed, the private elevator dinged.

Claudius walked in. He was wearing his perfectly tailored navy suit, and he was holding a dessert box from a three-Michelin-starred restaurant.

He stopped short when he saw the empty closets and the four strange men in his apartment. His dark eyes narrowed, and a dangerous glint flashed in them.

The air in the room turned to ice. The appraisers froze, suddenly very aware that they were in the presence of one of the most powerful men in New York. No one dared to breathe.

Claudius set the dessert box down on the kitchen island. He turned to Charlie, his voice so low it was almost a growl.

"What is going on here?"

Charlie's heart was hammering against her ribs so hard she thought it would break. But she put on her most innocent, spoiled smile and walked over to him. She wrapped her arms around his neck and stood on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

"All those clothes are so last season," she said, pouting. "I'm sick of them. I want a whole new wardrobe. I don't want to look like every other boring socialite in New York anymore."

She bit his chin playfully, looking up at him with big, wide eyes. "Don't be mad, okay? I just wanted a change."

Claudius stared down at her for a long, long time, searching her face for any sign of deception. Charlie held his gaze steadily, not blinking, not flinching.

Finally, he sighed. The ice in his eyes melted, and he reached up to ruffle her hair.

"You're impossible," he said, shaking his head.

He pulled an American Express Centurion card out of his inner suit pocket and held it between his long fingers.

"Fine," he said. "If you don't like them, throw them all away. Tomorrow, take this card and go buy whatever you want on Fifth Avenue. The whole store if you feel like it."

Charlie smiled and took the card from him. Her fingertips brushed against his warm skin, but inside, she was colder than ice.

She watched as the appraisers rolled the last case out the door. And as the elevator closed behind them, she knew that she hadn't just cleared out her closet.

She had cleared out the last remaining piece of her heart that had ever belonged to Claudius Buchanan.

The next afternoon, Charlie stood in the international arrivals hall of JFK Airport's Terminal 4. She was wearing an unassuming black trench coat, oversized sunglasses, and her hair was pulled back in a tight bun.

This was the first time she had stepped outside Claudius's sphere of surveillance in days. She was here to pick up Corina, who was flying back from a business trip in London.

She stood by the VIP exit, holding an iced Starbucks coffee, and scanned the crowd warily. Her eyes darted from face to face, looking for any sign of Buchanan security.

The arrivals board flashed: British Airways Flight 117. Landed.

Passengers began to stream out of the gate. Charlie craned her neck, searching for her sister's familiar face.

And then she saw him.

A tall, imposing figure at the end of the corridor. A perfectly tailored navy suit. That sharp, angular profile that she knew so well.

Claudius.

Charlie's blood ran cold. He was supposed to be in a critical merger meeting on Wall Street all day. What was he doing here?

She jumped back, pressing herself against a massive concrete pillar, her heart hammering in her chest. She peeked out from behind the pillar, and what she saw next made her feel like she was going to throw up.

A woman in a Chanel suit was walking beside him, her arm linked through his. She had the same chestnut brown waves and the same haughty chin as Corina. It was Vivianne Mercer. His wife.

Claudius's face was expressionless, as always, but he didn't pull away. Two bodyguards followed behind them, pushing their luggage carts.

Charlie's fingers dug into the paper coffee cup so hard it crumpled in her hand. Cold coffee spilled down her wrist, but she didn't feel it.

And then, right behind them, not five meters away, Corina walked through the gate.

She was wearing a crisp white Tom Ford suit, her heels clicking sharply on the linoleum floor. She walked like she owned the place, like the world owed her something.

Fate had played a cruel joke. Four people, all bound together by lies and betrayal, had converged on this single, narrow corridor.

Corina looked up, and her eyes locked onto Claudius's back. A look of unadulterated disgust crossed her face.

She saw Vivianne too, and a mocking, bitter smile tugged at her lips.

Claudius must have felt her gaze. He paused mid-step and turned his head slightly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Corina.

In that split second, Charlie saw everything. The stubbornness. The longing. The rage. The hidden madness that lay just beneath his calm surface.

Vivianne followed his gaze. When she saw Corina, her face paled slightly. She tightened her grip on Claudius's arm, pressing herself closer to him, staking her claim.

Charlie pressed her back against the pillar, her stomach churning. The babies inside her seemed to sense her distress, and a dull ache spread through her lower abdomen.

Corina didn't slow down. She didn't acknowledge either of them. She just kept walking, her head held high, and walked right past them without a single glance.

Charlie knew she couldn't hide any longer. She had to go to her sister.

She took a deep breath, straightened her trench coat, and pushed her sunglasses down onto her nose. She stepped out from behind the pillar.

"Corina!" she called, her voice clear and sweet.

The sound echoed through the arrivals hall.

Corina stopped and turned, a smile breaking across her face when she saw Charlie.

And Claudius spun around so fast it was almost violent.

When he saw Charlie standing there, his pupils dilated to black pinpricks. He made a sharp, involuntary movement to pull his arm away from Vivianne.

But Charlie didn't even glance in his direction. It was as if he didn't exist. As if he was just a speck of dust in the air.

She walked straight past him, straight to Corina. She threw her arms around her sister and took her leather briefcase from her hand.

"Welcome home," she said, smiling up at her.

As they walked past him, Charlie caught a whiff of his familiar cologne, mixed with the sickly sweet scent of Vivianne's perfume.

She held her head high, her back straight, and walked out of the airport with her sister, leaving a stunned Claudius Buchanan standing frozen in the middle of the arrivals hall.