The master bathroom was a sanctuary of marble and ego.

It was larger than the entire apartment Beatrix had rented in Zurich.

The air here was thick with the scent of eucalyptus and sandalwood-Carlyle's signature blend.

It made her stomach turn with a mix of nausea and nostalgia.

She knelt by the massive soaking tub, the hard tile digging into her knees.

She turned the brass knobs, the water thundering against the porcelain.

Steam began to rise, curling around her loose strands of hair, dampening her face.

She stared at the water, watching the whirlpool jets churn.

It was mesmerizing.

It was dangerous.

She reached for the jar of bath salts on the teak shelf.

It was a heavy glass jar, filled with black lava salts from Iceland.

She remembered buying them for him three years ago for Christmas.

He had scoffed at the time, calling them "dirt rocks."

Apparently, he used them now.

She unscrewed the lid, the coarse grains grinding against the glass.

She leaned over to sprinkle them into the water.

The bath mat, a plush white rectangle, wasn't gripping the floor properly.

It slid.

Beatrix's right knee slipped out from under her.

She flailed, her hand grasping at the slick edge of the tub.

It wasn't enough.

With a strangled cry, she pitched forward.

Gravity took over.

She splashed into the water, fully clothed.

The shock of the heat was instant.

The water was deep, swallowing her coat, her jeans, her sweater.

She gasped, inhaling a mouthful of soapy water, coughing as she scrambled to find purchase on the slippery bottom.

The door to the bathroom flew open.

It hit the wall with a crack that echoed like a gunshot.

"What the hell is going on?" Carlyle roared.

He rushed in, his eyes wide, scanning for a threat.

He stopped dead.

Beatrix was struggling to sit up in the tub, her hair plastered to her face, her clothes heavy and clinging to her skin.

Water sloshed over the sides, pooling on the pristine marble floor.

She froze, staring up at him through wet lashes.

She waited for the explosion.

Carlyle Spears had Haphephobia-a fear of touch.

He was a germaphobe of the highest order.

Disorder and mess were his enemies.

And she was a catastrophic mess.

"I... I slipped," she stammered, wiping water from her eyes.

She expected him to recoil.

She expected him to yell for the maid to bring bleach.

Carlyle didn't move.

He stood over the tub, his hands clenched at his sides. His gaze flickered from her face to the puddle spreading across his immaculate floor, a muscle in his jaw twitching with a familiar, barely-contained disgust. But then his eyes snapped back to her, and the disgust was… gone. Replaced by something else.

It was something darker.

The wet, heavy wool of her coat had been dragged down by the water, slipping from one shoulder. The fabric of her white sweater beneath it had turned translucent, clinging to her chest, outlining the lace of her bra.

Her jeans were dark with water, molding to her legs.

Carlyle's throat bobbed as he swallowed.

He took a step closer, his focus so absolute that he seemed to forget his own rules. His polished dress shoes stepped right into the puddle of water on the floor.

He didn't seem to notice.

"Are you hurt?" his voice was rough, like gravel.

"No," she whispered.

She tried to stand, her boots squelching loudly.

Water cascaded off her, splashing onto his trousers.

Beatrix flinched, pulling back against the far wall of the tub.

"Don't come closer," she warned. "I'm dirty. The floor water..."

Carlyle ignored her.

He reached out a hand. His fingers were long, manicured, but she saw them tremble for a fraction of a second before they steadied.

"Give me your hand, Beatrix."

She stared at his hand.

"You don't touch people," she said, confused.

"I said, give me your hand."

It wasn't a request.

Trembling, she reached out.

Her wet, cold fingers brushed his dry, warm palm.

He didn't pull away.

Instead, his fingers closed around her wrist, his grip iron-tight.

He pulled.

He hauled her out of the tub with effortless strength, water streaming down between them.

She stumbled, crashing into his chest.

As she came up, the waterlogged coat slid completely off her arms, landing with a heavy splash at their feet. Her soaking wet sweater pressed against his immaculate bespoke suit.

She gasped, waiting for him to shove her away.

He didn't.

For a second-one terrifying, electric second-his arm came around her waist to steady her.

He held her there, pressed against him, soaking wet and shivering.

She could feel his heart hammering against his ribs.

It was beating fast.

Too fast.

Then, as if a switch flipped, he let go.

He stepped back, putting three feet of distance between them.

His face shuttered, the mask slamming back into place.

He looked down at his wet suit jacket, his expression twisting into a sneer.

"Look at you," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. "Graceful as ever."

Beatrix wrapped her arms around herself, shivering violently.

"I'm sorry about the suit."

"Strip," he commanded.

Beatrix's head snapped up. "What?"

"Get those wet clothes off before you ruin the rugs in the hallway," he said, turning his back to her. "And dry the floor. I don't pay you to flood my house."

He walked to the door, pausing at the threshold.

"You have ten minutes to make yourself invisible," he said over his shoulder.

"Or what?" she challenged, her teeth chattering.

He looked at her, his eyes lingering on the curve of her hip where the wet jeans clung tight.

"Or I'll have Alfred throw your luggage off the balcony."

He slammed the door.

Beatrix stood there, dripping, shaking, and utterly confused.

He had touched her.

He had held her.

And for a moment, he hadn't looked at her like a nuisance.

He had looked at her like he was starving.

Beatrix locked the bathroom door.

The click of the deadbolt was the only sound in the room, loud and final.

She leaned back against the wood, sliding down until she hit the cold floor.

Her heart was doing acrobatics in her chest, thumping a frantic rhythm against her ribs.

He touched me.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to banish the sensation of his hand on her wrist, the heat of his chest against her cheek.

It meant nothing.

It was a reflex.

He was just protecting his property value-didn't want a lawsuit if she cracked her head open.

She stripped off the heavy, sodden clothes, leaving them in a pile in the corner.

She dried herself with a towel that was fluffier than any blanket she owned.

She found a spare bathrobe in the cabinet-simple, white waffle-weave.

It was huge on her.

She rolled up the sleeves and cinched the belt tight, checking the mirror.

Her eyes were red-rimmed. Her skin was pale.

She looked like a ghost haunting a palace.

She unlocked the door and stepped out.

The bedroom was empty.

But the scent of cigar smoke lingered in the air, fresh and pungent.

He had been here.

Waiting?

Watching?

She hurried to the guest room down the hall, the one she had been assigned three years ago on their wedding night.

She closed the door and grabbed her phone from her purse.

A notification blinked on the screen.

It was from Jenny, her one friend left from college who hadn't abandoned her when the scandal broke.

Link attached: Page Six Exclusive.

Beatrix's stomach dropped.

She tapped the link.

"Wedding Bells Ringing? Carlyle Spears and Gene Golden Spotted at Vera Wang."

The photo was grainy, taken from across the street.

It showed Carlyle holding a door open.

Gene was stepping out, beaming, looking like a literal angel in cream cashmere.

The caption read: Sources say the ink won't even be dry on the Spears divorce before the new Mrs. Spears is crowned.

Beatrix stared at the photo.

She zoomed in on Carlyle's face.

He wasn't smiling.

He looked... intense. Focused.

"So that's why," she whispered to the empty room.

That's why he needed the divorce done now.

That's why he was so agitated.

He was in a rush to replace her.

A fresh wave of nausea hit her, but this time it wasn't from the bathwater.

It was pure, distilled heartbreak.

She couldn't stay here.

Not tonight.

Not with him just down the hall, smelling like her favorite bath salts and planning a wedding with another woman.

She opened her laptop and checked her email.

A message from the hospice administrator sat at the top.

RE: Overnight Accommodations.

Ms. Anderson, a family suite has opened up on the third floor. You are welcome to stay near your mother.

It was a sign.

She threw her toiletries into her bag.

She changed into dry clothes-leggings and an oversized sweater.

She grabbed the handle of her suitcase.

She moved quietly, like a thief in the night.

She opened the guest room door and crept down the hallway.

The living room was dimly lit by the city lights flooding in through the glass walls.

Carlyle was standing by the window, his back to her.

He was on the phone.

"...I don't care what the zoning laws say, just buy the building next to it," he was saying, his voice low and dangerous.

Beatrix tried to glide past the entrance to the foyer.

The wheels of her suitcase squeaked.

Carlyle spun around.

He saw her.

He saw the bag.

He hung up the phone without saying goodbye, tossing it onto the sofa.

"Going somewhere?"

Beatrix stopped.

"I'm leaving," she said, gripping the handle.

"We agreed you'd stay until the gala."

"I changed my mind."

Carlyle walked toward her, emerging from the shadows like a predator.

"You don't get to change your mind, Beatrix. You signed a contract."

"I saw the news, Carlyle," she snapped, her control slipping. "I saw the pictures. You and Gene."

Carlyle stopped.

His expression didn't change, but his shoulders tensed.

"And?"

"And I'm not going to sleep under the same roof as you while you plan your wedding to her. I have some dignity left."

"Dignity," he scoffed. "Is that what we're calling it?"

He gestured to a stack of architectural magazines on the coffee table.

"Gene has specific tastes. She wants to renovate. I asked her to wait until you were gone."

He was doing it on purpose.

He was twisting the knife.

"I'm happy for you," Beatrix lied, her voice trembling. "Now let me leave."

She moved toward the elevator.

Carlyle moved faster.

He stepped in front of the elevator doors, blocking the panel.

He crossed his arms over his chest.

"No."

"What do you mean, no?"

"I mean you're not leaving this apartment tonight."

"You can't keep me here! That's kidnapping!"

"It's spousal protection," he countered smoothly. "There are paparazzi downstairs. They're waiting for a shot of the scorned ex-wife fleeing in the middle of the night. It looks bad for the stock price."

"I don't care about your stock price!"

"I do."

He took a step toward her, forcing her to step back.

"And frankly, Beatrix, you look like hell. I'm not having the press say I starved you."

"You want me to stay?" she asked, incredulous. "You hate me."

"I tolerate you," he corrected. "And right now, tolerating you in the guest room is cheaper than a PR crisis."

He leaned down, his face inches from hers.

"Go to bed. If you try to leave, I'll have security disable the elevators."

Beatrix stared at him, her chest heaving.

He was a monster.

A beautiful, controlling, terrified monster.

"Fine," she hissed. "But don't expect me to play happy family."

"I expect you to be silent," he said. "That's what you're best at, isn't it?"

The digital lock on the front door beeped as Carlyle engaged the deadlock from his phone.

Beatrix watched him, her hand still white-knuckled on her suitcase handle.

He tossed the phone onto the cushion and walked to the wet bar.

The crystal decanter clinked as he poured a generous amount of amber liquid.

Whiskey.

Rare. Aged. Expensive.

He held the glass up to the light, swirling it.

"Drink?" he offered, not looking at her.

Beatrix hesitated.

Her nerves were frayed wires sparking against each other.

She needed something to dull the sharp edges of this night.

She let go of the suitcase. It stood there like a sentinel between them.

She walked to the bar.

"Yes."

Carlyle poured a second glass.

He slid it across the marble counter.

She reached for it.

Her pinky finger grazed the side of his hand.

Normally, he would have flinched. He would have wiped his hand on a napkin immediately.

He didn't.

He paused, his eyes dropping to where their skin touched.

He held the contact for a second longer than necessary before pulling his hand back.

Beatrix took the glass and downed a large swallow.

It burned.

It was a good burn. It distracted her from the ache in her chest.

Carlyle walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out at the grid of Manhattan lights.

Beatrix followed, keeping a safe distance.

They stood in silence for a long time, the only sound the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sirens of the city below.

"You'll be twenty-six next week," Carlyle stated suddenly.

His voice was quiet, stripped of its usual mockery.

Beatrix let out a short, dry laugh.

"I'm surprised you remembered, Carlyle."

He turned his head slowly to look at her.

There was a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.

"Twenty-six," he repeated.

He had missed three birthdays.

He hadn't just missed them; he had ignored them.

"You look older," he said.

It wasn't a compliment.

"Being Mrs. Spears ages a person in dog years," she shot back.

Carlyle's eyebrows shot up.

"You've found your tongue," he noted, turning fully to face her. "Europe made you brave."

"Europe made me realize I don't need to be afraid of you."

"Is that right?"

He took a step toward her.

"My grandfather has security posted in the lobby," he said, changing the subject. "Just so you know."

"Protecting me from the paparazzi?" she asked.

"Protecting you from your father's investors," he corrected. "Some of them lost everything. They have long memories. They know you're back."

Beatrix felt a chill that had nothing to do with the air conditioning.

"I have nothing to give them."

"They don't want money, Beatrix. They want blood."

"And you're my knight in shining armor?" she mocked. "Protecting the family silver?"

Carlyle's jaw tightened.

He didn't like that she saw through him.

He didn't like that she knew he had actually assigned guards to her specifically.

"I'm protecting my assets," he snapped.

He downed the rest of his whiskey in one gulp.

The glass hit the table with a thud.

"Since you're so eager to leave," he said, his voice dropping to a cruel register. "I'm going to have the bed in the master suite replaced tomorrow."

Beatrix froze.

"Why?"

"Gene doesn't like used furniture," he said, watching her closely. "She says it holds bad energy."

Beatrix felt the blood drain from her face.

That bed.

It was a California King with a custom mattress she had spent weeks selecting.

It was the only place in this cold, glass box where she had ever felt safe.

She had spent countless nights curled up in the middle of that vast expanse, hugging a pillow, pretending Carlyle was sleeping on the other side.

He knew she loved that bed.

"It's a ten-thousand-dollar mattress," she whispered.

"It's trash," he said.

He was trying to hurt her.

He was trying to get a reaction because she had been too calm about the divorce.

Beatrix set her glass down.

She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

"Fine," she said, lifting her chin. "Throw it out. It was too hard anyway. It hurt my back."

She lied straight to his face.

Carlyle's eyes narrowed.

He knew she was lying.

He remembered the one time he had walked in and seen her sleeping on it, looking like she was floating on a cloud.

"Good," he said through gritted teeth. "I'm glad we agree."

"I'm going to sleep," Beatrix said.

She turned on her heel and walked to the guest room.

She didn't look back.

She closed the door and leaned against it, letting out a shaky breath.

In the living room, Carlyle stared at the empty hallway.

He looked at the spot where she had stood.

He felt a tightening in his gut, a mix of anger and something else he refused to name.

He pulled out his phone.

He typed a message to his assistant: Don't touch the furniture in the master suite.

He stared at the screen for a moment.

His thumb hovered over the send button.

Then he deleted it.

He threw the phone onto the sofa and poured himself another drink.