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.

The doorbell rang at 7:00 AM.

It wasn't a polite ring. It was a persistent, entitled buzzing that drilled into Beatrix's skull.

She had slept on the guest room sofa, fully clothed, afraid that if she got under the covers, she would never want to get up.

She stumbled to the door, rubbing her eyes.

She opened it.

Gene Golden stood there.

She looked like a sunrise in a Chanel tweed suit.

Her hair was a perfect blonde cascade. Her makeup was flawless.

She held a cardboard tray with four coffees.

"Good morning!" Gene chirped, her voice sickeningly sweet.

She pushed past Beatrix before she could even say hello. Beatrix frowned, wondering how she'd gotten up to the penthouse. Alfred must have granted her access from the lobby. A courtesy Carlyle must have approved.

"Is Carly up?"

Carly.

Beatrix winced.

Only Gene called him that.

"Kitchen," Beatrix mumbled, closing the door.

Carlyle emerged from the hallway.

He was wearing running shorts and a tight technical t-shirt that clung to his chest.

He was sweating.

He had been on the treadmill.

Gene squealed and launched herself at him.

"Carly!"

She threw her arms around his neck.

Beatrix watched, waiting for the flinch.

Carlyle's posture went rigid, but it was a practiced, almost imperceptible tension that a stranger wouldn't notice. His hands landed on her back with the careful precision of a surgeon, his fingers stiff, not relaxed. He endured the embrace.

He saw her watching.

He held the hug for a beat longer, a challenge in his eyes, before gently disengaging.

"Gene," he said. "You're early."

"I brought coffee!" She pulled back, beaming. "And breakfast. I thought we could celebrate."

She turned to Beatrix, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.

"Oh, Beatrix. You're still here? I thought you'd be... gone."

"Packing takes time," Beatrix said, leaning against the wall.

"Well, come sit!" Gene gestured to the dining table like she owned it. "We have plenty."

It was a trap.

Beatrix knew she should retreat. The gray rock method demanded it. But looking at Gene's triumphant smile, something inside her snapped. The rock cracked.

She walked to the table and sat opposite them.

Gene sat next to Carlyle, moving her chair so close their knees touched.

Carlyle shifted his leg away.

"So," Gene said, unpacking bagels. "Did you see the news, Bea? About the dress?"

"I saw it," Beatrix said, taking a plain black coffee. "Congratulations."

"It's not official yet," Carlyle muttered, looking at his phone.

"Oh, stop being so modest," Gene giggled, slapping his arm playfully. "Everyone knows it's happening the second the papers are filed."

She looked at Beatrix with wide, innocent eyes.

"So, what about you, Bea? What's your plan? I heard... rumors."

Beatrix paused, the cup halfway to her mouth. "Rumors?"

"That you're seeing someone," Gene lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Someone from your university days?"

Carlyle's head snapped up.

His phone clattered to the table.

His gaze drilled into Beatrix. It was cold, sharp, and lethal.

"Is that true?" he demanded.

Beatrix looked at Gene.

Gene was smiling. She had planted this. She wanted Carlyle to think Beatrix was cheating so he wouldn't feel guilty about kicking her out.

Beatrix looked at Carlyle.

He looked furious.

Why?

He was divorcing her. He was marrying Gene. Why did he care?

Unless...

Beatrix made a split-second decision.

If he thought she was moving on, maybe he would let her go faster. She decided to fight fire with fire.

"Yes," she lied smoothly. "His name is Mark. He was a senior when I was a freshman."

"What does he do?" Carlyle asked, his voice tight.

"Finance," she invented. "Hedge funds."

Carlyle's hand clenched around his coffee cup. The cardboard crumpled.

"A finance bro," he sneered. "How original."

"He treats me well," Beatrix said, twisting the knife. "He likes to hold my hand."

Carlyle slammed his fist onto the table.

The coffee cups jumped.

"Enough," he growled.

Gene looked delighted, but then she saw the vein throbbing in Carlyle's temple.

She realized he wasn't just angry. He was jealous.

She clutched her chest suddenly, letting out a small gasp.

"Carly..." she whined. "My heart... it's fluttering again."

She slumped against him.

Carlyle's attention snapped to her.

"Gene?"

"I think I need my pills," she whispered, looking frail. "They're in the car."

Carlyle stood up immediately.

"I'll take you to the hospital."

"No, just... drive me home," she said weakly.

Carlyle helped her up.

He looked back at Beatrix.

His eyes were full of hate.

"We have dinner at the Estate tonight," he said coldly. "Grandmother insists."

"I can't go," Beatrix said. "Mark is-"

"Cancel on Mark," Carlyle barked. "You are still my wife on paper. You will be there."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then I'll freeze your accounts," he said. "Every single one. Let's see how much Mark likes you when you can't pay for your own dinner."

He walked Gene to the door.

Gene looked back over Carlyle's shoulder.

She winked.

The door slammed.

Beatrix sat alone in the silence.

Her phone buzzed.

A text from her bank.

Alert: Your transaction for $4,500 to Sloan Kettering Hospice was declined.

He hadn't waited.

He had frozen the accounts already.

Beatrix stared at the message, her vision blurring.

That was her mother's medication money.

She grabbed the bagel Gene had left and threw it across the room.

It hit the pristine glass wall with a dull thud, leaving a smear of cream cheese.