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.

The drive to the Hamptons took two hours.

Beatrix sat in the back of the town car alone.

Carlyle had taken his sports car. Presumably with Gene.

Beatrix wore a high-necked black dress she had bought three years ago for a funeral.

It felt appropriate.

The Spears Estate loomed in the twilight-a massive, sprawling mansion that looked more like a museum than a home.

She walked up the stone steps.

The butler, Mr. Henderson, opened the door.

"Mrs. Spears," he greeted warmly. "It is good to see you."

"Hello, Henderson."

She walked into the parlor.

Victoria Spears, the matriarch, sat in her wheelchair by the fire.

She was ninety years old and sharper than a razor blade.

Next to her was Eleanor, Carlyle's mother, arranging white lilies in a crystal vase.

"Beatrix!" Eleanor dropped the scissors and rushed over.

She hugged Beatrix tight.

"Look at you, you're too thin. Is Carlyle not feeding you?"

"I'm fine, Eleanor," Beatrix managed a smile.

"Where is my grandson?" Victoria barked, thumping her cane on the floor.

"He's parking," Beatrix lied.

Ten minutes later, Carlyle walked in.

Alone.

He looked agitated. His tie was loosened.

"Sorry I'm late," he muttered, kissing his mother's cheek.

He nodded at his grandmother.

He didn't look at Beatrix.

"Sit," Victoria commanded. "Dinner is served."

They moved to the dining room.

The table was set for twenty, but only four places were laid.

Victoria sat at the head.

She pointed with her cane.

"Beatrix, sit there. Carlyle, next to your wife."

Carlyle hesitated.

"Grandmother, I prefer-"

"Sit!"

Carlyle sat.

He was so close Beatrix could smell him-the sandalwood, the smoke, and underneath, the faint, cloying scent of Gene's perfume.

Dinner was tense.

The only sounds were the clinking of silver against china.

"So," Victoria said, slicing her steak. "When are we going to see a great-grandchild?"

Beatrix choked on her water.

Carlyle stopped chewing.

"Grandmother," he said warningly.

"Don't 'Grandmother' me. I'm ninety. I don't have time for your career building."

"We are getting a divorce," Carlyle said.

He dropped the bomb casually, like he was asking for the pepper.

Silence descended.

Heavy. Suffocating.

Eleanor dropped her fork. It clattered loudly onto her plate.

Victoria's face turned purple.

She grabbed her chest.

"Divorce?" she wheezed. "With that... that showgirl? That Golden girl?"

"Gene is not a showgirl," Carlyle snapped. "She's a family friend."

"She's a gold digger with a fake heart condition!" Victoria shouted. "If you divorce Beatrix, I will write you out of the will. You will lose your 10% share of the holding company."

Carlyle's eyes widened. "You can't do that."

"Watch me."

Victoria turned to Beatrix.

"And you. Why aren't you fighting for him?"

"I..." Beatrix started.

"He needs a strong hand," Victoria said. "Eleanor, tell him."

Eleanor looked at her son. "Carlyle, be a gentleman. Serve your wife some fish."

"She hates fish," Carlyle muttered.

"I love fish," Beatrix said quickly.

She hated fish. It made her gag.

But she needed these women on her side. She needed the accounts unfrozen.

Carlyle looked at her, eyebrows raised.

He picked up the serving fork and dumped a massive piece of halibut onto her plate.

"Enjoy," he whispered.

Beatrix cut a piece and put it in her mouth.

She fought the urge to retch, her throat closing up. She took a large sip of water, forcing the small, oily piece down with a painful swallow.

"See?" Eleanor clapped her hands. "They are perfect."

"Beatrix," Victoria commanded. "Ask your husband for the salt. Call him Darling."

Beatrix froze.

Carlyle smirked. He crossed his arms, leaning back.

He was enjoying this. He wanted to see her squirm.

Beatrix thought of the declined transaction.

She thought of her mother lying in that hospital bed.

She turned to him.

She softened her eyes. She leaned in close, her shoulder brushing his arm.

"Darling," she purred, her voice husky. "Would you please pass the salt?"

The smirk vanished from Carlyle's face.

His pupils dilated.

The air between them crackled.

He stared at her mouth.

His hand reached for the salt shaker.

It trembled.

He knocked the shaker over. Salt spilled across the mahogany table.

Carlyle stared at the white granules, his breathing shallow.

He looked at Beatrix.

He looked terrified.

He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the floor.

"I've lost my appetite," he said roughly.

He turned and stormed out of the room, through the French doors, into the garden.

Beatrix sat there, her heart pounding.

Eleanor reached into her purse.

She pulled out a checkbook.

She scribbled something and slid it across the table to Beatrix.

"For your mother," Eleanor whispered. "I know Carlyle cut you off. He's a child sometimes."

Beatrix looked at the check.

Fifty thousand dollars.

Tears pricked her eyes.

"Thank you," she whispered.

She grabbed the check.

Then she stood up.

"Excuse me."

She ran toward the French doors.