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.

The garden was cold and bathed in moonlight.

Beatrix's heels clicked on the stone path.

She found him by the fountain.

The water feature was turned off for the winter, the stone basin dry and full of dead leaves.

Carlyle was smoking.

He stood with his back to her, his shoulders hunched against the wind.

"Go back inside," he said without turning around. "Go plan the nursery with the old bats."

Beatrix stopped three feet away from him.

"I got the check from your mother," she said.

Carlyle turned slowly.

The tip of his cigar glowed orange in the dark.

"Of course you did. You played the part well."

"I did what I had to do," she said. "You froze my accounts, Carlyle. My mother needs medication."

He paused. The smoke curled around his face.

"Medication?" he asked. "I thought you were buying shoes."

"You think I'm that shallow?"

"I don't know what you are anymore," he admitted quietly. "But I know a lie when I hear one."

Beatrix's heart stuttered. "What are you talking about?"

"Mark," he said, his voice flat. "He doesn't exist. You're a terrible liar, Beatrix. Your eyes give you away every time."

Beatrix felt the heat rise in her cheeks.

"We need to set a date," she said, changing the subject. "For the signing. The real signing. Not just the preliminary papers."

She reached into her clutch and pulled out a small pocket calendar.

She stepped closer, holding it out.

"Monday," she said. "City Hall opens at nine."

Carlyle looked at the calendar.

He looked at the date circled in red.

"I'm busy Monday," he said.

"Tuesday then."

"Busy."

"Carlyle!" she snapped. "Stop playing games. Do you want this divorce or not?"

"I want you out of my life," he snarled.

He slapped the calendar out of her hand.

It flew sideways, landing in the dirt of a flowerbed.

Beatrix gasped.

She knelt down to retrieve it.

Her dress-the expensive black silk-brushed against the wet soil.

"Dammit," she muttered.

Carlyle made a noise in his throat. A growl of frustration.

He bent down.

"Leave it," he ordered.

He reached for her arm to pull her up.

She reached for his hand to steady herself.

Their palms met.

Zap.

A static shock, loud and sharp, snapped between them.

It wasn't just a spark. It was a jolt that traveled up Beatrix's arm and settled in her chest.

She gasped, trying to pull away.

Carlyle didn't let go.

He gripped her hand tighter, pulling her up until she was standing inches from him.

He didn't wipe his hand.

He didn't look disgusted.

He looked... entranced.

He looked down at their joined hands.

His thumb brushed over her knuckles, tracing the bandage on her finger.

"You're hurt," he whispered.

"It's just a broken nail," she breathed.

She couldn't move.

The way he was touching her-reverent, desperate-it shattered her defenses.

He lifted his gaze to hers.

His eyes were dark, the pupils blown wide, swallowing the blue.

He leaned in.

Beatrix's breath hitched.

He was going to kiss her.

He tilted his head, his gaze dropping to her lips.

Beatrix closed her eyes, her body leaning toward him like a flower to the sun.

"Sir!"

The voice came from the terrace.

Henderson, the butler.

"Sir, Ms. Golden is on the phone. She says it's an emergency."

Carlyle froze.

The spell broke.

He dropped Beatrix's hand like it was burning coal.

He stepped back, his chest heaving.

He looked at her, then at the house.

He looked torn.

"Monday," he rasped, his voice sounding like it was dragged over broken glass. "I have a board meeting. Wait for my call."

He turned and walked away, almost running.

Beatrix stood alone by the dry fountain.

She looked at her hand.

It was still tingling.