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.

The Sloan Kettering Cancer Center smelled of bleach and despair.

Beatrix walked down the corridor, the check from Eleanor burning a hole in her pocket.

She had deposited it via mobile app that morning.

It had cleared.

She walked to the nurse's station.

"I want to upgrade her room," she told the head nurse. "And call Dr. Evans. I want the experimental treatment he mentioned."

The nurse looked at her sympathetically.

"Ms. Anderson, Dr. Evans is in with a patient. And the private rooms are fully booked."

"Please," Beatrix begged. "I have the money now."

"It's not about money, dear. It's capacity."

Beatrix felt the tears welling up.

She walked to her mother's room-a shared room with a curtain divider.

Her mother, Martha, lay there, pale and small. The oxygen mask covered half her face.

The monitor beeped rhythmically.

Beep... beep... beep.

Beatrix pulled up a plastic chair and sat down.

She took her mother's hand. It felt like dry parchment.

"I'm here, Mom," she whispered. "I'm going to get you better."

Suddenly, Martha's chest heaved.

The monitor began to wail. A high-pitched, continuous tone.

"Mom?" Beatrix screamed. "Nurse!"

A team of doctors rushed in.

"Code Blue!" someone shouted.

"Get her out!" a doctor ordered.

Beatrix was pushed into the hallway.

The door shut in her face.

She slid down the wall, burying her face in her knees.

She rocked back and forth, sobbing silently.

She was useless. All the money in the world, and she was still useless.

"Beatrix?"

The voice was familiar.

She looked up.

Carlyle was standing there.

He was wearing a black turtleneck and a long wool coat. He looked like the angel of death.

Behind him was a phalanx of doctors in white coats.

"What are you doing here?" she choked out.

Carlyle didn't answer her.

He turned to the man next to him.

"Dr. Stein," Carlyle said. "Is this the best you can do? A shared room?"

The man, clearly the Chief of Medicine, looked terrified.

"Mr. Spears, we didn't know she was... related to you."

"She is my mother-in-law," Carlyle said, his voice cold as ice. "Move her to the VIP suite. Now. And get the oncology team from Zurich on a video call."

"Yes, sir. Immediately."

The doctors scrambled like ants.

Carlyle reached down and grabbed Beatrix's arm, hauling her to her feet.

"Get up," he said. "Don't sit on the floor. It's filthy."

Beatrix pulled her arm away.

She dragged him toward the stairwell door, pushing him inside.

The concrete stairwell echoed with their breathing.

"I don't need your charity," she hissed. "I paid the bill."

"With my mother's money," he countered.

"It's a loan. I'll pay it back."

"Beatrix, stop," he said, rubbing his temples. "Your mother is dying. This isn't the time for your pride."

"Why do you care?" she yelled. "You're divorcing me! You're marrying Gene!"

"Because she's your mother!" Carlyle shouted back. "And despite what you think, I'm not a complete sociopath."

Beatrix stared at him.

"Is this for Gene?" she asked quietly. "Are you trying to buy good karma so your new marriage doesn't fail?"

Carlyle laughed. It was a bitter, sharp sound.

"Karma," he muttered. "If karma existed, I wouldn't be here."

He turned to leave.

"Where are you going?"

"To make sure they don't kill her," he said.

He opened the door, then paused.

"There's food at the nurse's station for you," he said without looking back. "Congee from that place on Canal Street. The one with the red awning."

Beatrix froze.

That was her favorite comfort food. She hadn't been there in four years.

"How did you know?" she whispered.

But the door had already closed.

She walked back to the station.

A thermal bag sat there.

She opened it. The smell of ginger and scallions wafted up.

She took a spoonful.

It was warm. It tasted like home.

She ate, tears streaming down her face, mixing with the porridge.