The house was silent when Althea returned, but the lights in the formal living room were blazing. She walked in, her heels echoing on the marble foyer.

Eleanor Harrington was sitting on the high-backed leather sofa, a glass of sherry in her hand. She looked like a vulture waiting for carrion.

"You left," Eleanor said, not bothering to look up from her inspection of her manicure. "Easton called. He is furious. Leaving a charity gala before the auction? Do you have any idea how that looks?"

Althea kicked off her heels. She walked past the living room toward the stairs. "I don't care, Eleanor."

Eleanor shot up from the sofa, spilling a drop of sherry on the Persian rug. "You don't care? You ungrateful little gold digger. My son pulled you out of obscurity, gave you a life most women would kill for, and this is how you repay him? By throwing tantrums?"

Althea stopped. She turned slowly. The exhaustion was gone, replaced by a cold, hard clarity.

"A life?" Althea asked softly. "You mean a life where I manage his schedule, run his household, raise his son, and tolerate his mistress parading around in my clothes? That's not a life, Eleanor. That's a staff position. And I quit."

Eleanor's mouth opened and closed like a fish. "Mistress? Georgina is a family friend! She has stood by Easton through everything! You are just jealous because she has class and you..." Eleanor sneered, looking Althea up and down. "You are just a placeholder."

The front door burst open.

Laughter spilled into the hallway. Easton walked in, carrying a sleeping Holt. Georgina followed, her hand resting possessively on Easton's lower back.

"Shh," Georgina giggled, pressing a finger to her lips. "We don't want to wake the little prince."

Easton saw Althea standing by the stairs. His face hardened.

"You," he growled, his voice low so as not to wake the boy. "We are going to talk about tonight. In the study. Now."

"Look at them," Eleanor crooned, walking over to stroke Holt's hair. "Such a perfect family unit. It's a shame some people don't fit in."

Holt stirred. He opened his sleepy eyes, saw Georgina, and smiled. "Mommy G..." he mumbled, snuggling into Easton's shoulder.

Althea felt the physical blow of those words in her chest. It was a dull ache, radiating outward.

"Put him to bed, Easton," Georgina said softly, playing the role of the benevolent matriarch. "I'll make you some tea. You look stressed."

"You're an angel, G," Easton murmured. He glanced at Althea with pure disdain. "Why can't you be more like her?"

Althea didn't answer. She turned and walked up the stairs.

"I'm talking to you!" Easton hissed behind her. "Make me something to eat. I'm starving. The gala food was inedible."

Althea paused on the landing. She didn't look back. "The kitchen is fully stocked. Or ask your 'angel' to cook. I'm off the clock."

She heard Eleanor gasp. She heard Easton's stunned silence.

Althea walked into the master bedroom and locked the door. She didn't turn on the lights. She went straight to the desk in the corner, opening her laptop.

The screen glowed blue in the darkness. She opened a hidden folder titled Exit Strategy. Inside was a draft of a divorce agreement she had written two years ago, after the first time she found lipstick on his collar. She had never had the courage to print it.

She scrolled down to the alimony section. Spousal Support: $50,000 monthly.

Her fingers hovered over the backspace key.

She pressed it. She held it down until the number disappeared. She deleted the request for the house. She deleted the request for the car. She deleted the request for the stocks.

She typed in a single sentence: The parties shall retain their own assets.

From downstairs, she heard Georgina laughing-a sound that vibrated through the floorboards.

Althea hit Print.

The printer whirred to life, the mechanical rhythm soothing in the quiet room. She watched the paper slide out, warm and crisp.

Her phone buzzed on the desk. A text message.

Bret: The lab is ready. Welcome back, Dr. Morrison.

Althea touched the screen, tracing the title she hadn't used in five years. A cold smile touched her lips.

The clock on the wall ticked past 2:00 AM. The house was finally quiet. Georgina had left an hour ago, and Eleanor had retired to her wing.

Althea sat in the leather armchair in Easton's study, the only light coming from a small desk lamp. The folder containing the divorce papers sat in the center of the mahogany desk.

The door handle turned.

Easton walked in. He smelled of scotch and Georgina's cloying vanilla perfume. He loosened his tie-the blue one-and tossed it onto a chair. He startled when he saw Althea sitting in the shadows.

"Jesus, Althea," he snapped, rubbing his temples. "What are you doing sitting in the dark? Trying to creep me out?"

He walked to the wet bar and poured himself another drink. "If you're waiting for an apology, you're going to be waiting a long time. You embarrassed me tonight. Holt is confused. You need to get your act together."

"I have," Althea said. Her voice was steady.

She pushed the folder across the desk. "Sign it."

Easton frowned. He picked up his glass and walked over, glancing down at the paperwork. He read the header: Dissolution of Marriage.

He threw his head back and laughed. It was a harsh, barking sound.

"This again?" He tossed the folder back onto the desk without opening it. It slid across the polished wood and nearly fell off the edge. "Is this your new negotiation tactic? Threaten to leave so I buy you more jewelry? Or is this about attention?"

"I don't want jewelry, Easton. I want out."

Easton leaned against the desk, crossing his arms. He looked at her with a mix of pity and amusement. "Althea, be realistic. You have no job. You have no money. You haven't worked a day in five years. You're a glorified housewife. Where would you go? A motel?"

He took a sip of his drink, his eyes gleaming with arrogance. "You won't last a week without the Harrington trust fund. You'll be back begging Eleanor for grocery money by Friday."

Althea stood up. She smoothed the front of her jeans-she had changed out of the gown.

"I'm not asking for money," she said. "Check the terms. I'm walking away with nothing."

Easton paused. For a second, a flicker of uncertainty crossed his face. But he squashed it down instantly.

"Right. The martyr act." He stepped closer, invading her personal space. He smelled like expensive alcohol and entitlement. "Stop playing games. Go upstairs, take a bath, and we'll forget this happened. I have a board meeting tomorrow and I need my gray suit pressed."

Althea looked at him. Really looked at him. She saw the lines of stress around his eyes, the slight bloat in his face from the drinking. She looked for the man she had fallen in love with in a hospital room five years ago.

He wasn't there. Maybe he never had been.

"Goodbye, Easton," she said.

She turned and walked out of the study.

"If you walk out that door," Easton shouted after her, his voice echoing in the hallway, "I'm cutting off your credit cards! Don't think I won't do it!"

Althea didn't stop. She walked to the front door where her small carry-on suitcase was waiting. She had packed it hours ago. No designer bags. No jewelry. Just her clothes, her passport, and her degree certificate.

She paused by the console table in the foyer. She took the keys to the Mercedes SUV he had bought her for her birthday-the one that was technically in the company's name-and placed them in the silver bowl. beside them, she placed her black Amex card.

She opened the heavy oak door. The night air rushed in, crisp and clean.

A black sedan was waiting at the curb. Not a town car. An Uber.

Althea walked down the steps. She didn't look back at the looming mansion that had been her prison. She got into the back seat.

"Where to, ma'am?" the driver asked.

Althea looked at the dark windows of the house one last time.

"The Morrison Institute for Biomedical Research," she said. "And please, drive fast."

Easton woke up with a pounding headache. His hand groped the bedside table for the glass of water and two aspirin that were always there.

His hand hit empty wood.

He frowned, peeling his eyes open. The room was bright with morning sun. The curtains hadn't been drawn. There was no water. No aspirin. No smell of coffee wafting from downstairs.

"Althea!" he croaked.

Silence.

He kicked off the covers, irritation flaring. "Althea!"

He stomped into the bathroom. No fresh towels laid out. The toothpaste tube was uncapped.

"Unbelievable," he muttered. "She's actually taking this strike seriously."

He pulled on a robe and went downstairs. The scene in the kitchen was chaos.

Holt was sitting in his high chair, screaming. A bowl of cereal had been overturned on the floor, milk pooling around the table legs. Mrs. Higgins, the elderly housekeeper who came in on weekdays, was looking flustered, trying to clean up the mess with paper towels.

"I want pancakes!" Holt shrieked, kicking his legs. "Mommy makes dinosaur pancakes!"

Eleanor was sitting at the island, clutching a cup of tea like a lifeline. "Make the boy stop crying, Easton. My migraine is splitting."

"Where is Althea?" Easton demanded, ignoring his son.

Mrs. Higgins looked up, her face pale. "She... she's not here, sir. Her side of the bed wasn't slept in."

Easton froze. He checked his phone. No texts. No missed calls.

"She actually left," Eleanor scoffed. "Probably at a hotel, waiting for you to call and apologize. Don't give in, Easton. It sets a bad precedent."

Holt threw a spoon across the room. "I want Mommy G!"

Easton rubbed his face. "Holt, stop it."

Holt grabbed his iPad from the table. His little fingers swiped expertly. A moment later, a video call tone chimed.

"Hi, buddy!" Georgina's face filled the screen. She was in bed, wearing a silk sleep mask pushed up on her forehead, looking effortlessly glamorous.

"Mommy G!" Holt stopped crying instantly. "Daddy won't give me pancakes. And the Nanny is gone."

Georgina's eyes widened. "Oh no, poor baby. Is Althea still acting out? That is so irresponsible, leaving a child like that."

Easton stepped into the frame. "She's gone, G. Took a suitcase."

"Oh, Easton," Georgina's voice dripped with sympathy. "I'm so sorry. She's clearly unstable. Who abandons their family?"

"Can you come over?" Holt pleaded. "Please?"

Georgina bit her lip, looking at Easton through the screen. "I have a spa appointment... but for you, my brave boys? I'll be there in an hour."

Easton felt a wave of relief. "Thank you, Georgina. You're a lifesaver."

He hung up. He tried calling Althea again.

The number you have reached is not in service.

He stared at the phone. She hadn't just turned it off. She had disconnected the line.

"Fine," Easton slammed the phone onto the counter, cracking the screen protector. "You want to play hardball? Let's see how you like sleeping on the street."

Across the city, in a glass-walled breakroom on the 40th floor of the Morrison Institute, Althea took a sip of black coffee. It was hot, strong, and exactly how she liked it-not the weak latte she drank to be polite to Easton.

She was wearing a white lab coat. It felt like armor.

Bret Morrison walked in, carrying a bag of bagels. He looked tired but energized. He was tall, with the same dark eyes as Althea, but his were harder, worn down by years of running a billion-dollar empire.

"You sleep okay in the guest suite?" he asked, tossing a bagel to her.

"Better than I have in five years," Althea said. She caught the bagel one-handed.

"HR has your badge ready. Security clearance Level 5. Only you and I have access to the core data." Bret sat down opposite her. "Are you sure you want to start today? You can take a week. Go to the villa in Como."

"No," Althea said. "I need to work. My brain feels like it's been atrophying."

She pulled her new phone out of her pocket. It was on Do Not Disturb mode. The screen showed 15 blocked notifications from the Harrington landline.

She swiped them away without reading them.

"Besides," she said, biting into the bagel. "I have a lot of catching up to do. Dr. Fuller's heart drug data... I looked at it last night. There's a variance in the beta-blocker sequence."

Bret grinned. It was a sharp, wolfish grin. "That's my sister. Welcome home, Allie."