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."

Three days later, Althea received a text on her new number.

Georgina: We need to talk. For Holt's sake. Meet me at Le Coucou. 2 PM.

Althea stared at the screen. She knew she shouldn't go. But the mention of Holt-even though she was trying to sever that cord-still tugged at her. And she needed to make sure the divorce papers actually reached Easton. She didn't trust him to have opened the folder she left.

Le Coucou was crowded with the lunch rush of Manhattan's elite. Georgina was seated at a prime window table, a tiered tray of pastries in front of her. She was snapping photos of a macaron for her Instagram story.

Althea walked in. She was wearing dark jeans, a crisp white button-down, and loafers. No makeup. Her hair was down, loose and wavy.

Georgina looked up, phone poised. Her eyes widened slightly, perhaps surprised that Althea didn't look like a wreck.

"Althea! Darling!" Georgina stood up to offer a cheek kiss, but Althea sat down, ignoring the gesture.

"Cut the act, Georgina," Althea said. "What do you want?"

Georgina sat back down, her smile turning brittle. "You look... tired. Easton is worried sick, you know. He thinks you're having a breakdown."

"I'm sure he does." Althea reached into her tote bag. She pulled out a thick manila envelope. "Give this to him."

Georgina eyed the envelope. "What is it? A love letter? Begging to come back?"

"It's the divorce agreement. The original copy. I doubt he read the one I left."

Georgina's eyes lit up. A genuine, malicious spark. She reached out and took the envelope, her manicured nails tapping against the paper.

"You're really doing it," she whispered. "You're handing him to me."

"He was never mine, was he?" Althea signaled the waiter for an iced water. "You've been working on this since the day you 'accidentally' spilled coffee on him in the lobby."

Georgina laughed. She dropped the pretense. She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hiss. "You were always so boring, Althea. So domestic. Easton needs a partner, a power player. Not a glorified housekeeper. I did you a favor. Now you can go back to... whatever trailer park you crawled out of."

Althea felt a bubble of laughter rise in her chest. It was absurd. If only Georgina knew.

"Make sure he signs it," Althea said, standing up. "And Georgina? Be careful what you wish for. He's a lot of work."

She walked out.

Georgina watched her go. Once Althea was out the door, Georgina opened the envelope. She scanned the document. Her eyes narrowed when she saw the "retain own assets" clause.

No money? Georgina thought. That won't do. If she leaves with nothing, Easton might feel guilty. He might pity her. That pity could turn into lingering affection.

Georgina pulled a pen from her Hermes bag. She found the page detailing the financial settlement. With a steady hand, she crossed out a line and scribbled in the margin: Demand: $10 million lump sum for emotional distress & a gag order.

She smiled. Easton would be furious. He would see this not as a demand, but as blackmail. He would hate Althea for it.

She pulled out her phone and dialed Easton.

"Easton?" she sobbed, her voice breaking perfectly. "I just saw her. She was horrible. She... she said the first agreement was a trick. She gave me this new one and threatened to go to the press with stories about you if you don't pay her ten million dollars."