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."

The security guard at the Morrison Institute lobby frowned at Althea's ID.

"Name?"

"Althea," she said. Just Althea.

"I don't see a last name here, miss."

"Scan it," she said.

He scanned the card. The light on the turnstile flashed a distinct, urgent purple-the color for Executive Access. The guard's eyes popped. He looked at her jeans, then back at the screen which read PRIORITY LEVEL: ALPHA.

"S-sorry, ma'am. Go right ahead."

Althea walked through the lobby. The scent of antiseptic and ozone was better than any perfume. She took the elevator to the top floor.

Bret was in the middle of a board meeting. The glass walls of the conference room allowed everyone to see Althea approach. Bret stopped mid-sentence. He stood up and waved her in.

The board members turned, confused.

"Gentlemen," Bret said. "I'd like you to meet our new Senior Researcher. This is Althea."

He didn't say Morrison. Althea had asked him not to. She wanted to earn her place, not inherit it.

"A researcher?" One of the older men scoffed. "She looks like she's twelve."

Althea didn't blink. "And you look like you have early-stage hepatic lipidosis based on the yellowing of your sclera, Mr. Henderson. You might want to cut down on the scotch."

The room went dead silent.

Bret coughed to hide a laugh. "Meeting adjourned."

Later, in Bret's office, he was pacing.

"I can destroy him, Allie. One phone call. I pull the funding for Harrington's medical supply chain. He'll be bankrupt in a month."

"No," Althea said, looking out at the city view. "I don't want you to fight my battles. I want to build something so undeniable that he realizes what he lost on his own."

Her phone rang. It was a restricted number. She answered.

"You thief!" Eleanor's voice shrieked. "Where is the receipt for my vintage Chanel coat? The dry cleaner says you dropped it off!"

Althea held the phone away from her ear. "I don't work for you anymore, Eleanor. Check your own pockets."

"I will call the police! I will have you arrested!"

"Do it," Althea said calmly. "I'd love to explain to the police how you treat your staff. And your family."

She hung up and blocked the number.

"Ready for the lab?" Bret asked gently.

"More than ready."

They went down to the clean rooms. The hum of the sequencers was music. Althea walked over to a workstation where a young man was frowning at a monitor.

"Problem?" she asked.

"Yeah, the protein folding simulation keeps crashing at 98%," he muttered, not looking up.

Althea leaned over his shoulder. She tapped a few keys. "Your algorithm is assuming a linear decay. It's exponential. Change the variable here."

The man typed it in. The bar shot to 100%. Success.

He spun around, jaw dropping. "Who are you?"

Althea smiled, putting on her safety goggles. "I'm the new admin assistant."

"You have to come," Bret said, tossing a silver envelope onto Althea's lab bench.

"The Annual Bio-Tech Gala?" Althea wiped her hands on a towel. "Bret, no. I've been separated for a week. I'm not ready for a red carpet."

"Dr. Fuller is receiving the Lifetime Achievement Award. He specifically asked if his 'prodigy' would be there."

Althea froze. Dr. Fuller. The man who had taught her everything before she threw it all away for Easton.

"Fine," she sighed. "But I'm staying in the shadows."

"We'll see," Bret smirked.

Two hours later, Althea stood in front of a mirror in the Morrison private styling suite. The dress was gunmetal grey, liquid silk that pooled around her feet. It was backless, severe, and utterly commanding.

She didn't look like a wife. She looked like a weapon.

At the Harrington estate, Easton was staring at the divorce papers Georgina had given him. The handwritten demand for $10 million was circled in red ink.

"She's insane," he muttered, his rage fueled by Georgina's lies. "She thinks she can blackmail me? After everything I gave her?"

"She's desperate," Georgina said, adjusting his bow tie. "Forget her. Let's go to the gala. I hear Morrison is announcing a new heart drug. We need to get in on the IPO."

Easton nodded. "You're right. Business first."

The gala was held at the Met. The Great Hall was transformed into a glittering sea of black ties and diamonds.

Easton and Georgina made their entrance. Georgina waved at photographers, but the cameras were distracted. They were all pointed at the top of the stairs.

Bret Morrison was descending, looking like royalty. And on his arm was a woman.

Easton squinted. The woman was stunning. She held herself with a regal grace that made Georgina look frantic. Her hair was loose, cascading over one shoulder.

She turned her head to laugh at something Bret said.

Easton stopped walking. His heart hammered a strange, erratic rhythm against his ribs.

"Is that..." he started.

"Who?" Georgina asked, following his gaze. Her face paled. "No. It can't be."

It was Althea.

But not the Althea who fetched his slippers. This Althea radiated power. She moved through the crowd, and people parted for her. He saw the CEO of Pfizer shake her hand-not politely, but with genuine respect.

"What is she doing here?" Easton hissed. "Did she sneak in?"

"She must be crashing it," Georgina said quickly, her voice high. "Trying to find a rich old man to pay her bills."

Easton felt a surge of irrational anger. He grabbed a glass of champagne and downed it. "I'm going to throw her out."

Althea stood on the terrace, breathing in the cool air.

"Althea?"

She turned. Dr. Alonzo Fuller, frail but sharp-eyed, was smiling at her.

"Dr. Fuller," she whispered. Tears pricked her eyes. She took his hands.

"I heard you're back in the lab," the old man said. "Medicine has missed you, my dear. You were the brightest star I ever taught."

"I'm trying, sir."

"Althea!"

The barked name shattered the moment. Easton stormed onto the terrace, Georgina trailing behind him like a nervous shadow.

Easton marched up to her, ignoring Dr. Fuller. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Althea's expression didn't change. She looked at him with a cool detachment that infuriated him.

"Enjoying the evening, Easton. Unlike you, apparently."

"How did you get in?" He grabbed her arm. "Did you sleep with a guard? Or are you stalking me?"

"Let go of her," Dr. Fuller said, his voice surprisingly strong. "Young man, unhand her immediately."

Easton sneered at the old man. "Dr. Fuller, with all due respect, this is a private family matter. Stay out of it."

"Ex-wife," Althea corrected. She twisted her arm out of his grip with a sharp, practiced move. "And Dr. Fuller is the guest of honor. Show some respect."

Easton blinked. The guest of honor knew Althea? He had assumed she'd just latched onto the first important-looking person she saw.

"Easton, let's go," Georgina tugged at his sleeve, looking terrified. "People are watching."

"This isn't over," Easton pointed a finger at Althea. "You're playing a dangerous game."

Althea stepped closer to him. She leaned in, smelling not of vanilla, but of clean rain and ozone.

"I'm not playing, Easton," she whispered. "I'm working. Now get out of my way."

She turned back to Dr. Fuller, presenting her back to Easton. The dismissal was absolute.

Easton stood there, mouth agape, as his "boring" wife discussed enzyme inhibitors with the most famous doctor in the world.