"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.

Easton dragged Georgina away, his mind reeling. He needed a drink. He needed to make sense of the world that had suddenly tilted on its axis.

"She's faking it," he muttered as they left the gala early. "It's all an act."

"Of course it is," Georgina soothed him. "Let's go get some late-night food. We picked up Holt from the sitter, remember? He's in the car."

They went to a high-end 24-hour diner, the kind with velvet booths. Holt was awake, hyper from sugar.

"I want ice cream!" Holt demanded.

"Whatever you want, buddy," Easton said distractedly.

Outside, a sleek black Porsche pulled up to the curb.

Althea and Bret were inside. They had come for coffee after the gala.

"Don't look," Bret warned, seeing the Harrington family in the window.

But Althea looked. She couldn't help it.

She saw them through the glass. The perfect tableau. Easton, handsome and brooding. Georgina, doting and attentive. And Holt.

Holt was laughing. He was shoving a spoonful of sundae into his mouth. He said something, gesturing wildly.

Althea rolled down her window just an inch. The diner door opened as a waiter stepped out for a smoke, carrying the sound from inside.

"...wish Georgina was my real mommy!" Holt's voice carried clear as a bell. "She lets me eat sugar! The Nanny was mean!"

Easton laughed. He ruffled Holt's hair. "Yeah, buddy. Georgina is great."

Althea felt the blood drain from her face. Her hand went to her chest, clutching the silk of her dress. It felt like a physical hole had been punched through her sternum.

"Drive," she choked out.

Bret slammed his hand on the steering wheel. "I'm going to go in there and-"

"No!" Althea grabbed his arm. Her nails dug into his jacket. "Drive, Bret. Please."

Bret looked at her, saw the devastation in her eyes, and nodded. He gunned the engine. The Porsche roared away, leaving the happy family behind in the window.

"I'm done," Althea whispered to the passing streetlights. "I really am done."

She deleted the photo of Holt she kept as her lock screen.

Monday morning. Althea arrived at the Institute in her new Porsche-bought with the dividends from her trust fund that had been accumulating untouched for five years.

She parked in a general spot, avoiding the executive lot.

As she walked in, she heard the whispers.

"That's her. The admin assistant."

"Did you see the car? Must be sleeping with the boss."

"Bret Morrison's mistress. Classic."

Althea kept her head high. She walked into the lab.

Dr. Liam Yates, the lab director, blocked her path. He was a brilliant man, but arrogant, and he hated nepotism. He thought Althea was just Bret's flavor of the month.

"Here," Liam shoved a stack of files into her chest. "Sort these by date. And get me a coffee. Black."

Althea took the files. She didn't move to get the coffee.

"Dr. Yates," she said, flipping open the top file. "These are the clinical trial results for the beta-blocker."

"I know what they are. Can you read dates? Or is that too complex?"

Althea ignored the insult. Her eyes scanned the data tables. She frowned.

"You have a statistical anomaly in the third cohort," she said. "Look at the potassium levels. They're spiking in patients over 50. If you proceed to Phase 3, you're going to cause cardiac arrest in 15% of your subjects."

Liam froze. The lab went silent. Other researchers stopped their work.

"Excuse me?" Liam laughed, a nervous sound. "You're an assistant. You don't know what a potassium spike looks like."

"I know that 5.5 millimoles per liter is the threshold," Althea said, her voice cutting through the room. "And your data shows an average of 5.8. Did you adjust for the renal clearance rates?"

Liam snatched the file back. He stared at the numbers. His face went pale. Then red.

He looked at Althea. Really looked at her.

"Who are you?" he whispered.

"I'm the person saving your career," Althea said. "Fix the clearance rate variable. And get your own coffee."

She walked past him to her desk.

Behind her, the whispers changed tone.

At the Harrington office, Easton was pacing. The image of Althea with Dr. Fuller was burned into his mind, a confusing, infuriating puzzle.

"Sir," his private investigator said, holding a folder. "I checked her accounts. Nothing. No credit card usage. No hotel check-ins."

"Then where is she?" Easton slammed his fist on the desk. "She has to be eating! She has to be sleeping somewhere!"

"There is one thing," the PI said. "A vehicle registration. A Porsche 911. Registered to a private holding company, B.M. Enterprises."

"B.M.?" Easton frowned. "Like Bret Morrison? So she's not just his date, she's his kept woman. He bought her a car." A wave of possessive fury washed over him. The thought of Althea, his Althea, with another man-especially a rival like Morrison-was intolerable. "That display at the gala... it must have been a performance coached by Morrison to humiliate me. She doesn't have a single real skill. She's probably living in that car when he gets tired of her."

But a knot of unease tightened in his stomach. A Porsche? It was a bold, expensive statement.