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.

The phone on Althea's lab bench buzzed. It was an unknown number.

She hesitated. She hadn't given the number to anyone outside the Institute, but she knew that people with the Harringtons' resources had their ways of finding things out. She steeled herself and answered.

"Hello?"

"Mommy?"

The voice was small and whimpering. Holt.

Althea's hand tightened on the phone. "Holt?"

"Mommy, my tummy hurts," Holt cried. "It hurts so bad. I'm throwing up. Please come home."

Althea's heart lurched. Her instinct was to run. To grab her keys and fly to him.

"Where does it hurt, baby? Is it sharp? Do you have a fever?"

"Yes! I'm burning up!" Holt wailed. "Daddy isn't here. Only Georgina. And she won't help me!"

Althea was already taking off her lab coat. "I'm coming, Holt. Stay on the-"

Psst. Louder. Tell her you can't breathe.

The whisper was faint, caught by the microphone in the split second between Holt's sobs. It was Georgina's voice.

Althea froze. She stopped halfway to the door.

She put the phone back to her ear. She closed her eyes.

"Holt," she said, her voice turning to ice. "Is Georgina in the room with you?"

"No!" Holt said, too quickly. "I can't breathe, Mommy! Help!"

It was a script. A bad, cruel script.

Althea felt the final thread of maternal duty snap. They were using her son as a pawn. They were teaching him to lie to manipulate her.

"Holt," Althea said calmly. "If you can't breathe, hand the phone to Georgina and tell her to call 911. An ambulance will be there in five minutes."

"What?" Holt stopped crying instantly. "No, I want you."

"I am not a paramedic, Holt," Althea said, her voice devoid of emotion. "I can't help you. Goodbye."

"Wait! Mommy!"

Althea hung up. She stared at the phone for a second, then blocked the number.

She didn't cry. She felt a cold, hard rage settling in her bones. It was better than sadness. Rage was fuel.

She tossed the phone back into her bag, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Her hands, however, were steady as she turned back to the microscope. The world outside the lab faded away. Here, under the powerful lens, things were simple. Cause and effect. Action and reaction.

But the phone buzzed again, this time against the hard surface of the lab bench. She pulled back, blinking against the sudden shift in light. The screen lit up with a single word: Home.

She stared at it. She hadn't changed the contact name yet. A reflex. A habit. Her thumb hovered over the decline button, but a sliver of pragmatism stayed her hand. The divorce papers. Maybe, just maybe, this was about him finally agreeing to sign them.

She swiped right and brought the phone to her ear.

"Hello?"

"I'm starving."

The voice wasn't Easton's. It was high-pitched, demanding, and utterly devoid of politeness.

Althea felt a phantom tightening in her chest, the old maternal instinct flaring up before her logic could stomp it out. "Holt?"

"I'm hungry," Holt whined. The sound of cartoons blared in the background. "When are you coming back to make lasagna? The cheesy kind. I don't want the stuff Mrs. Higgins makes. It tastes like cardboard."

Althea closed her eyes. She took a slow breath, smelling the antiseptic tang of the lab. A wave of something bordering on pity, not for Holt, but for the ridiculousness of the situation, washed over her. It was absurd. "Holt, I don't live there anymore. I am not your chef. Ask your father. Or ask Georgina. She's there, isn't she?"

There was a scuffling sound on the other end, a muffled protest, and then Easton's voice boomed through the speaker.

"Althea! Have you lost your mind?"

He sounded breathless, angry. "You have a child crying for food, and you're playing games? Get your ass back here and make dinner. Holt is upset."

Althea opened her eyes. She looked around the gleaming white lab, at the millions of dollars of equipment surrounding her. The contrast between her reality and his delusion was so sharp it was almost funny.

"I'm working, Easton," she said.

"Working?" Easton let out a harsh, incredulous laugh. "Doing what? Serving coffee? Look, I don't care what little hobby you've picked up to make yourself feel important. Come home. Feed the boy. We can discuss your... vacation... later."

It was the tone he used for the dog. Sit. Stay. Come.

"If you are incapable of feeding your own son," Althea said, her voice dropping an octave, cold and precise, "then perhaps I should mention your parental negligence in court. I'm sure a judge would be interested to hear that the great Easton Harrington can't figure out how to order a pizza."

Silence. Thick, suffocating silence.

Then, the explosion.

"Don't you dare threaten me," Easton hissed. "You think you have leverage? You have nothing. If you don't walk through this door in one hour, I am cutting off every credit card you have. You won't be able to buy a pack of gum."

Althea looked at her purse, where her newly issued black Amex—the one tied to the Morrison trust, not the Harrington account—sat securely in her wallet.

"Go ahead," she said. A small, dry smile touched her lips. "Cancel them. Cancel everything. And Easton? Don't call me again unless the house is burning down. Actually, don't call me even then."

She tapped the red icon. The call ended. Easton stared at his phone.