The morning sun hit the Penthouse floor-to-ceiling windows with an aggressive brightness that felt personal.

Analia stood in the center of the master bedroom. She had come back only for her passport and her laptop. She had told herself she wouldn't look. She wouldn't touch.

But the room was a museum of her loneliness.

The bed was made, crisp and military-tight, by the housekeeping staff. But thrown across the foot of it was a charcoal gray suit jacket. Clive's jacket. The one he had been wearing in the news footage last night.

Analia stared at it. He must have come home in the early hours of the morning, changed his soaked clothes, and left again before the sun came up. He hadn't even checked to see if she was in bed.

She walked over, her movements slow, as if moving through water. She picked up the jacket. It was heavy, made of wool that cost more than most people's cars.

She brought it closer to her face.

Beneath the scent of Clive's sandalwood cologne, there was something else. Something sweet. Sickeningly floral. Gardenia and dishonesty. Angelena's signature scent.

A wave of nausea rolled through her stomach. She gripped the fabric, her knuckles turning white.

Something crinkled in the inner breast pocket.

Her fingers dived in, bypassing the silk lining, and pulled out a thick, cream-colored envelope. It wasn't a business letter. The paper was textured, medical grade.

She opened it.

It was an ultrasound printout. A grainy black and white image of a uterus.

At the top, printed in bold, undeniable letters: Patient: Angelena Stuart.

Date: October 14th.

October 14th.

Analia's breath hitched. That was three days ago. That was the day Clive had told her he was in Boston for a merger acquisition. He had even complained about the flight delays.

He hadn't been in Boston. He had been holding Angelena's hand at a fertility clinic on the Upper East Side.

The paper slipped from her fingers and fluttered to the floor, landing face up. The tiny, blurry sac looked like a bomb crater.

Analia didn't cry. She felt like she had cried all the moisture out of her body in the hospital waiting room. Now, she just felt dry. Hollowed out.

The sound of the front door unlocking echoed through the massive apartment. The heavy thud of the oak door closing. Footsteps, confident and heavy, approaching the bedroom.

Analia didn't move. She stood by the bed, the jacket still in her hand.

Clive walked in. He looked impeccable, as always. Freshly showered from the gym, wearing a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He stopped when he saw her.

His eyes flicked to the bandage on her forehead. For a split second, his expression faltered. A flicker of something-surprise? Guilt?

But it was gone instantly, replaced by his standard mask of annoyed superiority.

"So," he said, walking past her to the dresser to grab a watch. "You decided to come back. Liam said you didn't sleep here."

"I was at the hospital," Analia said. Her voice was quiet.

Clive scoffed, fastening his watch. "Right. The 'accident.' You know, Analia, crying wolf is getting old. If you wanted my attention, you could have just booked a dinner reservation like a normal person."

He turned to face her, leaning against the dresser, crossing his arms. "Well? Are you going to explain why you made a scene with my assistant?"

Analia looked at him. Really looked at him. She saw the handsome lines of his face, the jawline she used to trace with her fingers, the eyes that used to look at her with desire. Now, he was a stranger. A cruel, beautiful stranger.

"How is Angelena?" she asked.

Clive froze. His posture stiffened perceptibly. "What?"

"Angelena," Analia repeated. "Is she healthy? Is the baby healthy?"

Clive's face drained of color. His eyes darted to the jacket in her hand, then to the floor. He saw the ultrasound image lying on the Persian rug.

Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.

"You went through my pockets," he accused, his voice low and dangerous. He didn't deny it. He attacked. It was his way.

"You lied about Boston," Analia countered.

Clive took a step toward her, his jaw clenching. "It's complicated, Analia. You wouldn't understand. Angelena is going through a crisis. She needed a friend."

"A friend who goes to her prenatal appointments?" Analia let out a short, dry laugh. "Do you think I'm stupid, Clive? Or do you just not care enough to lie better?"

"She's alone!" Clive snapped, his voice rising. "The media is tearing her apart. She has nobody. I have a responsibility to her family. You know that."

"And what about your responsibility to me?" Analia whispered. "To your wife?"

Clive looked at her with genuine confusion, as if the question was absurd. "You have everything, Analia. You live in a ten-million-dollar penthouse. You have an unlimited credit card. You have the Wilson name. What more do you want?"

"I want a husband who doesn't keep his ex-girlfriend's ultrasound in his pocket," she said, dropping the jacket onto the floor. It landed on top of the image, covering the evidence.

"It's not my child," Clive said quickly. Too quickly. "She just... she wanted me to see it. For support."

"I don't care," Analia said. And she realized, with a jolt, that it was true. She didn't care if it was his or not. The betrayal wasn't the biology; it was the priority.

She turned and walked into the massive walk-in closet.

"Where are you going?" Clive demanded, following her.

Analia pulled her old, battered suitcase from the top shelf. It was the one she had brought with her from her college dorm, before the Wilson money replaced everything she owned.

"I'm packing," she said, opening a drawer and grabbing a handful of underwear.

"Don't be dramatic," Clive leaned against the doorframe, rolling his eyes. "You're not going anywhere. We have the charity gala next week. You have a dress fitting on Tuesday."

Analia didn't answer. She grabbed her laptop charger. She grabbed the hard drive that contained the only thing that was truly hers-her voice demos.

"Analia!" Clive's voice boomed. "Stop this. You're acting like a child."

She zipped the suitcase shut. She stood up and faced him.

"I'm not acting, Clive," she said. "I'm leaving."

She brushed past him. He caught her arm, his grip firm but not painful. Just controlling.

"You walk out that door," he hissed, "and you don't come back. I won't have a wife who runs away every time she gets jealous."

Analia looked down at his hand on her arm. Then she looked up into his eyes.

"I'm not jealous, Clive," she said softly. "I'm done."

She pulled her arm free.

Clive stood there, stunned, as she walked down the hallway. He didn't chase her. He was too proud. He thought she would stop at the elevator. He thought she would realize she had nowhere to go.

Analia took a picture of the ultrasound on the floor before she left the room. Just in case.

Analia didn't leave immediately. She sat on the velvet ottoman in the foyer, her suitcase beside her like a loyal dog. She needed to do this right.

When Clive came downstairs ten minutes later, he was fully dressed for the office, his tie undone around his neck. He saw her sitting there and let out a sigh of relief that sounded more like condescension.

"Good," he said, walking over. "You came to your senses. Now, fix this tie. The knot is never right when I do it."

He thrust his chin out, exposing his neck, waiting for her familiar fingers. It was a ritual. Every morning for four years.

Analia didn't move. "You have hands, Clive."

Clive froze. He turned his head slowly, looking at her as if the ottoman had started speaking. "Excuse me?"

Analia reached into her purse and pulled out a folded document. It was a handwritten list on the back of a hospital discharge pamphlet she had scribbled on in the waiting room.

She placed it on the marble console table.

"We need to talk about the separation," she said.

Clive's eyes narrowed. The relief vanished, replaced by a cold, hard anger. "You are pushing your luck, Analia. I told you, I don't have time for games."

"It's not a game." She stood up. "I want a divorce."

The word hung in the air, absorbing the oxygen.

Clive stared at her, then threw his head back and laughed. It was a harsh, barking sound. "Divorce? You? Analia, don't be ridiculous. You'd be on the street in a week. You have no job. You have no skills. You have nothing without me."

"I have my dignity," she said, though her voice shook slightly. "And I'd rather sleep on the street than in a bed that smells like her."

"Oh, grow up," Clive snapped. He stepped closer, looming over her. He used his height as a weapon. "Angelena is a star. She is under immense pressure. She is fragile. You... you are just a decoration. A very expensive decoration that my father bought to make me look stable."

The words hit her like physical blows. Decoration. Bought.

"The decoration is broken, Clive," she said, meeting his gaze. "I'm tired of being your prop. And I'm tired of being the villain in Angelena's soap opera."

"Don't you dare speak her name," Clive warned, pointing a finger at her. "She is pure. She has been through hell."

"Pure?" Analia let out a incredulous laugh. "She put an ultrasound picture in a married man's pocket. That's not purity, Clive. That's a territorial pissing contest."

Clive's face turned a violent shade of red. His hand twitched, instinctively moving toward his chest pocket, then stopped. He knew. Deep down, he knew.

"Get out," he whispered.

"What?"

"I said, get out!" He roared, grabbing a crystal vase from the table and hurling it at the wall. It shattered, shards raining down on the pristine floor. "You want to leave? Go! Get the hell out of my house!"

He reached into his jacket, pulled out a checkbook, and scribbled furiously. He ripped the check out and threw it at her. It fluttered to the ground, landing near her feet.

"There," he spat. "Severance pay. Take it and disappear."

Analia looked at the check. It was blank. He hadn't even filled in an amount. He was telling her she could name her price to go away.

She looked at him, seeing the trembling rage in his hands, the fear behind his eyes that he refused to acknowledge.

She stepped over the check.

"I don't want your money, Clive," she said quietly. "I just want my name back."

She grabbed her suitcase handle.

"If you walk out that door," Clive shouted, his voice cracking, "I will freeze everything. The cards, the accounts, the club memberships. You will be a ghost in this city."

Analia opened the heavy front door. The hallway air was cool.

"I was already a ghost here, Clive," she said.

She tossed her key card onto the console table. It landed with a sharp clack next to the unsigned divorce list.

She walked out.

The door didn't slam. It clicked shut with a terrifying finality.

Clive stood alone in the foyer. The silence was deafening. He looked at the blank check on the floor. He looked at the shattered vase.

Panic flared in his chest, a sudden, irrational feeling that he had just made a catastrophic mistake.

He grabbed his phone. His fingers shook as he dialed his lawyer.

"Gillespie," he barked when the line connected. "Freeze her accounts. All of them. Now. I want her to have zero access to funds by noon."

He hung up and stared at the door, waiting. Waiting for the realization to hit her. Waiting for her to turn around and knock.

She didn't.

Manhattan at noon was a beast of noise and concrete.

Analia dragged her suitcase down 5th Avenue. The adrenaline from the confrontation was fading, replaced by a dull, aching exhaustion. Her head throbbed beneath the bandage.

Her stomach growled, a loud, undignified reminder that she hadn't eaten since yesterday's lunch.

She spotted a deli on the corner. Just a regular, nondescript place with sandwiches in the window. She went inside, the smell of curing meat and vinegar making her mouth water.

She ordered a turkey sub and a bottle of water.

"That'll be $14.50," the guy behind the counter said, not looking up from his phone.

Analia pulled out her black Amex. The heavy titanium card that used to open every door in the city.

She tapped it.

BEEP.

"Declined," the guy said, popping his gum.

Analia frowned. "Try it again. It's probably the chip."

He swiped it this time.

BEEP.

"Declined, lady. Do you have another one?"

Analia's face burned. She felt the eyes of the people in line behind her-impatience, judgment. She dug through her wallet. The Visa. The Mastercard.

BEEP. BEEP.

"Look, if you can't pay, move aside," the guy said, annoyed now.

Analia's hands were shaking. She opened the small zipper pocket of her purse where she kept loose change. She counted three crumpled dollar bills and a handful of quarters.

"I... I'll just take the water," she whispered.

She put the cash on the counter. It was humiliating. It was the kind of small, petty cruelty that hurt more than the shouting.

She walked out with just the water bottle, her stomach cramping with hunger.

Her phone buzzed. A notification from the bank app.

ALERT: Supplementary Card Ending in 8890 has been suspended by the Primary Account Holder.

Followed by a voice message.

She played it, holding the phone to her ear as traffic roared by.

Clive's voice was calm, almost bored. "Hungry yet? Come home, apologize, and I'll unlock them. Don't be stubborn, Analia. It doesn't suit you."

Analia deleted the message.

She opened a different app on her phone. One hidden in a folder labeled "Utilities." It required a retinal scan and a thumbprint.

The app opened. Cayman Islands Offshore Banking.

Account Name: Lyra LLC.

Balance: $1,450,000.00.

She wasn't broke. She was rich. She had saved every penny from her voice acting royalties before the marriage, and the residuals that had trickled in secretly over the last four years.

But she couldn't touch it.

Not yet. If she transferred money now, Clive's forensic accountants would see it in the divorce discovery. They would claim it was marital assets. They would freeze this too.

She had to be poor. For a little while longer.

A horn honked. Zoe's Ford Fiesta pulled up to the curb, double-parked illegally.

"Get in, loser!" Zoe yelled out the window, grinning. "We're going shopping. By shopping, I mean we're going to eat my leftovers."

Analia got in. As she buckled her seatbelt, she let out a laugh. It was a jagged, rusty sound, but it was real.

"He froze the cards," Analia said.

"Of course he did," Zoe merged into traffic, cutting off a taxi. "Micro-penis energy."

"Zoe!" Analia giggled. "He doesn't have a micro-penis."

"Well, his soul does," Zoe declared.

They drove past the Apex Media tower. It was a glass monolith piercing the sky. A massive digital billboard wrapped around the building, advertising the upcoming epic, The Pantheon Saga.

Angelena Stuart's face wasn't on the poster yet, but her name was rumored in every blog.

Analia stared at the building. Her eyes narrowed. The sadness in her chest began to harden into something colder, something useful. Ambition.

"Zoe," she said. "Does your closet still have that soundproofing foam we put up?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Because Starfall is coming out of retirement," Analia said. "And I'm going to take that role from her."

Zoe glanced at her, eyes wide. "The Pantheon Saga? But everyone says Angelena is a lock."

"She's a lock because of politics," Analia said, watching the tower disappear in the rearview mirror. "I'm going to beat her with talent. Clive thinks I'm starving? Good. I act better when I'm hungry."