Christen pulled the door of the black Lincoln Uber open and threw herself into the backseat. She slammed the door shut, cutting off the damp garage air and the suffocating presence of her husband.

She sank into the leather seat and closed her eyes. Her entire body felt bruised, though no one had hit her.

She reached into her clutch to find her phone. Her fingertips brushed against something cold and stiff.

She frowned, pulling it out.

It was a matte black card with thick, dark gold edges. There was no company logo. No title. Just two words printed in sleek, embossed lettering: Kile Barrett. And a private phone number beneath it.

Her breath caught. She remembered the moment in the booth when Kile had leaned in close, his chest pressing against hers. He had slipped it into her open bag without her even noticing, his long fingers brushing the inner lining with a deliberate, lingering touch that she now realized was far too calculated.

The card felt heavy in her hand, radiating danger. Her heart rate spiked again. She shoved the card deep into the bottom zipper pocket of her clutch, wishing she could erase the memory of his mocking eyes.

Thirty minutes later, the car pulled up to the curb of a luxury high-rise on the Upper East Side.

Christen swiped her key fob in the private elevator. She watched the numbers climb, feeling a deep, physical revulsion toward the place she was supposed to call home.

The doors opened directly into the penthouse foyer. The apartment was pitch black. The only light came from the city neon bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

She didn't turn on the lights. She kicked off her heels, her bare feet hitting the freezing marble floor.

She walked past the massive, empty living room and went straight into the master bedroom's walk-in closet.

She pulled the string for the overhead light. Rows of seasonal haute couture gowns and velvet display cases filled with diamonds stared back at her. A bitter taste coated her tongue. These weren't hers. They were props. Costumes Brendon bought to maintain his image of the generous, perfect husband.

She walked past the silk and cashmere, heading to the very back corner. She dragged out a faded black canvas duffel bag. It was the bag she had brought from her adoptive parents' house three years ago.

She unzipped it and started throwing things inside. Plain cotton t-shirts. A pair of jeans. Her toothbrush. Her passport and birth certificate.

She had spent nearly an hour sitting on the closet floor, staring at the empty walls, letting the shock completely wear off before she finally started packing. Suddenly, the electronic lock on the front door beeped. Heavy, uneven footsteps echoed in the foyer. Christen's hands stopped moving. Brendon was home early. "I called you ten times!" his voice boomed from the hallway, laced with irritation.

The bedroom door swung open. Brendon stood in the frame, smelling of expensive scotch and stale perfume. His tie was loosened, his face tight with irritation.

He flipped the light switch. The sudden brightness made Christen squint. Brendon's eyes immediately locked onto the canvas bag on the floor.

His jaw clenched. He crossed the room in three long strides.

"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded.

Christen didn't look at him. She grabbed a gray sweater and shoved it into the bag. "I'm going to stay at my father's house for a few days."

Brendon's hand shot out. His fingers clamped around her wrist like an iron cuff. He squeezed hard enough to make her gasp in pain, jerking her hand away from the bag.

"Stop throwing a tantrum," he warned, his voice low and threatening. "We have the family charity brunch tomorrow. You are expected to be there."

The word family made the acid in her stomach churn again. She yanked her arm with all her strength, breaking his grip.

She lifted her chin and stared straight into his eyes.

"I am not your puppet, Brendon."

Brendon blinked, caught off guard by the raw disgust in her eyes. He defaulted to his usual tactic. His face softened into a mask of fake patience. He reached out, his fingers aiming to stroke her cheek.

Christen snapped her head to the side, dodging his hand as if it were covered in acid.

"Don't touch me," she said, her voice dropping to a dead, icy whisper.

Brendon's hand froze in mid-air. The fake softness vanished from his face, replaced by a dark, ugly flush. He realized, in that second, that she wasn't just pouting. She was slipping out of his control.

Christen zipped up the duffel bag. She grabbed the handles, hoisted it over her shoulder, and walked right past him toward the bedroom door.

Christen stepped out of the master bedroom, the canvas bag heavy against her hip. She walked down the wide, silent hallway toward the foyer.

A sharp ding shattered the quiet.

The private elevator doors slid open. Constance Jimenez stepped out. She was dressed in a pristine Chanel tweed suit, her hair perfectly coiffed, her makeup flawless despite the late hour.

Constance's eyes immediately darted to the cheap canvas bag in Christen's hand. Her perfectly drawn eyebrows pulled together in deep disgust.

She marched forward, her heels clicking aggressively against the marble.

"Where do you think you're going looking like a beggar?" Constance's voice was shrill, echoing off the high ceilings.

Christen took a slow, deep breath. She didn't have the energy for this. She kept her mouth shut and tried to step around her mother-in-law.

Constance sidestepped, using her body to block the hallway. She looked Christen up and down with absolute contempt.

Brendon walked out of the bedroom, hearing the commotion. The moment he saw his mother, his aggressive posture vanished, replaced by the submissive slump of an obedient son.

Constance pointed a manicured finger at Christen's face. "You embarrassed this family tonight. Leaving the gala early like a petulant child. You will never learn how to behave, will you? You can dress a stray dog in silk, but it still belongs in the gutter."

Christen's grip on the bag tightened until her knuckles ached. "I don't need to learn your hypocritical rules," she said coldly.

Constance's eyes widened in fury, but she refused to dirty her own hands. She lifted a manicured finger, pointing at the bag with utter revulsion. "Brendon, take that filthy thing away from her! Let's see what trash she's trying to steal from us," she commanded. Brendon, eager to regain his mother's approval, lunged forward and grabbed the fabric of the canvas bag, yanking it hard.

Christen twisted her body to protect it, but the sudden force ripped the cheap zipper open.

Three plain cotton t-shirts spilled out, landing in a heap on the imported marble floor.

Constance stared at the clothes and let out a harsh, mocking laugh. "Look at this trash. You are cheap to your very core."

Christen looked at Brendon. He stood there, watching his mother humiliate his wife.

"Just apologize to her, Christen," Brendon sighed, rubbing his temples. "Don't make a scene."

The last ounce of hope Christen had for him died right there. The disappointment solidified into pure, freezing contempt.

She crouched down, her movements slow and deliberate, and picked up her shirts. She shoved them back into the bag.

Constance sneered. "If you walk out that door, I will cut off every credit card in your name. You'll be sleeping on the streets by tomorrow."

Christen stood up. She looked Constance dead in the eye. "I have never spent a single cent of Jimenez money. Keep it."

Constance's face turned purple. She opened her mouth to scream, but the sound of the front door's electronic keypad beeping rapidly cut her off.

The heavy door was shoved open. A blast of cold air swept into the foyer, bringing a fierce energy with it.

Aisling Kearney marched in. She was wearing her signature blood-red trench coat, holding a massive Hermès Birkin bag. She had just landed from an overseas flight, received Christen's SOS text, and come straight here.

Aisling took one look at the scene-the spilled clothes, Constance's pointing finger, Christen's pale face-and her eyes turned lethal.

Aisling strode forward in her Louboutins, physically wedging herself between Christen and Constance to shield her friend. She used her height advantage to look down at the older woman. Only after ensuring Christen was safely behind her did Aisling turn slightly and slam her massive Birkin down onto the nearby entryway console table. The heavy thud made everyone jump.

"Is this how old money spends their Friday nights?" Aisling drawled, her thick Manhattan accent dripping with venom. "Bullying women in their own homes?"

Constance stumbled back a step, shocked by the sudden intrusion. Her finger trembled as she pointed at Aisling. "How dare you-"

Aisling slapped Constance's hand away. She didn't even look at her. She turned her head and gave Christen a fierce, protective look that said, I've got you.

Constance stared at the back of her hand, a red mark blooming where Aisling had smacked it. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish.

"You savage!" Constance shrieked. "You have no class!"

Aisling crossed her arms over her chest and smirked. "Better a savage than a parasite who confuses cruelty with class."

Brendon finally snapped out of his shock. He puffed up his chest, trying to reclaim his territory. He pointed at the door. "Get out of my house, Aisling. Now."

Aisling didn't even turn her head to look at him. "Shut up, you pathetic mama's boy. You can't even protect your own wife."

The insult hit Brendon's fragile ego like a bullet. His face turned a dark, ugly red. He lunged forward, reaching out to grab Aisling by the shoulder and physically throw her out.

Christen moved faster. She stepped in front of Aisling, her body acting as a shield. She glared at Brendon, her eyes burning with a violent intensity he had never seen before.

"Touch her," Christen hissed, her voice vibrating with rage, "and see what happens."

Brendon froze. His hand hovered in the air. He actually took a step back, intimidated by the raw hatred radiating from his wife.

Constance saw her son retreat and lost her mind. "You ungrateful bitch!" she screamed at Christen. "You bring outsiders in to attack your own husband? You are a disgrace to this family!"

Christen looked at the mother and son. The pristine suits, the expensive watches, the absolute rot underneath it all. The last three years of her life flashed before her eyes-a pathetic, desperate attempt to belong to a family that was nothing but a beautiful corpse.

She took a deep breath. The suffocating weight she had carried for three years lifted off her chest. She stood up perfectly straight.

"The Jimenez family is a joke," Christen said. Her voice was terrifyingly calm. "You are an empty shell built on lies and dirty secrets."

Constance gasped, clutching her chest as if she had been stabbed. "Get out! Get out of my son's house!"

"I'm leaving," Christen said. She looked directly at Brendon. The silence in the hallway was absolute.

"And I want a divorce."

The words dropped like a bomb.

Brendon's pupils dilated. His jaw went slack. "What?"

Constance stared for a second, then burst into a sharp, hysterical laugh. "A divorce? Is this your little game to get a payout? Read your prenup, you stupid girl. You won't get a single dime from us."

"Your money is filthy," Christen said, her voice steady. "I wouldn't take a cent if you begged me. I'm leaving with nothing."

Panic finally pierced through Brendon's arrogance. He realized she meant it. His perfect image, his controlled life, was shattering.

"No!" Brendon roared, his voice cracking. "I do not agree to a divorce! You are not leaving!"

Christen ignored him. She bent down and picked up her canvas bag. She turned toward the door.

Constance saw Christen dismissing them, turning her back on their authority. Her mind snapped.

She lunged forward with terrifying speed. She raised her arm high and swung with every ounce of strength in her body.

Aisling was blocked by Brendon's broad shoulders and couldn't reach them in time. Christen, weighed down by the heavy bag, couldn't duck fast enough. She only managed to turn her head slightly.

Smack.

The sound of flesh hitting flesh echoed sharply in the hallway.

Constance's palm connected brutally with the left side of Christen's face. The sheer force of the blow snapped Christen's head to the side.

A stinging, burning pain exploded across her cheek. Her ear rang with a high-pitched whine. She tasted the warm, metallic tang of blood pooling inside her cheek where her teeth had cut the flesh.

The hallway went dead silent.

Brendon stared at his mother in horror, but his feet remained glued to the floor. He didn't move to help his wife.

Aisling let out a guttural scream of pure rage. She shoved Brendon out of the way with both hands, charging forward like a lioness.