The plastic wheels of Faith's suitcase ground heavily against the plush Persian runner as she walked down the long corridor.

She reached the massive double doors of the entryway and stopped.

She let go of the suitcase handle and turned to face the marble console table.

Faith took a deep breath. She raised her left hand. With her right thumb and index finger, she gripped the platinum band of her wedding ring.

It was a flawless, five-carat emerald-cut diamond. Heavy. Cold.

She pulled it over her knuckle. It slid off, leaving behind a pale, indented ring of skin at the base of her finger-a physical scar of six years of walking on eggshells.

She placed the ring down on the marble.

Clink.

The sharp sound of metal hitting stone echoed in the quiet foyer.

Hartwell stood twenty feet away, half-swallowed by the shadows of the hallway. His eyes were locked onto her hands.

The moment the ring left her finger, Hartwell's heart seized. It felt as if a massive, invisible fist had punched straight through his ribs and crushed his lungs. He couldn't draw a breath.

His jaw locked. He refused to show her the sudden, violent terror ripping through his nervous system.

"When you walk out that door," Hartwell yelled, his voice echoing with vicious malice, "don't ever think about coming back here crying to me."

Faith didn't even turn her head.

She reached out and wrapped her fingers around the heavy brass door handle. She pressed down.

The heavy door swung open. A rush of cold hallway air swept into the stifling heat of the penthouse.

Faith stepped over the threshold, pulling her suitcase behind her. She reached back and pulled the door shut.

Slam.

The heavy thud severed the connection between them with terrifying finality.

The hallway plunged into a dead, ringing silence.

Hartwell stood perfectly still. His eyes were glued to the solid wood of the door. He waited for it to open. He waited for her to realize she had no money, nowhere to go, and come crawling back.

Ten seconds passed. Nothing.

Hartwell forced his legs to move. He walked slowly toward the entryway. He stopped in front of the console table.

The five-carat diamond sat there, abandoned. The overhead lights caught the facets, shooting blinding, mocking sparks of light into his eyes.

A wave of intense dizziness washed over him.

He spun around, his chest heaving. He practically ran to the living room bar.

He grabbed a heavy crystal decanter filled with aged whiskey. He didn't bother with ice. He poured the amber liquid into a thick crystal tumbler until it nearly spilled over the edge.

He threw his head back and swallowed the liquor in three massive gulps.

The alcohol burned a fiery trail down his throat, but it did nothing to numb the sudden, agonizing stabbing pain in his chest.

He wanted to feel victorious. He had finally gotten rid of the woman who trapped him.

But all he could see was her face, staring at him with absolute, horrifying indifference.

He slammed the empty glass down on the marble counter. His chest heaved as his eyes fell upon the thick stack of the Marital Settlement Agreement she had just signed. The black ink of her signature mocked him, finalizing the severance he had demanded. But instead of relief, a sudden, violent surge of revulsion and panic clawed up his throat. He lunged forward, his massive hands grabbing the painstakingly drafted documents. With a guttural, furious sound, Hartwell ripped the thick stack of papers in half. The sound of tearing paper echoed sharply in the cavernous room. He tore them again, and again, shredding the multi-million dollar agreement into unrecognizable confetti, hurling the pieces across the pristine floor.

Irving Gardner, who had been packing his briefcase, gasped in pure shock.

"Mr. Ware!" The lawyer shrank back, his eyes darting to the ruined papers. "Those were the final copies! I'll need to-"

Hartwell lunged. He snatched the remaining folder out of Irving's hand and hurled it at the floor.

"Draft a new one!" Hartwell roared, his eyes pitch black, wild, and completely unhinged. "Call her right now! Tell her the terms are unacceptable! Make her come back here and renegotiate!"

Irving stood frozen, terrified by the sudden psychotic break of his usually icy boss.

"Get out," Hartwell snarled, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper.

Down on the street level, Faith pushed through the revolving doors of the building.

The freezing wind whipped her hair across her face. She took a deep breath of the polluted, freezing Manhattan air.

For the first time in six years, her chest didn't feel like it was bound in iron chains. She felt light.

A black SUV screeched to a halt at the curb. The passenger window rolled down.

Quinn Baxter peered out from behind oversized Celine sunglasses. She let out a loud, piercing whistle.

Quinn threw the car into park, jumped out, and grabbed Faith's suitcase, tossing it into the trunk. She turned and wrapped Faith in a bone-crushing hug.

"Welcome back to the land of the living, babe," Quinn whispered fiercely.

Faith climbed into the passenger seat. She looked at the side mirror, watching the towering Ware Group residential building shrink into the distance.

A profound sense of relief washed over her.

Quinn cranked the steering wheel, merging into traffic. "To celebrate your newfound freedom, we are going to that new French Bistro in Soho tonight. We are getting blackout drunk."

Faith leaned her head against the cold window. She was exhausted, but looking at Quinn's fiercely protective face, she managed a small, genuine smile.

"Okay," Faith said softly.

The SUV sped toward Brooklyn, carrying Faith toward her new life.

The guest bedroom in Quinn's Brooklyn apartment smelled of lavender and expensive dry shampoo.

Faith stood in front of the full-length mirror. Gone were the conservative, high-necked blouses and shapeless slacks Hartwell had preferred her to wear.

Tonight, she wore a black silk slip dress she had borrowed from Quinn's closet. The fabric clung to the curves she had hidden for years, the thin spaghetti straps highlighting her delicate collarbones.

Quinn stepped behind her, wielding a tube of MAC Ruby Woo lipstick.

"Hold still," Quinn commanded, carefully applying the vivid red color to Faith's lips.

The bright crimson instantly washed away the exhaustion under Faith's eyes, making her pale skin look luminous and her dark eyes striking. She looked dangerous. She looked alive.

Thirty minutes later, an Uber dropped them off on the cobblestone streets of Soho.

The French Bistro was the hottest reservation in the city. A line of hopeful diners wrapped around the block, shivering in the cold.

Quinn, utilizing her status as a senior fashion editor, bypassed the velvet rope entirely. She gave the bouncer a sharp nod, grabbed Faith's hand, and pulled her into the chaotic, dimly lit restaurant.

The maître d' immediately escorted them to a plush, semi-circular leather booth by the window. It was a prime spot, offering a clear view of the entire dining room.

Faith sank into the red leather. She ordered a dry martini.

The jazz music pulsing through the speakers and the low hum of conversation slowly uncoiled the tight knot in her stomach.

When the drinks arrived, she clinked her glass against Quinn's. The icy gin burned pleasantly down her throat, washing away the lingering metallic taste of the morning's disaster.

Quinn suddenly cursed under her breath, her fingers aggressively tapping the screen of her phone. "Are you kidding me?" she muttered, her eyes darting up to Faith. "I just saw Eveline Craig's Instagram story. She tagged this exact restaurant three minutes ago. We need to leave."

But it was already too late. A ripple of hushed whispers swept through the front of the restaurant.

The maître d' practically sprinted to the entrance, bowing obsequiously as he guided two VIP guests through the crowded tables toward the center of the room.

Faith instinctively followed the movement of the crowd.

Her hand froze halfway to her mouth. The martini glass hovered in mid-air.

Striding through the restaurant was Hartwell. He wore a long, tailored black cashmere overcoat that made him look like a dark god among mortals.

Clinging tightly to his left arm was Eveline Craig, draped in a white silk gown that looked more suited for a bridal magazine than a dinner date.

Faith's eyes dropped to Hartwell's right hand.

Wrapped thickly around his palm was a stark white medical bandage. A physical manifestation of his violent loss of control.

Quinn saw them a second later. She slammed her drink down on the table. "You have got to be kidding me. What a nightmare."

As the waiter pulled out a chair for Eveline, Hartwell casually lifted his head. His predatory gaze swept over the restaurant, assessing the room out of pure habit.

His eyes locked directly onto the corner booth.

Hartwell stopped dead in his tracks.

His pupils dilated so fast his eyes appeared entirely black. He stared at Faith.

He had never seen her in a dress like that. The black silk exposed the smooth skin of her shoulders. The red lipstick made her look like a stranger-a breathtaking, untouchable stranger.

A violent jolt of electricity shot straight to his groin.

But then, the lust was instantly swallowed by a suffocating wave of fury.

She had seen him. He knew she had. But instead of looking away in tears, instead of staring at him with heartbreak, Faith simply blinked.

Her face remained completely blank. She turned her head away, looking back at Quinn, and took a slow sip of her martini.

She looked right through him. Like he was a piece of furniture.

Hartwell's jaw clamped shut so hard his teeth ground together. The muscles in his neck strained against his collar. A blinding, irrational rage ignited in his chest.

He marched to his seat and threw himself into the chair.

Eveline, highly attuned to his every mood, followed his line of sight. When she saw Faith sitting there looking like a masterpiece, her perfectly manicured smile faltered.

A toxic, ugly jealousy flared in Eveline's chest.

She immediately morphed her expression into one of fragile concern. She reached across the table, her fingers lightly brushing the white bandage on Hartwell's hand.

"Does your hand still hurt, darling?" Eveline cooed, her voice loud enough to carry.

Hartwell violently jerked his hand away from her touch.

He didn't even look at Eveline. His eyes were physically anchored to Faith's booth.

He watched Faith lean forward, her red lips parting as she said something to Quinn. Quinn threw her head back and laughed loudly.

Faith was smiling. She was actually smiling.

The realization that she was perfectly fine without him, that she was thriving while his chest felt like it was caving in, made Hartwell's breathing turn ragged and shallow.

He raised his hand and snapped his fingers at the sommelier.

"Bring me your most expensive Bordeaux. Now," Hartwell growled, desperate for alcohol to drown the manic buzzing in his brain.

Across the table, Eveline bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood. Her fingernails dug into her palms. She would not let this pathetic ex-wife steal his attention.

Eveline picked up her water glass, taking a slow sip. Over the rim of the glass, she caught the eye of a paparazzi photographer she had paid to wait near the bar.

She gave him a subtle, sharp nod. It was time to put Faith back in her place.