The partition between the driver and the passenger cabin was up. The rear of the limousine was a hermetically sealed box of silence, cut off from the rainy chaos of New York streets.

Brandon sprawled on the leather seat opposite her, his long legs taking up most of the floor space. He wasn't looking at the window; he was watching her. His gaze was heavy, physical, tracing the line of her jaw, the pulse fluttering in her neck.

Avery rubbed her wrist. A faint bruise was already forming, a purple fingerprint against her pale skin.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," Brandon said. His voice was devoid of the slurring drunkenness he had displayed in the club. "It was... a test. I was testing your reflexes."

"You're drunk, Brandon," Avery said, keeping her eyes fixed on the passing streetlights.

"Am I?" He chuckled darkly. "Maybe. Or maybe I'm just the only one honest enough to tell you that Augustus is probably at the St. Regis right now. Room 402. He likes the view of the park."

Avery felt a muscle in her jaw tick, but she didn't turn. "Stop."

"He doesn't deserve you," Brandon continued, his voice dropping an octave. He reached out across the gap between them. His fingers brushed a loose strand of hair away from her face. His touch was scorching hot against her cold skin. His thumb brushed the collar of her coat, a fleeting, almost imperceptible pressure against the fabric, gone as quickly as it came.

Avery flinched violently. "Stop the car."

"We're on the FDR Drive, Auntie. Can't stop here."

"I said stop!" She reached for the door handle, her fingers curling around the latch. She unlocked it with a loud click. The wind roared outside, threatening to tear the door open if she pushed.

Brandon laughed. He pulled his hand back, raising his palms in surrender. "Alright. Alright. You win. No touching the merchandise."

The car slowed as it approached the iron gates of the Garrison Estate. The massive stone structure loomed in the rain, dark and foreboding.

The car stopped. Brandon opened the door, stumbling slightly as he stepped out onto the wet pavement. He caught himself on the frame, leaning back in to look at her one last time.

"Sweet dreams, Auntie," he whispered, his eyes glittering with a mix of mockery and something far more dangerous. He slammed the door.

Avery waited until he had disappeared through the front entrance of the main house. Then, she pressed the intercom button.

"Charles," she said. Her voice had changed. The tremble was gone. The softness had evaporated, replaced by a tone as cold and sharp as a scalpel. "Take me to the penthouse. I'm not staying here tonight."

Charles's eyes met hers in the rearview mirror as the partition lowered slightly. He looked concerned, his brow furrowed. "Mrs. Garrison... Avery. Why do you let him treat you like that? Why do you endure any of this?"

Avery sat back, her posture shifting. The slump vanished. She crossed her legs, her spine straightening into a line of steel. She pulled her phone from her purse, the screen illuminating her face with a harsh blue light.

"Jiles calls me an asset, Charles," she said, her thumb scrolling through a stock alert for Garrison Biotech. "Do you know the first rule of asset management?"

Charles stayed silent, merging the car back onto the highway toward Manhattan.

"An asset must depreciate before it can be written off," she said, her eyes scanning the numbers. "I need to be worthless to them. I need to be broken, pitied, and weak. Only then will they let me go without a fight."

"And Augustus?" Charles asked quietly.

"I feel nothing for Augustus," she said. The truth of it was liberating. "Is the file ready for tomorrow?"

"Yes, ma'am. Everything is in order."

Avery nodded. She reached into her purse and pulled out a small pill bottle. She shook out a single vitamin, swallowing it dry, though she would tell anyone who asked that it was a sedative for her nerves. She pulled down the vanity mirror, staring at her reflection.

She practiced the expression-eyes slightly widened, mouth turned down at the corners. The face of a sad, neglected wife.

"Good," she murmured to her reflection.

The limousine descended into the underground garage of the penthouse building on 5th Avenue. As the car turned the corner toward the private elevator bank, Avery's eyes darted to the parking spot reserved for 4A.

Augustus's sleek black sports car was there.

And on the passenger seat, clearly visible through the windshield, was a bright silk scarf. It was Hermes. Garish. Not something Avery would ever wear.

Avery didn't cry. She didn't gasp.

She smiled. It was a faint, terrifying curve of her lips.

"Perfect," she whispered.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, revealing the foyer of the penthouse. Avery stepped out, her heels sinking into the plush carpet. The lights in the apartment were dimmed to a romantic low, and the soft, mournful notes of a jazz saxophone drifted from the integrated sound system.

She stopped.

Right in the center of the entryway rug, a pair of red stilettos had been kicked off haphazardly. One lay on its side, the red sole gleaming under the recessed lighting. Avery recognized them immediately. They were the limited edition Louboutins she had mentioned wanting three months ago. Augustus had said they were "too flashy" for a Preston.

Apparently, they weren't too flashy for someone else.

Avery walked into the living room, her footsteps silent.

Gilda Nichols was lounging on the Italian leather sofa, a glass of red wine in her hand. She was a beautiful woman, in a sharp, predatory way, with dark hair and eyes that always seemed to be calculating the cost of everything in the room.

She was wearing a white dress shirt. Nothing else.

The shirt was unbuttoned at the top, revealing the curve of her chest. It was Augustus's shirt. Avery had bought it for him in Milan.

Gilda looked up, feigning surprise. She took a slow sip of wine, her gaze raking over Avery's damp coat and tired face. She didn't make a move to cover her bare legs.

"Mrs. Garrison," Gilda purred, the title dripping with syrup. "We didn't expect you back so soon."

A flash of anger sparked in Avery's chest-a primal, territorial instinct-but she suffocated it instantly. She remembered her wedding night, sitting alone in this very room while Augustus went out to "celebrate with the boys." She remembered the coldness.

"Where is my husband?" Avery asked, her voice flat and devoid of emotion.

The glass doors to the balcony slid open. Augustus walked in, a trail of cigar smoke following him. He was wearing suit trousers but no shirt. He stopped when he saw Avery, a frown creasing his forehead. He looked annoyed, like a man whose favorite show had been interrupted by a commercial.

"You're back," he said, sounding bored. "I thought you'd be babysitting Brandon all night. Did you get the drunk under control?"

"He's at the estate," Avery said quietly.

Augustus walked past her, not even glancing at her face. He went straight to the wine bottle on the sideboard and poured a refill for Gilda. The disrespect was palpable. He treated Avery like a piece of furniture that had been placed in an inconvenient spot.

Gilda giggled as Augustus handed her the glass, her hand lingering on his bare arm. She looked at Avery with triumph in her eyes.

Avery clutched her chest. She forced her diaphragm to spasm, initiating a dry, hacking cough. She bent over, her body shaking with the effort.

"For God's sake," Augustus snapped, rolling his eyes. "Are you sick again?"

"I... I think I caught a chill in the rain," Avery wheezed, looking up at him with watery eyes.

"Well, don't stand there infecting us," Augustus said, waving his hand dismissively toward the hallway. "Go to your room. And close the door. I don't want to hear that hacking all night."

"I'm sorry, Augustus," Avery whispered. She looked at Gilda, offering a weak, apologetic nod. Gilda smirked, nestling deeper into the sofa.

Avery turned and retreated. She walked down the long hallway to the guest bedroom-the room she had slept in for the last two years.

She entered the room and closed the door softly. Then, she locked it.

The coughing stopped instantly.

Avery stood in the center of the dark room, her breathing perfectly even. She walked to the closet and reached into the lining of her winter coat, pulling out a small, cheap burner phone.

She powered it on. The screen glowed in the darkness.

She typed a message, her thumbs moving with lightning speed.

The incubator is secure. Proceed.

She hit send.

She walked to the wall calendar hanging by the desk. A date, two weeks from now, was circled in red ink. She touched the circle with her fingertip.

"Enjoy the wine, Gilda," she whispered to the empty room. "You're going to need it."

Sunday brunch at the Garrison Estate was a theatrical performance of wealth and hypocrisy. The sunroom was flooded with light, reflecting off the crystal flutes of mimosas held by people who despised each other.

Avery sat at the far end of the long table, her hands folded in her lap. She wore a pale yellow dress that washed her out, making her look even more ghost-like than usual.

Augustus sat at the center, radiating arrogance. To his right sat his mother, Eleanor, a woman whose face was pulled so tight by surgery she looked permanently surprised.

And to Augustus's left sat Gilda.

She wasn't invited, technically. But the Garrisons tolerated power, and Gilda was currently projecting it.

A servant approached with a pitcher of mimosas. Gilda held up a hand, a dramatic, sweeping gesture that silenced the table.

"No alcohol for me," she said, her voice carrying clearly to the ends of the room.

Eleanor paused, her fork hovering halfway to her mouth. "On a diet, dear?"

Gilda smiled, turning to look at Augustus. He looked smug, patting her hand on the tablecloth.

"Not exactly," Gilda said. She placed a hand on her stomach. "We're expecting."

The sound of silverware clattering against fine china echoed in the room. Eleanor dropped her fork. Franklin Garrison, Augustus's father, lowered his newspaper.

"An heir?" Franklin boomed, a smile breaking across his stern face. "A Garrison heir?"

"Yes," Augustus said, puffing out his chest. "A boy, we think. It's early, but the doctors are optimistic."

The table erupted. Eleanor was out of her chair, rushing to hug Gilda. Franklin called for a toast to the future of the lineage. They cooed and fawned, their excitement palpable.

Avery sat in silence. She was completely erased. It was as if she didn't exist. She was the wife, sitting ten feet away, while her husband celebrated his mistress's pregnancy with his parents.

Augustus cleared his throat. The room quieted down. He looked at Avery, his expression hardening. He reached under his chair and pulled out a thick manila envelope. He slid it down the table. It stopped just in front of Avery's untouched plate.

"It's time to formalize the transition, Avery," he said. "We need to make room for the family."

Avery picked up the envelope. Her hands trembled-just enough for them to see. She opened it.

It was a divorce settlement.

She scanned the terms. They were offering her the villa in the Hamptons-a money pit that needed a new roof-and fifty million dollars.

Fifty million. Augustus was worth four billion.

"It's a generous offer," Eleanor said, her voice sharp. "Considering you're... well, barren. You provided no value to this family, Avery. This is a kindness."

Gilda smirked, stroking her flat stomach. "We just want what's best for everyone."

Avery lowered her head. She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing the moisture to gather in her lashes. When she looked up, a single, perfect tear tracked down her cheek.

"Is there no other way?" she whispered, her voice breaking.

"We need an heir, Avery," Augustus said coldly. "You couldn't give me one. Gilda did. It's simple biology."

Avery nodded slowly, looking defeated. She pushed the paper back toward him, but stopped.

"I will sign," she said.

Augustus let out a breath he had been holding. "Good."

"But," Avery added, sniffing. "I need my lawyer to review it first. Just... just to make sure I understand the tax implications. I'm not very good with numbers."

Augustus laughed. It was a cruel, barking sound. "Of course you aren't. Fine. Have your little lawyer look at it. But make it quick. I want this done by Tuesday."

Avery stood up. "Excuse me. I... I need a moment."

She turned and walked out of the sunroom. Behind her, she heard the pop of a champagne cork. She heard Eleanor laughing, saying, "Thank God she's finally gone. Such a depressing little thing."

Avery walked into the hallway. The moment she was out of sight, she stopped.

She reached up and wiped the tear from her cheek with a single, brutal swipe of her thumb. Her posture shifted. Her shoulders rolled back. She didn't look back at the sunroom.

She walked toward the exit with the stride of a predator who had just set a trap and was now waiting for the snap.