Morning sunlight slashed through the hospital blinds.

Bridget sat propped up against the pillows. Her iPad rested on her lap. Her fingers flew across the screen, scrolling through heavily encrypted data streams on a dark web server, completely ignoring the dull sting beneath the fresh square bandage the nurse had placed over her right hand where she had ripped out the IV.

The rhythmic clicking of heels echoed in the corridor.

Bridget instantly locked the screen and shoved the iPad under her pillow.

The door swung open. Jayson walked in, wearing a sharp navy suit. Right behind him was Golda, dressed in a pristine Chanel tweed set, holding Pippa's hand.

Jayson walked to the side of the bed. He adjusted his collar, pasting a look of deep concern onto his face. "Does your head still hurt, darling?"

Bridget stared at his perfectly styled hair. Bile rose in the back of her throat.

"I'll live," she said flatly.

Golda stepped forward. She placed a massive bouquet of white lilies on the nightstand. She touched her collarbone, her eyes wide and watery. "We were so terrified when we heard about the crash, Bridget."

Bridget caught the micro-expression. Behind the fake tears, Golda's eyes gleamed with a sharp, triumphant mockery.

Pippa let go of Golda's hand. The little girl ran around the hospital room, waving a plastic toy airplane.

She crashed directly into Bridget's nightstand.

The full glass of warm water tipped over. It shattered on the floor, soaking Bridget's slippers.

Bridget's eyes narrowed. She opened her mouth to speak.

Jayson moved faster. He scooped Pippa up into his arms, shielding her.

"She's just a child, Bridget," Jayson said sharply, his tone laced with warning. "Don't look at her like that. You'll frighten her."

Bridget let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Am I supposed to smile and applaud while she trashes my room?"

Jayson's jaw clenched. "You're acting like a spoiled brat again. It's exhausting."

He set Pippa down and cleared his throat. He looked down at Bridget with the arrogant authority of a CEO giving an order.

"I've made a decision," Jayson said. "Josh's widow needs stability. I've moved Golda and Pippa into the Tribeca penthouse."

Bridget's blood ran cold. The Tribeca penthouse was the property she had begged Jayson to sell her last year so she could build a private art studio. He had told her it wasn't on the market.

Golda looked down, playing with her fingers. "It's too much, Jayson. But Pippa really needs the school district."

Jayson patted Golda's shoulder. He looked back at Bridget.

"I've already spoken to Archer about it. He agrees that providing for Pippa's education is a worthy use of the family's philanthropic funds. We'll be reallocating a portion of the educational quota."

Bridget stared at him. She didn't blink.

"In your dreams," Bridget said softly.

Jayson's face flushed red. His ego bruised instantly.

"You are incredibly selfish," Jayson raised his voice, pointing a finger at her. "That money is a rounding error for the trust. You have zero compassion."

Bridget held his gaze. "Cline Medical hasn't even gone public yet, and you're already giving away my family's money to your charity cases."

Jayson stepped forward, his fists clenched. "Watch your mouth."

Golda grabbed Jayson's sleeve. She sniffled, her voice trembling. "Please, don't fight because of us. We can move out today."

Jayson grabbed Golda's hand and squeezed it. He glared at Bridget. "Nobody is kicking you out."

Bridget watched his thumb stroke Golda's knuckles. The exact same gesture from the Hamptons.

She leaned back against the pillows. She let her muscles relax, slipping the mask of the brainless socialite perfectly back into place.

"Whatever," Bridget sighed, rolling her eyes. "Just don't touch the limit on my black card."

Jayson sneered. He thought he had won. He wrapped his arm around Golda and guided her out of the room.

The door clicked shut.

Bridget stared at the puddle of water on the floor. In her mind, she had just signed Jayson's death warrant.

The hospital room was dark.

Sloane Adler slipped through the door, followed by a tall man in a tailored gray suit holding a leather briefcase.

The man took off his wire-rimmed glasses. "Mrs. Cline. I'm Julian Cromwell."

Julian opened his briefcase. He pulled out a thick stack of financial disclosures and handed them to Bridget.

"If we file for divorce now, citing infidelity with evidence, we can secure fifty percent of his post-marital assets," Julian said, his voice a calm, clinical monotone.

Bridget flipped through the pages. She tossed the stack back onto the rolling table.

"Fifty percent is a joke," Bridget said, her voice dead. "I want him bankrupt."

Sloane gasped, covering her mouth. "Bridget, if Cline Medical goes public next month, his net worth will hit ten billion."

Bridget looked at Julian. "Cline Medical's core anti-aging algorithm has a fatal patent flaw. I know exactly where it is."

Julian's eyes sharpened. The lawyer in him smelled blood. "If we detonate a commercial fraud scandal on the morning of the IPO, the SEC will halt trading immediately."

"Exactly," Bridget said. "We play the happy couple. We gather the documents. We wait for the bell to ring."

Sloane pulled out her phone. "Speaking of playing the couple... look at this."

She handed the phone to Bridget. It was a Page Six article. A photo showed Jayson at a Sotheby's auction two nights ago, holding up a velvet box containing a massive pink diamond necklace.

"He paid fifteen million for 'Pink Tears,'" Sloane said. "The press thinks it's your anniversary surprise."

Bridget stared at the pink stone. Golda's neck had been bare at the Hamptons.

This was Golda's collar.

Bridget handed the phone back. "Julian, we start the retaliation tonight. With that necklace."

After they left, Bridget pressed the call button. She demanded the nurse use the hospital landline to call Jayson.

Thirty minutes later, the door flew open. Jayson stormed in, smelling of expensive scotch.

"What is it now?" he snapped.

Bridget sat up. She crossed her arms and glared at him with the petulant fury of a spoiled child. "Where is my pink diamond from Sotheby's?"

Jayson froze. His hand twitched toward his cuff. "It's... it's in Switzerland. Getting a final polish."

Bridget grabbed the heavy glass vase full of lilies from the nightstand with her uninjured left hand. She hurled it at the floor.

It shattered into a hundred pieces right at Jayson's feet. Water and flowers splashed onto his leather shoes.

"Don't lie to me!" Bridget screamed, her voice shrill. "If I don't have that necklace in my hands tonight, I will call my father tomorrow morning and tell him to pull his proxy votes from your board!"

Jayson's face drained of color. The board votes were the only thing keeping him in the CEO chair before the IPO.

"You are a psychotic bitch," Jayson hissed through his teeth.

Bridget lifted her chin, daring him to refuse.

Jayson pulled out his phone. He walked out into the hallway. Through the glass, Bridget watched him pacing, speaking frantically into the receiver, clearly begging Golda to give it back.

An hour later, Dex walked into the room, carefully stepping over the mess of shattered glass, water, and crushed lilies a nurse hadn't yet had time to clean. He was sweating through his shirt. He carried a heavy Sotheby's lockbox.

He set it on the bed and punched in the code. The lid popped open. The pink diamond caught the harsh hospital light, glittering violently.

Bridget picked it up by the chain. She dangled it in the air, looking at it with utter disgust.

"The color is tacky," Bridget sneered, looking right at Jayson. "It barely belongs on a dog."

Jayson's hands balled into fists. The veins in his neck bulged, but he swallowed his rage and turned on his heel, slamming the door behind him.

Bridget dropped the fifteen-million-dollar necklace into the plastic bedside drawer and shoved it shut.

A black Lincoln Navigator pulled up to the grand entrance of the Long Island estate.

Irina Kovacs, the head housekeeper, rushed down the steps holding an umbrella. She opened the door, her eyes darting nervously to the ground.

Bridget stepped out. She wore a beige trench coat, a small clear bandage covering the stitches on her forehead.

She walked up the steps and pushed open the heavy double doors.

She stopped dead in her tracks.

The Ming dynasty vase that had sat in the foyer for three years was gone. In its place stood a cheap, twisted metal modern art sculpture.

Bridget walked into the main living room. Her stomach plummeted.

The antique French provincial furniture was gone. The Persian rugs were gone. Everything had been replaced with sterile, beige, minimalist garbage. It looked exactly like Golda's tasteless apartment.

"Irina," Bridget said, her voice dangerously low. "What is this?"

Irina swallowed hard. "Mr. Cline ordered it, ma'am. He said the house needed better feng shui for the new guests."

Bridget's vision swam with red.

Before she could speak, a delicate, tinkling melody drifted down from the second floor. A music box.

Bridget sprinted up the spiral staircase. She ran down the hall and shoved open the door to her locked private collection room.

Pippa was jumping up and down on the silk rug, wearing her dirty sneakers.

Around Pippa's neck hung a heavy, flawless emerald pendant.

It was Dr. Eulalia's necklace. The only physical thing Bridget had left of her dead mother.

Bridget crossed the room in three strides. She grabbed Pippa by the shoulder, her grip like a vice.

"Who told you to come in here?" Bridget yelled.

She ripped the emerald necklace off Pippa's neck, clutching the cold stone against her racing heart.

Pippa screamed. She threw herself on the floor and started wailing at the top of her lungs.

Footsteps pounded down the hall. Golda rushed into the room, wearing a pair of Bridget's silk slippers.

Golda dropped to her knees and pulled Pippa into her chest, looking up at Bridget with wide, terrified eyes.

"She's just a baby!" Golda cried out. "Jayson said she could look at anything in the house!"

Jayson strode into the room, fresh from the office. He took one look at the crying child and the cowering woman, and his face twisted in absolute fury.

He marched up to Bridget. "Have you lost your damn mind? She doesn't have a father, and you're attacking her over a piece of jewelry?"

Bridget held up the emerald. Her hand shook with rage. "This is my mother's. It's not a toy for a thief."

"Thief?" Jayson barked. He stepped into Bridget's personal space, towering over her. "You're delusional. The crash scrambled your brain. You're acting like a maniac."

"She broke into my locked room!" Bridget shouted.

"The door was open!" Jayson lied, his voice booming. "Golda apologized. You're just a hysterical, jealous mess."

Bridget stared at him. The gaslighting was so blatant, so suffocating, it made her physically sick.

"You disgust me," Bridget whispered.

Jayson's eyes flashed. He reached out and grabbed Bridget's arm, trying to yank her forward to face Golda. "Apologize to them."

Bridget ripped her arm out of his grasp with violent force.

Jayson lost his temper. He shoved her hard in the chest.

Bridget's heels slipped on the silk rug. She fell backward.

Her right hand slammed down onto the floor to break her fall. It landed directly on the shattered glass of a picture frame Pippa had knocked over.

The jagged glass sliced deep into her palm—the exact same hand that still bore the bruised puncture mark from her hospital IV.

Blood immediately pooled on the floor, soaking into the rug.