Bridget sat on the floor. She stared at the blood pouring from her hand, the crimson stark against her pale skin. Her eyes were completely dead.

Golda gasped. She took a step forward, pulling a lace handkerchief from her pocket. "Oh my god, Bridget, let me help-"

Bridget raised her uninjured left hand and slapped Golda's hand away with a sharp, echoing smack.

"Get away from me," Bridget said, her voice dropping to a terrifyingly calm register.

Jayson pointed a finger at her face. "You are out of control. You're a violent lunatic."

Bridget didn't look at him. She pushed herself off the floor, ignoring the burning agony in her right hand. She walked straight past them, out of the room, and down the stairs to the living room.

She walked to the security console hidden behind a wood panel in the wall.

"What are you doing?" Jayson demanded, following her down the stairs. "Stop touching that."

Bridget ignored him. She typed a twelve-digit override code into the keypad using the clean fingers of her left hand. It was a master root access code installed by the private security firm she had secretly hired months ago when she first suspected him of cheating-a backdoor Jayson didn't even know existed.

She pulled up the camera feed for the second-floor hallway from ten minutes ago. She hit a button, casting the video directly onto the hundred-inch media screen on the living room wall.

The screen flickered to life.

The video showed Golda holding Pippa's hand. They walked up to the locked door of the collection room. Golda reached into her pocket and pulled out a brass master key.

She unlocked the door. She pointed directly at the glass case holding the emerald necklace and whispered something into Pippa's ear.

Pippa dragged a heavy wooden chair over, climbed up, and popped the latch on the case.

Golda stood in the hallway, leaning against the doorframe, a smug, calculated smile plastered on her face.

The living room fell dead silent.

Golda's face turned the color of ash. She stumbled backward, hiding behind Jayson's broad shoulders.

"The... the video doesn't have sound," Golda stammered, her voice cracking. "Pippa ran in there, I was trying to stop her."

Bridget hit pause. The screen froze on Golda's malicious smile.

Bridget turned to Jayson. She tilted her head. "Is this the fatherless victim you're protecting?"

Jayson stared at the screen. His jaw worked furiously. He knew he had been played. He knew Bridget was right.

But his ego refused to let him admit it.

Jayson turned his glare onto Bridget. "You have hidden cameras inside the house? You're spying on us? That's a violation of privacy."

Bridget blinked.

"Even if she made a mistake," Jayson gritted his teeth, doubling down, "you didn't have to throw yourself on the floor and cut your own hand just to frame her for assault."

Bridget let out a laugh. It started low in her chest and bubbled up into a loud, echoing sound of pure, unadulterated contempt.

She laughed until her ribs ached. She looked at Jayson as if he were a rotting carcass on the side of the road.

She grabbed a handful of paper towels from the bar and wrapped them tightly around her bleeding hand.

She pointed her bloody finger directly at the front door.

"Take your whore and her thief daughter, and get out of my house," Bridget commanded.

Jayson's face flushed purple. "Half of this house is mine!"

"Check the prenup, Jayson," Bridget sneered. "The estate is a Powell family asset. You have ten seconds before I call the police and have you trespassed."

Jayson had no leverage. He grabbed Golda's arm, yanked Pippa by the hand, and stormed out the front door, slamming it so hard the windows rattled.

Bridget leaned against the wall, her knees shaking. The marriage was dead. Now, it was time for the autopsy.

At 7:00 AM, Bridget stood in the center of the living room. Her hand was wrapped in fresh white bandages.

She looked at the beige, minimalist couches and the cheap modern art. Her stomach churned with nausea.

"Irina," Bridget said, not turning around. "Call the fastest moving company in New York."

"Yes, ma'am," Irina whispered. "Which storage facility should I send the new furniture to?"

"No storage," Bridget said coldly. "Load it all into dump trucks and take it to the South Shore landfill. I want it crushed."

Three hours later, a crew of men in overalls dragged the custom-made, hundred-thousand-dollar sofas out the front door and tossed them into the back of a garbage truck.

The house was empty. It echoed. But the air finally felt clean.

Bridget's phone buzzed violently in her pocket. The screen flashed: Archer Powell.

She answered.

"Get your ass to my office in thirty minutes!" Archer's roar nearly blew out her earpiece.

Bridget changed into a sharp black Yves Saint Laurent suit. She slid on a pair of dark sunglasses and had her driver take her to the Powell Building in Manhattan.

She pushed open the heavy glass doors of the top-floor executive suite.

Jayson was sitting on the leather sofa, holding a cup of coffee, looking like a battered saint.

Archer stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows. He turned, grabbed an iPad from his desk, and shoved the screen toward Bridget's face. The bold black headline on Page Six screamed: CLINE WIFE GOES BERSERK, TRASHES MILLIONS IN FURNITURE.

"You are a disgrace to this family!" Archer bellowed, pointing his cigar at her face.

Bridget slowly took off her sunglasses. "He moved his mistress into my house, Dad."

"I don't care who he screws!" Archer slammed his fist on the desk. "Cline Medical goes public next month. The family trust has billions tied up in this M&A. As long as he is the CEO, you are his wife."

Bridget stared at her father. The man who had raised her.

"You're causing pre-market volatility over a petty catfight," Archer sneered. "If your sister Cheryle were in your shoes, she wouldn't be acting like a hysterical idiot. She actually went to Harvard."

The comparison hit Bridget like a physical blow to the ribs. Her breath hitched.

Jayson set his coffee down. "She's unstable, Archer. I think the crash triggered a manic episode. She needs a psychiatrist."

Archer waved his cigar dismissively. "Bridget, you will apologize to Jayson right now. And you will issue a joint PR statement welcoming Golda into your social circle."

Bridget looked at the two men. She was completely alone in this room. Her own blood had sold her out for a stock ticker.

She lowered her head. She let out a long, shaky breath, burying the absolute, murderous rage burning behind her eyes.

When she looked up, her eyes were wide and submissive.

"I'm sorry," Bridget whispered, letting her voice tremble. "I... I overreacted."

Jayson smirked, leaning back into the sofa. Archer nodded, satisfied that he had brought his useless daughter to heel.

Inside the pocket of her YSL blazer, Bridget's thumb pressed firmly down on the 'Save' button of her digital voice recorder.

Archer sat down in his leather chair and took a long drag of his cigar.

"To kill the rumors of a family civil war, we need a gesture of good faith," Archer said, exhaling a cloud of smoke. He looked at Bridget. "You are going to step down as the PR Director of Cline Medical."

Jayson sat up straight, his eyes lighting up. "Golda has experience in non-profits. She has a very gentle public image. She would be perfect to take over the department."

Bridget jerked her head up. She forced her eyes to widen in mock horror. She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood, forcing tears to well up in her eyes.

"I built that department for three years!" Bridget cried out, her voice cracking perfectly. "You're giving it to the woman who ruined my marriage?"

Archer rolled his eyes. "It's a vanity title, Bridget. Stop whining."

"You can keep the VP title," Jayson offered with a condescending smile. "You just don't have to come into the office anymore. Stay home. Go shopping."

Bridget dropped her face into her hands. Her shoulders shook violently. She let out a pathetic, broken sob.

The room was silent for a full minute, save for her fake crying.

Suddenly, Bridget dropped her hands. The tears were still on her cheeks, but her eyes were dead.

She locked eyes with Jayson. "I'll give the bitch my office. But I want compensation."

Jayson chuckled, thinking she was about to ask for a yacht. "Name your price."

"One hundred million dollars," Bridget said evenly. "Cash. Transferred from your personal equity account today."

Jayson shot up from the sofa. "Are you out of your fucking mind? A hundred million?"

Archer frowned deeply. "Bridget, that's absurd."

Bridget reached into her bag. She pulled out a thick manila folder and slammed it onto Archer's mahogany desk.

"This is a folder of documents I found while cleaning out my home office," Bridget lied, tapping the folder. "I have no idea what all these red adjustment marks mean, but my lawyer took one look and said the Wall Street Journal would have a field day with them. If I don't see the money in my account by noon, I'm having him hand-deliver it to their editors."

Jayson's face turned the color of chalk.

"I will hand it directly to the SEC," Bridget continued, her voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "Let's see if you can ring the bell with a federal fraud investigation hanging over your neck."

Archer stared at the folder. He looked at Jayson. The math was simple. A hundred million in cash would hurt, but a halted IPO would cost them billions.

Archer gave Jayson a single, sharp nod. Pay her.

Jayson looked like he was going to vomit. He glared at Bridget with pure hatred.

Bridget leaned back in her chair, crossed her legs, and slid a piece of paper across the desk. It had the routing number for an offshore Swiss bank account.

"Transfer the money, Jayson," Bridget smiled sweetly. "Isn't your white swan worth it?"

Jayson pulled his laptop from his briefcase. His hands shook with rage as he plugged in his banking security key. He typed furiously, authorizing the massive liquidation and transfer.

Ten minutes later, Bridget's phone chimed.

$100,000,000.00 USD - Deposit Confirmed.

Bridget stood up. She picked up the manila folder and tossed it into the trash can. It was filled with blank printer paper.

"Pleasure doing business," Bridget said. She turned and walked out the door.

That night, for the first time in four years, Bridget slept in a bed of her own making, without dreaming of the man who had broken her.