The wind ripped through the narrow streets of Brooklyn, slicing through Arianna's thin trench coat.

She hugged her arms tightly across her chest. She dragged her suitcase blindly down the empty sidewalk. The rhythmic clack of her heels against the concrete sounded hollow and pathetic in the dead of night. Brick buildings loomed on either side, their windows dark.

Her brain was a chaotic mess of flashing images. Nine years of memories were being violently rewritten.

She thought about every time they had been intimate. Right at the very end, when she reached for his face, Gregory would always turn his head. He would bury his face in her neck. He never kissed her on the lips when it mattered.

She had always believed him when he said it was a weird psychological quirk from his childhood. She used to rub his back and tell him it was okay.

Now, the truth hit her with sickening clarity.

He was saving his mouth. He was keeping his physical intimacy pure for Angie. He was using Arianna's body while keeping his soul loyal to another woman.

A wave of intense nausea hit her.

She stopped walking. She leaned her shoulder against a cold brick wall and gasped for air, her breath visible in the freezing night.

She shoved her hand into her coat pocket and pulled out her phone. The screen lit up her pale face.

It was completely blank. No missed calls. No texts. Gregory hadn't even noticed she was supposed to be home tomorrow.

A bitter, broken laugh escaped her lips. She shoved the phone back into her pocket. Her eyes burned fiercely, but she refused to let a single tear fall.

She pushed off the wall and kept walking deeper into Brooklyn. Graffiti covered the metal shutters of closed shops. Trash skittered across the sidewalk in the wind.

At the end of a dimly lit block, a flickering neon sign read The Abyss. It was a rundown dive bar with peeling paint and a cracked front window patched with duct tape.

She pushed open the heavy, peeling wooden door.

The smell hit her instantly—stale beer, cheap bleach, and decades of cigarette smoke soaked into the walls. A blues song played from a crackling speaker, low and mournful. The lighting was dim and yellow, barely illuminating the scattered patrons hunched over their drinks.

She ignored the stares of the few rough-looking men at the bar. She dragged her suitcase all the way to the darkest corner and climbed onto a sticky high stool. The vinyl was torn, the stuffing poking through.

A bartender with sleeves of faded tattoos and a gray-streaked ponytail tossed a damp, greasy menu in front of her. His face was lined, impassive.

Arianna didn't look at it. She pulled a fifty-dollar bill from her wallet and slapped it flat on the wood.

"Tequila. The strongest you have," she ordered. Her voice was completely dead.

The bartender poured a full glass of cloudy, amber liquid and slid it across the bar. It left a wet trail on the scarred wood.

Arianna picked it up. She tilted her head back and swallowed the entire glass in one go.

The cheap alcohol felt like swallowing broken glass. It set her throat on fire.

She slammed the glass down and started coughing violently. The physical pain of the burn forced the tears out of her eyes. They spilled over her lashes, leaving hot, wet trails down her cheeks.

A man sitting two stools down slid over. He was stocky, unshaven, wearing a stained flannel shirt. He smelled like unwashed clothes and stale beer.

He reached out a dirty hand, aiming for her shoulder. "Rough night, sweetheart?"

Arianna's head snapped toward him. Her eyes were devoid of any human warmth.

She grabbed the empty beer bottle left by the previous customer. Without a second of hesitation, she smashed it down hard against the edge of the bar.

Glass shattered everywhere, glittering shards scattering across the floor.

She gripped the jagged neck of the bottle and pointed the sharp, broken edges directly at the man's throat.

The man froze. His eyes widened. He looked at her face and saw a woman who had absolutely nothing left to lose.

He raised both hands in surrender and stumbled backward into the shadows, nearly tripping over a stool.

The bartender walked over with a rag. He started wiping up the glass, his face still bored. "Don't start trouble in my bar, lady."

Arianna pulled three more twenties from her wallet and dropped them into the puddle of spilled beer.

"Keep pouring," she rasped.

She drank mechanically. Shot after shot. She needed the alcohol to kill the sound of Gregory's voice playing on a loop in her head.

Slowly, the edges of the room began to blur. The blues music faded into a dull roar. The yellow lights smeared into hazy halos.

She rested her forehead against the sticky wood of the bar. Her fingers traced meaningless circles in the condensation.

Suddenly, her stomach violently rebelled.

She shoved the stool back. It scraped loudly against the floor. She stumbled blindly toward the back hallway, nearly colliding with the wall, and shoved open the door to the women's restroom.

The fluorescent light flickered overhead, harsh and unforgiving. The room smelled of mildew and cheap air freshener.

She collapsed over the stained porcelain sink. She dry-heaved, her body shaking violently, but her stomach was completely empty. Nothing came up but bile and saliva.

She turned on the faucet. The water was freezing. She cupped her hands and splashed it directly into her face, gasping at the shock of the cold.

She gripped the edges of the sink and slowly lifted her head.

She stared at the woman in the mirror. Her mascara was smeared under her eyes in dark streaks. Her hair was a tangled mess, escaping from its careful twist. Her skin was blotchy, her lips dry. She looked pathetic.

She ripped a rough paper towel from the dispenser. She scrubbed her face so hard the skin turned angry and red.

She took a deep, shuddering breath. The despair in her chest hardened, freezing into a solid block of ice.

She stood up straight. She rolled her shoulders back, smoothing down her wrinkled coat. The weak, blindly devoted Arianna was dead.

She turned and walked out of the bathroom.

The Uber ride to Queens felt like it took a lifetime.

Arianna sat in the back seat, staring blankly out the window as the car sped over the bridge. The sky was just beginning to turn a sickly shade of gray, the first hint of dawn bleeding into the night. She forced herself to keep her eyes open, refusing to look at her phone. The driver didn't speak, and she was grateful for the silence.

The car pulled up to a quiet row of townhouses in a neighborhood where the trees still had leaves clinging to their branches, brown and brittle.

Arianna grabbed her suitcase from the trunk and walked up the steps to Clara's porch. The paint on the railing was peeling slightly. She pressed the doorbell and waited. Every second felt like a physical weight pressing down on her chest.

The door swung open. Clara stood there in a flannel robe, her dark curls piled into a messy bun, bouncing her three-month-old baby against her shoulder. The baby was wrapped in a soft yellow blanket, tiny fists waving.

Clara's brown eyes widened at the sight of Arianna's pale, exhausted face. Without her usual makeup and pressed suits, Arianna looked like a ghost of herself.

Arianna tried to smile. Her lips just trembled. "Can I crash on your couch for a few days?" Her voice cracked on the last word.

Clara grabbed her arm and pulled her into the warm hallway. The house smelled like baby powder and fresh coffee. "Oh my god, Ari. What happened? Is it the company?"

Arianna let go of her suitcase. It tipped over onto the hardwood floor with a thud. She sank onto the living room sofa, a worn leather thing draped with crocheted blankets. Watching Clara gently rock the baby, the last thread of her tension finally snapped.

She told Clara everything. She repeated the words she heard on the terrace. Her voice was flat, devoid of emotion, like she was reading a quarterly earnings report.

Clara's face turned red, her jaw clenched so tight the muscles bulged. "That selfish, manipulative bastard," she hissed, careful not to wake the baby.

Meryl, Clara's mother-in-law, came down the stairs. She was a small woman with silver hair and sharp eyes that missed nothing. She took one look at the two women, gently took the sleeping baby from Clara's arms, and nodded toward the door. "Go. Take her out. Get some air."

Two hours later, they were walking through a high-end shopping mall in Manhattan. The atrium soared above them, all glass and steel, filled with the murmur of shoppers and the faint scent of perfume.

Arianna pushed the empty stroller they had brought along, letting the mindless hum of the mall wash over her. They walked into a luxury maternity boutique, past displays of impossibly soft onesies and designer diaper bags.

While Clara inspected a rack of onesies, Arianna pulled her phone from her pocket, mindlessly opening Instagram to distract herself. The first post on her feed was a new story from Cristy Kelly, the intern. It was a close-up video of her wrist, adorned with a sparkling, intricate diamond bracelet, captioned: Spoiled by the absolute best. Arianna frowned, feeling a strange, icy prickle at the back of her neck. She locked her phone and looked up.

She stared aimlessly at the people walking by.

Then, her eyes locked onto a figure inside the Cartier boutique directly across the walkway.

Her blood turned to ice.

Gregory was standing at the glass counter. He was supposed to be running the morning executive meeting. He was wearing the navy suit she had picked out for him last month, his posture relaxed, one hand in his pocket.

Standing right next to him, leaning her body against his arm, was Cristy Kelly. The new twenty-two-year-old intern from the art department. She was petite, with long auburn hair and wide green eyes that she batted constantly. She wore a tight white dress that was entirely inappropriate for office hours.

Cristy was holding a diamond necklace up to her collarbone, looking at herself in the mirror with a delighted smile.

Gregory smiled. He reached out and gently tucked a stray piece of hair behind Cristy's ear. The gesture was so natural, so intimately practiced, it made Arianna's stomach turn.

The air in Arianna's lungs vanished. An invisible hand squeezed her heart until it physically ached.

Clara walked up beside her. She followed Arianna's frozen stare. Her face went white, then flushed deep red with fury. She dropped the onesie she'd been holding onto the floor.

"Is that...?" Clara gasped. "I'm going to kill him. I'm going to walk right over there and rip his face off."

Clara started toward the door, her hands balled into fists.

Arianna's hand shot out. Her fingers clamped down on Clara's wrist like a steel vice. Her skin was freezing cold, her grip bruising.

"No," Arianna said. Her voice was terrifyingly calm.

She didn't look away from the window. She watched Gregory pull out his black Amex card to pay for the necklace. He wasn't just emotionally cheating with his stepsister. He was physically screwing the intern. He was buying her diamonds while Arianna handled his company's backend architecture.

Arianna reached into her coat pocket. She pulled out her phone and opened the camera app.

She zoomed in as far as the lens would go.

Her hands were shaking, but she forced them still. She pressed the shutter button. Click. Click. Click.

She captured his hand on Cristy's waist, the intimate way his fingers splayed against the white fabric. She captured the kiss he pressed to her cheek, his lips lingering too long.

She lowered the phone and slipped it back into her pocket. She turned around and grabbed the handle of the stroller.

"Let's go, Clara," she said, her tone completely flat.

Clara stared at her, her brow furrowed with concern. "Ari... are you okay? You're scaring me."

A cold, mocking smile touched the corner of Arianna's mouth.

"I'm fine," Arianna said. "In fact, I've never been more awake in my entire life."

They walked out the glass doors of the mall into the bright afternoon sun. The cold air hit Arianna's face, but she barely felt it.

The nine-year relationship was dead. Now, it was time to figure out how to extract her company shares and her patents before she burned his life to the ground.

Arianna stayed in Clara's guest room for three days.

She locked the door, logged into the company's VPN, and buried herself in writing core engine code. It was the only way to numb the constant ache in her chest. The room was small and cozy, with floral wallpaper and a quilt that smelled like lavender, but she barely noticed her surroundings. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, lines of code stacking up on the screen like armor.

On the evening of the third day, she slammed her MacBook shut. Hiding was over.

She thanked Clara, packed her suitcase, and took a car back to the Tribeca penthouse.

She pushed open the heavy front door. The familiar, expensive scent of Jo Malone filled her lungs. It made her want to gag.

Gregory was sitting on the leather sofa, wearing cashmere sweatpants and a fitted crewneck, reviewing a financial report on his iPad. His blonde hair was perfectly styled despite the casual clothes.

When he heard the door, his head snapped up. His expression shifted—a flash of genuine annoyance before he forced it into a tight, strained smile.

He tossed the iPad onto the coffee table and walked toward her, reaching for the handle of her suitcase.

"You're finally back," he said, his voice clipped. "You ignored my calls, didn't answer a single text. Where the hell have you been for three days, Arianna? The company has a dozen critical issues waiting for your approval, and I need you online."

His voice held a tiny, almost imperceptible note of probing. He was testing to see if she knew anything.

Arianna stepped to the side, avoiding his outstretched hand. She pushed the suitcase into the corner of the foyer herself.

"I just stayed at Clara's," she said smoothly. "Helped her with the baby. I needed a break from the screens."

Gregory stepped closer. He leaned in, aiming a kiss at her cheek.

Arianna casually reached up to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear, turning her head just enough.

His lips caught empty air.

Gregory cleared his throat awkwardly. He rubbed the side of his nose—a nervous habit he had whenever he felt out of control.

"Right. Well, I'm glad you're home," he said, turning toward the open kitchen. The marble countertops gleamed under the pendant lights. "Pinot Noir or sparkling water?"

"Wine," she said.

She took off her coat and walked into the massive walk-in closet. Rows of designer clothes lined the walls, organized by color. Her heels clicked on the hardwood floor.

She reached for a wooden hanger. Her eyes fell on Gregory's Armani suit jacket, draped carelessly over the back of the velvet chair. The navy wool was crumpled, which was unlike him. He was meticulous about his clothes.

Without thinking, she reached out. She slipped her fingers into the inside breast pocket.

Her fingertips brushed against a small, hard cylinder.

She pulled it out. It was a glass vial. A perfume sample.

She pulled the tiny plastic cap off and brought it to her nose.

A sickeningly sweet, cheap floral scent hit her. It smelled like spun sugar and desperation. It was the exact opposite of the cold, woody scents she always wore—the ones Gregory had once said made her smell "like a CEO."

Arianna's fingers tightened around the tiny glass vial. Her knuckles turned white. A harsh, silent laugh shook her chest.

She shoved the cap back on, dropped the vial back into the pocket, and walked out of the closet.

Gregory was walking toward her, holding out a crystal glass of red wine. His smile was carefully measured.

Arianna took the glass. She looked him right in the eyes. His pale blue irises flickered.

"By the way," she said, her voice light and conversational. "What's with the perfume sample in your jacket pocket?"

Gregory's entire body went rigid. The wine in his own glass sloshed dangerously close to the rim.

He recovered a second later, but his eyes darted up and to the left. The universal tell of a liar constructing a story.

"Oh, that," he chuckled, forcing his shoulders to relax. "I walked past the fragrance counters at Saks yesterday. One of the sales girls practically shoved it into my hand. I thought you might want to try it."

Arianna stared at his face. His expression was perfectly composed, his posture easy. A masterful performance. Her stomach churned violently. She wanted to throw the dark red wine right into his eyes.

Instead, she lowered her eyelashes, hiding the absolute disgust in her gaze.

"Thanks," she murmured softly. "But it's a bit too sweet for me."

Gregory let out a quiet breath of relief. He took a large gulp of his wine to hide his nerves. "Yeah, I figured."

Arianna walked past him toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. She looked down at the moving lights of the city traffic below, the headlights and taillights streaming in opposite directions. Her brain was already calculating the legal steps required to sever their joint accounts.

Gregory walked up behind her. She could see his reflection in the glass. He reached out to wrap his arms around her waist.

Arianna stepped forward, placing her wine glass on the sill. "I'm exhausted from the flight. I need a shower."

She walked away without looking back. Her footsteps were steady, measured.

Gregory stood alone by the window, his brow furrowed, his reflection ghostly against the city lights. He felt a sudden, sharp loss of control, but he quickly brushed it off. She was just stressed about work. She always was.