Anjanette stood at the top of the grand staircase, gripping the banister until her knuckles turned white. She watched him.

Adam walked into the foyer, loosening his tie with one hand. He looked tired, the kind of weary satisfaction that comes after a long day of managing crises. He handed his jacket to Stevens without looking at him.

Where is she? Adam asked.

Mrs. Horton is upstairs, sir, Stevens replied quietly.

Adam looked up. When his eyes met hers, he didn't flinch. He didn't look guilty. He just looked annoyed.

Why are you standing there in the dark? he asked. And what are you wearing?

Anjanette walked down the stairs slowly, one step at a time. The pain in her arm was a dull throb now, overshadowed by the adrenaline coursing through her veins.

Where were you? she asked. Her voice was steady, terrifyingly calm.

Adam sighed, walking past her toward the living room bar. Work. I heard you checked yourself out. That was irresponsible, Anjanette. The doctors wanted to keep you for observation.

Work, she repeated. Is the VIP maternity ward considered a satellite office now?

Adam froze. He was pouring a glass of scotch. The liquid splashed slightly over the rim. He set the bottle down slowly and turned to face her.

You followed me? His voice dropped an octave. It wasn't a question; it was an accusation.

I didn't have to, she said. You weren't exactly hiding. You carried her in, Adam. Like she was glass.

Adam took a sip of his drink. He leaned back against the mahogany bar, crossing his ankles. His casual arrogance was breathtaking.

Casie is having a difficult time. It's a high-risk pregnancy. She needed support.

Support, Anjanette laughed. It was a brittle, sharp sound. Twelve weeks of support? Since our anniversary?

Adam's jaw tightened. That was an accident. It wasn't planned.

An accident is spilling coffee, Adam. Sleeping with your ex-girlfriend in London while your wife sits at home is a choice.

He set the glass down hard. The sound echoed in the cavernous room.

Stop it, he said. His voice was cold steel. You're being hysterical. Casie is fragile. She's not like you. You... you can handle things. You're resilient. That's why I married you.

Resilient. It was a code word. It meant used to suffering. It meant low maintenance.

I married you because I thought you were different, he continued, walking toward her. He used his height to loom over her, a tactic that usually made her shrink back. But tonight, she stood her ground. This situation with Casie... it's complicated. But the child is a Horton. We have a duty to the family.

We? Anjanette asked. There is no 'we' anymore.

Adam rolled his eyes. Don't be dramatic. You're my wife. You're a Horton now. You signed the prenup. You know exactly what your life would look like without me.

He reached out to brush a stray hair from her forehead.

Anjanette flinched away as if his hand were a burning brand. Don't touch me. You smell like her.

Adam's hand hovered in the air, then dropped to his side. His expression hardened.

You're forgetting where you came from, Anjanette. That foster home in Ohio? The nothingness? I gave you a life. I gave you purpose. Don't throw a tantrum just because things got messy.

The air in the room seemed to vanish. He had said the quiet part out loud. To him, she was a rescue dog. A charity case he had plucked from obscurity to manage his schedule and warm his bed.

I want a divorce, she said.

Adam let out a short, derisive snort. He picked up his drink again.

No, you don't. You like the penthouse. You like the clothes. You like pretending to be someone who matters.

He took a sip, watching her over the rim of the glass.

Go to bed, Anjanette. Take a pill. We'll talk about this when you're rational.

He turned his back on her and walked into his study, closing the heavy oak doors with a definitive click.

Anjanette stood alone in the hallway. Mrs. Perry was dusting a vase in the corner, keeping her head resolutely down, pretending she hadn't just witnessed the execution of a marriage.

Anjanette looked at the closed door. A strange sensation washed over her. It wasn't sadness anymore. It was clarity.

She turned and walked toward the guest wing. She would not sleep in their bed tonight. She would not sleep in sheets that smelled of his lies.

The guest room was sterile. It smelled of lavender detergent and disuse. Anjanette lay on top of the duvet, staring at the ceiling. The silence of the house was oppressive.

She couldn't sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the plane going down. Then she saw Adam's face, cool and dismissive.

She needed to know. She needed to see it one last time, to burn the bridge so thoroughly that she could never turn back.

She got up. She went to the closet where she kept her special clothes. The ones she rarely wore because Adam preferred her in modest, elegant neutrals. She pulled out a silk nightgown, a deep crimson that looked like spilled wine.

She put it on. It skimmed her body, highlighting curves Adam usually ignored.

She walked down the dark hallway to the master bedroom.

She pushed the door open.

Adam was just coming out of the ensuite bathroom. He had a towel wrapped low around his hips. His hair was damp. Drops of water ran down his chest.

He stopped when he saw her. His eyes narrowed.

I told you I was tired, he said.

Anjanette walked toward him. She didn't say a word. She moved with a slow, predatory grace that was entirely foreign to the dutiful wife he knew.

She stopped inches from him. She reached out and placed her palm flat against his bare chest, right over his heart.

It was beating slow and steady. No guilt. No anxiety.

Adam looked down at her hand, then up at her face. He looked confused, and then, slowly, disgusted.

What are you doing? he asked.

Anjanette trailed her fingers down his sternum. You said you were tired. But you didn't look tired at the clinic.

Adam grabbed her wrist. His grip was hard, bruising.

Stop it, he hissed. You look desperate. It's pathetic.

Pathetic? she whispered. Or inconvenient?

She stepped closer, pressing her body against his. Does she do this better than me? Is that it? Or is it just because she's weak, and that makes you feel like a man?

Adam shoved her.

It wasn't a gentle push. He put his hands on her shoulders and threw her back.

Anjanette stumbled. Her heel caught on the edge of the rug. She fell backward, crashing into the antique vanity table.

Perfume bottles rattled and tipped over. A heavy crystal flask of Chanel No. 5 shattered on the hardwood floor.

The scent was instantaneous-thick, floral, and suffocating.

Anjanette sat amidst the broken glass. A sharp shard had sliced into the sole of her foot. She felt the warm trickle of blood.

Adam stood over her, breathing hard. He didn't look concerned. He looked revulsed.

Look at you, he sneered. Groveling for attention. It's disgusting, Anjanette. You're acting like a common whore.

Anjanette looked up at him. The pain in her foot was sharp and grounding. It cleared the fog in her brain.

She started to laugh.

It began as a low chuckle and rose to a chilling sound that made Adam take a half-step back.

You're right, she said, pushing herself up. She ignored the glass biting into her skin. It is disgusting.

She stood tall, the red silk gown flowing around her like armor. Blood left dark, wet footprints on the pale rug.

She looked him in the eye.

Thank you, Adam.

For what? he asked, wary now.

For making this easy.

She turned and walked out of the room. She didn't limp, but every step sent a fresh spike of agony up her leg, a pain she welcomed, using it to cauterize the wound in her heart.

She went back to the guest room. She went into the bathroom and sat on the edge of the tub. She found a first-aid kit under the sink, her movements precise and detached. She pulled the largest glass shard out of her foot with tweezers, watching the blood flow into the drain with a strange sense of calm. She cleaned the wound with antiseptic that stung like fire, then bandaged it tightly, the pressure a dull, comforting ache.

Then she reached under the bed and pulled out a battered suitcase. It was the one she had brought with her when she moved in three years ago.

She opened it. It was empty.

It wouldn't be for long.

The morning sun was gray and filtered through the heavy drapes. Anjanette threw a pair of jeans and a sweater into the suitcase. She added her sketchbooks-the ones Adam called her "little hobby"-and a framed photo of her grandfather.

She left the diamond earrings on the dresser. She left the Cartier watch. She left the credit cards. She walked over to the master bedroom, which was empty. On Adam's side of the bed, on the polished surface of his nightstand, she placed her platinum wedding band. It sat there, a small, cold circle, a final, silent statement.

The door to the guest room banged open.

Cheyenne Horton stood there, popping a piece of gum. She was wearing a tracksuit that cost more than Anjanette's college tuition.

Mom says you need to clear out the master closet, Cheyenne said, leaning against the doorframe. Casie is moving in next week. She needs the space.

Anjanette didn't look up. Move, Cheyenne.

Cheyenne stopped chewing. Excuse me?

Elaine appeared behind her daughter, dressed in a silk morning robe, holding a cup of coffee.

Make sure you check her bag, Cheyenne, Elaine said lazily. We don't want her taking any family silver.

Anjanette zipped the suitcase shut. The sound was loud in the quiet room. She stood up and turned to face them.

You can keep your silver, Anjanette said. It's tarnished anyway. Just like this family.

Elaine's eyes widened. How dare you. After everything we've done for you.

Done for me? Anjanette stepped forward, and for the first time, Elaine took a step back. You treated me like a servant who slept in the master bedroom.

She picked up her suitcase.

And tell Casie I wish her luck, Anjanette said, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. She's going to need it. Adam is a narcissist with a savior complex, and honestly? He's a boring lay. Three minutes of missionary is hardly worth the trust fund.

Cheyenne's gum fell out of her mouth.

Elaine turned a shade of purple that clashed with her robe. You... you gutter trash! Get out!

Anjanette walked past them. She bumped Cheyenne's shoulder hard enough to make the girl stumble.

Watch it! Cheyenne screeched.

Grow up, Anjanette said over her shoulder.

She walked down the stairs. The servants were pretending to be invisible, but Anjanette saw the slight smile on Mrs. Perry's face.

Elaine was screaming from the landing. Don't you think you're coming back! You'll be begging on the street in a week!

Anjanette reached the front door. She didn't look back. She raised her hand and extended her middle finger.

She walked out into the crisp morning air.

An Uber was waiting at the bottom of the steps. A beat-up Toyota Camry.

She threw her bag in the trunk.

Where to? the driver asked.

JFK Airport, she said.

She pulled out her phone. She opened her email app. She composed a new message.

To: Adam Horton

CC: HR; Board of Directors

Subject: Resignation

Effective immediately, I am resigning from my position as Executive Assistant to the CEO. I am also terminating my marriage.

She hit send.

Then she blocked Elaine. She blocked Cheyenne.

She looked at Adam's number. Her finger hovered over the block button.

Not yet. He needed to see what was coming.