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.

In the boardroom on the 40th floor of Horton Tower, the air was stale and recycled. Adam sat at the head of the long glass table, listening to the CFO drone on about quarterly projections.

His phone buzzed on the table. He ignored it.

It buzzed again. And again.

He glanced at the screen. Mom.

He declined the call.

It rang again immediately.

Adam gritted his teeth. He picked it up.

What is it? I'm in a meeting.

She's gone! Elaine's voice was so shrill it leaked out of the earpiece. That trashy wife of yours! She insulted me, she pushed Cheyenne, and she left!

Adam rubbed his temples. She's just blowing off steam, Mom. She'll be back by dinner.

She took a suitcase, Adam! And the things she said about you...

Adam's other line beeped. It was Lanny, his assistant sitting right outside the glass doors.

Hold on, Mom.

He switched lines. Lanny, what is it?

Adam looked up. Through the glass wall, he saw Lanny standing at his desk, his face pale. He was holding an iPad.

Sir... you need to check your email. The general inbox.

Adam frowned. He tapped the email icon on his phone.

The resignation email sat at the top.

He read it.

His blood ran cold. Resigning? She couldn't resign. She was his wife. She was his assistant. She was the one who knew where his social security card was, for God's sake.

And she had copied the Board.

Old Mr. Henderson, the Chairman, cleared his throat. Adam? Is there a problem? I just received a rather... disturbing notification.

Adam stood up abruptly. His chair scraped loudly against the floor.

Excuse me, gentlemen. Family emergency.

He walked out of the room, phone pressed to his ear. He dialed Anjanette.

The number you have reached is not accepting calls.

He tried again. Same result.

She had blocked him?

Rage, hot and blinding, surged through him. She was trying to embarrass him. She was trying to play power games.

Lanny! he barked.

Lanny jumped. Yes, sir?

Call IT. Freeze her access. Everything. Email, server, building entry.

Yes, sir.

And call Finance, Adam continued, walking toward his office. Cancel her corporate cards. Freeze the joint checking account.

Lanny hesitated. Sir, isn't that... she might need-

Do it! Adam roared.

He slammed his office door shut.

She wanted to play hardball? Fine. She was a girl from nowhere with no money and no connections. She wouldn't last twenty-four hours in New York City without his credit card.

He went to the window and looked out at the city.

She'll come crawling back, he muttered to the glass. She always does.