Kenton Parker woke up with a crick in his neck and the taste of stale coffee in his mouth. The fluorescent lights of the hospital room hummed with an annoying, high-pitched frequency. He blinked, disoriented, until his eyes landed on the hospital bed.

Blanca was asleep. Her face was pale, devoid of the stage makeup she usually wore. Her leg was elevated. A "stress fracture," the doctor had said. Inell, her manager, had called him in a panic right before the gala, screaming that Blanca had collapsed.

He checked his watch. 6:00 AM.

Guilt pricked at him. Not for Blanca, but for the empty slot in his schedule last night. Dinner. He had missed dinner. He felt a familiar, dull ache of obligation toward Blanca, a debt he could never seem to finish repaying. But the sharp annoyance was for the disruption. The anniversary dinner was a necessary part of the contract, and he hated loose ends.

He stood up, stretching his stiff back. Blanca stirred, her eyelashes fluttering open. "Ken?" she whispered. Her voice was raspy. "Did you stay?"

"I fell asleep in the chair," Kenton said, brushing his suit jacket off. He felt grimy. He hated feeling grimy. "I have to go. I have a board meeting at nine."

"Stay for breakfast?" She reached a hand out. Her fingers were delicate, like porcelain.

Kenton took a step back, out of reach. "I can't. Rest, Blanca. I'll have Benjamin send flowers."

He walked out before she could protest.

Hopkins was waiting at the curb with the Maybach. The car was warm, smelling of leather and cedar. Kenton sank into the back seat, closing his eyes.

"Home, sir?" Hopkins asked. His eyes met Kenton's in the rearview mirror. There was a strange look in them. Judgment?

"Yes. Quickly."

The penthouse on the Upper East Side was silent when he keyed in the code. Usually, at this hour, the smell of freshly brewed Colombian roast filled the hallway. Carleigh took pride in making his coffee herself, a domestic ritual he found unnecessary but tolerated.

Today, the air was stale.

"Carleigh?"

His voice echoed off the marble floors. No answer.

He frowned. She never slept in. She was always up, dressed, and waiting to hand him his briefcase like the perfect, overpaid assistant she was.

He walked into the kitchen. Empty. The espresso machine was cold.

He went to the master bedroom. The bed was made, the duvet pulled tight. It looked like a display bed in a showroom. It hadn't been slept in.

Panic, cold and sharp, spiked in his gut. Had she been kidnapped? An accident?

He strode into the walk-in closet. Her side was... thinner. Her everyday clothes-the sensible slacks, the cashmere sweaters she wore around the house-were gone. But the gowns, the furs, the jewelry he had bought her for appearances, they were all still there.

"Dramatic," he muttered. She was pulling a stunt. Probably staying at a hotel to punish him for missing the anniversary.

He walked into his study to check his emails before showering.

That was when he saw it.

The velvet box of the engagement ring sat in the center of his mahogany desk. Next to it was a stack of papers.

Kenton froze. He walked over slowly, as if the objects were a bomb. He opened the box. The diamond winked at him, mocking.

He snatched up the papers. Divorce Agreement.

He let out a harsh, incredulous laugh. She was divorcing him? Carleigh? The woman who had practically begged for this marriage to save her father from loan sharks? The woman who had nodded meekly when he outlined the pre-nup?

He flipped through the pages, his anger rising with every paragraph. She wanted nothing. Waiver of Spousal Support. Waiver of Asset Division. She was walking away with nothing but her clothes.

Then his eyes hit the bottom of page two.

Reason for Dissolution.

Kenton stopped breathing. He read the sentence three times. Irreversible erectile dysfunction.

The blood rushed to his face so fast it made him dizzy. He slammed the papers down onto the desk. The sound was like a gunshot. A crystal paperweight toppled over and rolled onto the floor.

"That lying little..."

He grabbed his phone. His fingers shook with rage as he dialed her number.

It rang once. Twice. Five times.

"Hello?"

Her voice was thick with sleep. Or indifference.

"Where the hell are you?" Kenton roared.

"Good morning to you too, Kenton," she drawled. He could hear the rustle of sheets. "I'm surprised you're calling. I thought you'd be busy spoon-feeding broth to your ballerina."

"Shut up. I'm at the apartment. What is this garbage on my desk?"

"It's legal documentation. I assume you can read."

"Erectile dysfunction?" He hissed the words, looking around the empty room as if someone might overhear. "Are you insane? You know that's a lie."

"Is it?" Carleigh asked. Her tone was light, airy. "Aside from one horrific night three years ago, you haven't touched me since. In the eyes of the court-and the public-that's a medical condition. Or do you want to tell the judge you just prefer your mistress?"

"She is not my mistress!"

"Then you have a problem. Sign the papers, Kenton. It's the kindest excuse I could give you. It makes you a victim of biology, not just an asshole."

Kenton gripped the edge of the desk so hard the wood bit into his palm. "You get back here. Now. You don't get to leave until I say so."

"I think you'll find I do. Oh, and thanks for the stay at The Plaza. The pillows are divine. Consider the bill my severance package."

The line went dead.

Kenton stared at the phone. He felt a vein in his temple throbbing. She wasn't just leaving. She was laughing at him.

Carleigh looked at herself in the full-length mirror of the hotel bathroom. The woman staring back was a stranger. She wore a sharp, tailored black blazer and matching trousers she had just bought from the hotel boutique. Her lips were painted a deep, blood-red-a shade Kenton had once said was "too aggressive."

She snapped the cap onto the lipstick tube. Aggressive was exactly what she needed.

She took a cab to the Parker Industries tower in Midtown. The glass skyscraper pierced the grey sky like a needle. She walked through the revolving doors.

The receptionists, two women who usually looked through Carleigh as if she were made of glass, stopped their whispering. Carleigh didn't shrink. She walked straight past the security desk, swiping her badge. It still worked.

In the elevator, three junior analysts were huddled in the corner, scrolling on a tablet.

"Did you see the stock dip?" one whispered. "Rumor is Parker's distracted. The ballerina thing."

"I heard his wife is just a decoration piece," another snickered. "Never see her at any real business functions. Probably just sits at home all day."

Carleigh turned around slowly. The elevator fell silent. The men hadn't recognized her out of her usual muted, wife-at-home attire.

"Actually," Carleigh said, her voice cool and projecting easily in the small space, "the 'decoration piece' is resigning. And if I were you, I'd worry less about my marriage and more about the Q3 audit trails. I know who's been padding the expense accounts."

The elevator dinged at the 40th floor. Carleigh stepped out, leaving three pale faces behind her.

The executive floor was buzzing. She walked to her desk-a small, cramped station right outside Kenton's massive double doors. It was humiliatingly placed, designed so he could shout orders at her without using the intercom.

She grabbed a cardboard box from the supply closet and started dumping her things into it. A few pens. A stress ball. A framed photo of her mother.

"Well, well."

The voice was grating. Secretary Davis stood over her, arms crossed. Davis was fifty, bitter, and had been in love with Kenton since he was an intern. She hated Carleigh with a passion that bordered on religious.

Davis dropped a heavy stack of files onto Carleigh's desk, right on top of her hand. Carleigh flinched, pulling her fingers back.

"Mr. Parker needs these collated and bound for the noon meeting. Double-sided. And get the coffee started. He's in a mood."

Carleigh looked at the files. Then she looked at Davis.

"No," Carleigh said.

Davis blinked, her mouth falling open. "Excuse me?"

"I said no. I don't work here anymore." Carleigh continued packing, placing a ceramic mug into the box.

"You can't just quit," Davis scoffed. "You're under contract. And besides, where would you go? Back to that crumbling shack your father lives in? Without Mr. Parker's money, you're nothing."

Heads were turning. The open-plan office had gone quiet.

Carleigh picked up a letter opener from the desk. She twirled it idly between her fingers. "I'd be careful, Davis. I know about the 'catering' invoices you file for your nephew's tuition. Does Kenton know?"

Davis's face drained of color. She took a step back. "You... you wouldn't."

"Try me."

The elevator doors at the end of the hall slid open. Kenton stepped out. He looked like a thundercloud in a bespoke suit. He spotted Carleigh immediately.

He didn't walk; he marched. The air seemed to vacate the room as he approached. He ignored Davis, who was trembling, and zeroed in on Carleigh.

"In my office," he growled. "Now."

Carleigh placed the last item in her box. She looked up at him. "If this is about the divorce, talk to my lawyer. If it's about work, I've resigned."

"I don't give a damn about your resignation." Kenton reached out and wrapped his hand around her upper arm. His grip was tight, bordering on painful. "You are making a scene."

"You made the scene when you dragged your mistress to the hospital on our anniversary," Carleigh shot back, loud enough for the entire floor to hear.

Gasps rippled through the office.

Kenton's jaw tightened. He didn't speak. He just yanked her toward his office door, pulling her off balance so she had to stumble to keep up. He shoved the door open and dragged her inside, slamming it shut behind them. The lock clicked with a sound of finality.

Kenton released her arm as if she burned him. Carleigh rubbed the spot where his fingers had dug in. The skin was already turning pink.

He strode to his desk, picked up the divorce papers he had clearly brought with him, and threw them onto the glass surface. They slid across and scattered onto the floor near her feet.

"Explain this," he demanded. "The medical clause. Retract it."

Carleigh looked down at the papers but didn't pick them up. She leaned back against the door, crossing her arms. "Why? Is it inaccurate?"

"I do not have erectile dysfunction!" Kenton shouted. He ran a hand through his hair, destroying his perfect grooming. "After that first night, I chose not to touch you again. There is a difference."

"A distinction without a difference to a judge," Carleigh said calmly. "Three years of celibacy in a marriage creates a presumption. Unless you want to undergo a court-ordered medical exam? Or perhaps testify that you were withholding affection as a form of emotional abuse? Take your pick, Kenton. The ED story makes you look sympathetic. The truth makes you look like a monster."

Kenton stared at her. He looked baffled, as if the office furniture had suddenly started speaking Latin. He had never seen this Carleigh. The Carleigh he knew stuttered when he raised his voice.

"You think you're clever," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low register. "But you forgot one thing. The pre-nup."

"I waived my right to your assets. I know."

"Not that part." Kenton sat on the edge of his desk, towering over her even from a distance. "The employment clause. Your father's debt was consolidated into a loan from Parker Industries. You work it off. If you quit before the term is up-which is another two years-the full amount becomes due immediately. Plus a five million dollar breach-of-contract penalty."

Carleigh felt her stomach drop. She had forgotten the specific penalty number. Five million.

"You don't have five million dollars, Carleigh," Kenton said softly. A cruel smirk played on his lips. "Your father doesn't have five dollars. So, unless you want to go to prison for fraud, or see your father on the street, you will sit at that desk, you will answer my phones, and you will tear up these divorce papers."

He thought he had her. He thought she was trapped.

Carleigh's heart hammered against her ribs. But then she remembered the email in her encrypted folder. The commission offer from the Atelier. The fee for the restoration of the Raphael sketch was... substantial. And her backlog of royalties as "Vee" was sitting in a Swiss account she hadn't touched for three years to avoid suspicion.

She didn't have the money right now in her US account. But she could get it.

She looked him in the eye. "You really are pathetic, aren't you? You have to use a contract to force a woman to stay in the same room as you."

Kenton flinched. The smirk vanished. "I am giving you a reality check."

"I'll pay it," Carleigh said.

Kenton laughed. "With what? Are you going to sell your kidneys?"

"That's none of your business. Send the invoice to my lawyer." She turned for the door.

The intercom on his desk buzzed. It was Benjamin, his executive assistant. "Sir? Miss Donovan is on line one. She says she's in pain."

Kenton's face softened instantly. The transformation was nauseating. He reached for the phone, his anger at Carleigh forgotten in a split second. "Put her through."

Carleigh felt bile rise in her throat. She unlocked the door.

"Where do you think you're going?" Kenton barked, holding the receiver to his chest.

"To find five million dollars," Carleigh said. "Enjoy your phone sex."

She walked out.