Carleigh stepped out of the office, her adrenaline crashing into a wall of exhaustion. The entire office was pretending to work, but she could feel their eyes on her.

She walked back to her desk to retrieve her box.

Secretary Davis was there. She was holding the framed photo of Carleigh's mother.

"You think you're so special," Davis hissed, her voice low. "Walking in there and shouting at him. You're just trash."

She dropped the photo.

It wasn't an accident. Carleigh saw her fingers open. The frame hit the corner of the metal filing cabinet before smashing onto the thin carpet. The glass shattered.

Carleigh stopped. The world seemed to tilt on its axis. That photo was the only one she had of her mother before the sickness took her. It was the original print.

She dropped her box. She fell to her knees, her hands scrambling for the photo.

"Oops," Davis said, a smirk audible in her voice.

Carleigh picked up the photo. A shard of glass slid across her palm, leaving a nasty, painful gash. It wasn't deep enough to need stitches, but blood welled up instantly, bright red, dripping onto the smiling face of her mother in the picture.

Something inside Carleigh snapped. A tether that had been holding her back for three years just dissolved.

She stood up. Her hand was bleeding freely, droplets hitting the beige carpet. She grabbed the stack of files Davis had dumped on her desk earlier-the ones meant for the noon meeting.

"Pick it up," Davis sneered.

Carleigh wound her arm back and threw the files. Not at the desk. At Davis.

The heavy binder clip struck Davis in the chest, and hundreds of pages exploded into the air, fluttering down like a blizzard.

"You pick it up!" Carleigh screamed. Her voice was raw, primal. "Pick it up like you pick up his dry cleaning! Like you pick up his scraps!"

Davis shrieked, stumbling back.

The door to Kenton's office flew open. He stood there, phone still in hand, staring at the chaos. He saw the papers covering the floor. He saw Davis cowering.

And then he saw Carleigh. He saw the blood dripping from her clenched fist. His eyes widened. He took a step forward, dropping the phone onto his desk.

"Carleigh?" His voice was unsure. He looked at the blood. "You're hurt."

"Stay away from me!" Carleigh held up her bloody hand like a weapon. "I quit, Kenton! I quit this job, I quit this marriage, and I quit you!"

She bent down, snatched the photo from the glass shards with her uninjured hand, and turned around.

"Carleigh, wait-your hand needs to be cleaned," Kenton called out. He sounded frantic now. He started to move toward her.

"If you come near me, I will scream," she said, her voice dropping to a terrifying calm.

She walked to the elevators. She pressed the button with a bloody fingerprint.

Kenton stopped. He looked at her, really looked at her, standing there in the ruins of his office, bleeding and broken but standing taller than he had ever seen her. A strange, cold fear gripped his heart.

The elevator doors opened. Carleigh stepped in.

Kenton turned to Davis, who was starting to sob theatrically. "She... she attacked me, Mr. Parker! She's crazy!"

Kenton looked at the shattered glass on the floor. He recognized the photo in the debris. He knew how much that photo meant to Carleigh.

His face went cold. "Your personal disputes have created a disruption on my executive floor and resulted in the destruction of property. That is unacceptable."

Davis stopped crying. "Sir?"

"You're fired," Kenton said. "Get out of my building before I have security throw you out."

He turned back to the elevator, but the doors had already closed. The floor indicator was ticking down.

The wind on Fifth Avenue felt like ice against her damp skin. Carleigh had wrapped a handkerchief around her hand, but the blood had already soaked through the silk. It throbbed with a dull, rhythmic pain.

She walked back to The Plaza, her head held high despite the dizziness. She needed to clean the wound, pack her bag, and figure out her next move.

When she reached the reception desk, the manager-the same polite man from last night-looked uncomfortable. He wouldn't meet her eyes.

"Mrs. Parker," he said quietly. "I'm afraid there's been a problem with the room."

"What problem?" Carleigh asked, cradling her injured hand.

"Mr. Parker called. He... reported the card as stolen. He's placed a security freeze on all associated sub-accounts, citing potential unauthorized activity."

Carleigh laughed. It was a dry, humorless sound. Of course he did. He was cutting off her oxygen.

"Fine," she said. She reached into her purse and pulled out her personal debit card. It was an old account she used for small things. "I'll pay with this."

The manager took it. He swiped it. He waited.

"Declined," he said softly.

Carleigh stared at the machine. "That's impossible. There's money in there."

"The account is flagged. Apparently, the bank received a notice from Parker Corp's legal team regarding a potential claim on all marital assets."

He had frozen everything. Even her personal account was technically linked to the joint trust. He had moved faster than she thought possible.

"I see," Carleigh said. She took the card back.

"Mr. Parker left a message," the manager added. "He said... he said the driver is outside to take you home whenever you're ready to stop 'acting out'."

Carleigh turned around. Through the glass doors, she saw the black Maybach idling at the curb. Hopkins was standing by the door, looking miserable.

She had zero dollars. No room. A bleeding hand. And it was starting to rain.

She walked out the side exit.

She avoided the main street where Hopkins could see her. She walked two blocks east, the rain soaking through her blazer instantly. She shivered violently. She couldn't go to her father; he would just call Kenton and sell her back for a gambling stake.

She ducked into the vestibule of a Duane Reade pharmacy to get out of the rain. Her teeth were chattering.

She pulled out her phone. 12% battery.

She scrolled past her father's name. Past Kenton's. She stopped at Harley.

Harley Finch. Her college roommate. The only person who knew about "Vee." But they hadn't spoken in six months because Harley couldn't stand watching Carleigh play the submissive wife.

Carleigh pressed call.

"If this is you asking for a recipe for Kenton's favorite scones, I'm hanging up," Harley's voice answered, brisk and loud.

"Harley," Carleigh said. Her voice broke.

There was a pause. "Carleigh? Why do you sound like you're underwater?"

"I left him. I... I'm on 58th and Lex. I have no money. My hand is bleeding."

"Stay there," Harley said. The line went dead immediately.

Carleigh slid down the wall to the floor, clutching her phone. She watched the rain streak the glass. For the first time all day, she let a single tear fall.

Twenty minutes later, a battered yellow Jeep Wrangler jumped the curb and screeched to a halt in front of the pharmacy. Harley jumped out, wearing paint-splattered overalls and combat boots. She looked like an avenging angel.

She took one look at Carleigh-wet, shivering, holding a bloody handkerchief-and her face crumpled.

"Oh, honey," Harley said. She hauled Carleigh up and practically threw her into the passenger seat. "I'm going to kill him. I'm going to drive this Jeep through his lobby."

The heater in the Jeep was broken, blasting only lukewarm air, but to Carleigh, it felt like heaven. They drove across the bridge to Brooklyn.

Harley's apartment was a converted loft in Bushwick. It smelled of turpentine and linseed oil. Canvases were stacked everywhere. It was messy, chaotic, and safe.

Harley cleaned Carleigh's hand with rubbing alcohol-Carleigh hissed through her teeth-and bandaged it efficiently.

"So," Harley said, handing her a mug of hot tea. "He froze the accounts?"

"Everything. Even the pre-marriage savings."

"That is illegal," Harley said.

"It's Kenton. The law is a suggestion." Carleigh took a sip of tea. "He wants to starve me out. Force me back."

"Well, screw him," Harley said. "You can stay here. The couch is lumpy, but it's free."

"I can't just mooch off you, Harls. You're barely making rent."

"We'll figure it out."

"I already have," Carleigh said. She reached into her waterproof bag and pulled out her laptop. "I need your wifi."

She booted up the computer and logged into a proton mail account.

"What's that?" Harley asked, peering over her shoulder.

"Vee," Carleigh said.

Harley gasped. "You're bringing her back? I thought you swore you wouldn't touch a commission brush again after the wedding."

"I have a standing offer." Carleigh opened an email from The Atelier. "Harvey Freeman wants me for the 'Lost Renaissance' project. He sent this three days ago." She added, "I haven't taken a job in three years, but I never stopped studying. I've been practicing strokes on scrap canvas in the dead of night. The muscle memory is still there."

"Freeman? The god of restoration?" Harley's eyes went wide. "Carleigh, that's huge. That pays six figures just for the consult."

"I replied this morning," Carleigh said. "I have a meeting with him tomorrow at noon. But... I have to go as Vee. No one can know it's me. Especially not Kenton. If he finds out I have income, he'll sue for the breach of contract immediately and garnish my wages."

"So you need a disguise?" Harley grinned.

"I need to be invisible."

Harley's phone rang. It was lying on the table between them. The screen flashed Unknown Number.

Harley picked it up. "Hello?"

"Put her on." Kenton's voice was so loud Carleigh could hear it from the couch.

Harley's eyes narrowed. "Who is this?"

"You know who it is. Tell Carleigh that if she doesn't come home tonight, I'm throwing out her painting supplies. The ones in the attic."

Carleigh felt a pang. Her old brushes. Her mother's easel.

She looked at Harley and shook her head.

Harley smiled a wicked smile. "Go ahead, Ken-doll. Burn them. She doesn't need your trash anymore. Oh, and if you call this number again, I'll file a harassment suit so fast your head will spin."

She hung up and blocked the number.

"He's scared," Harley said. "He's grasping at straws."

Carleigh looked at her bandaged hand. "He should be."