The harsh ringing of the phone sliced through the dark living room. Amy jerked awake. She was lying on the sofa, still wearing her clothes from the night before. Her neck was stiff.

She reached for her phone on the coffee table. It was 2:00 AM. The caller ID showed Brigham's executive assistant.

Amy swiped to answer. "Hello."

"Mrs. Myers, I am so sorry to wake you." The assistant sounded panicked. "Mr. Myers is at the private club downtown. He is heavily intoxicated. Mr. Myers is asking for you by name. He's refusing to leave with anyone else. We're concerned he might cause a scene. Could you please come get him?"

Amy closed her eyes. "I am not his babysitter. Call his driver."

"I did, ma'am. But he..." The assistant paused. Through the phone, Amy heard a low, pained groan in the background. It was Brigham.

The sound tightened her chest. She hated herself for the immediate physical reaction she had to his pain. "Fine. I am on my way."

She grabbed her trench coat and her keys. She drove through the heavy, freezing rain of late autumn in New York. The streets were slick and empty.

She pulled up to the discreet entrance of the private club. She pushed open the heavy oak doors of the VIP room. The smell hit her instantly. Stale alcohol and thick cigar smoke filled the air. She coughed, bringing a hand to her mouth.

Brigham was slumped on a dark leather sofa in the corner. His tie was gone. The top three buttons of his shirt were undone. His jaw was tight, and his eyebrows were pulled together in deep discomfort.

Amy walked over to him. She grabbed his arm and tried to pull him up. His massive weight shifted, and she stumbled forward, almost falling onto him.

A waiter rushed over. "Let me help you, ma'am."

Together, they hauled Brigham out of the club and into the cold rain. They shoved him into the spacious backseat of the waiting Maybach. Amy climbed in after him and slammed the door, shutting out the storm.

The driver immediately raised the privacy partition. The back of the car became a small, sealed box. The only light came from the dim reading lamps. The only sound was Brigham's heavy, ragged breathing.

The car moved. Brigham's head slid sideways and landed heavily on Amy's shoulder. The heat radiating from his skin soaked right through her trench coat.

She raised her hands to push him away. But he curled inward, his large frame shrinking as a wave of nausea or a headache hit him. Her hands stopped in mid-air.

She let out a slow breath. She reached up and pressed her fingers against his temples. She rubbed the tight muscles there, trying to ease the tension of his hangover.

Brigham's breathing slowed. The deep lines on his forehead began to smooth out. Suddenly, his hand shot up. He grabbed her wrist with a crushing grip.

He pulled her hand down from his temple. He pressed her palm against his mouth. His lips were hot against her skin. He left a long, burning kiss right on her pulse point.

Amy's heart skipped a beat. The blood rushed to her ears. It had been so long since he touched her with anything resembling care. A stupid, desperate greed flared in her chest.

Brigham slowly opened his eyes. In the dim light of the car, his dark eyes looked incredibly deep and full of raw emotion.

He lifted his other hand. His rough thumb brushed against her cheekbone. He traced the line of her jaw. His gaze was entirely focused on her face.

He opened his mouth. His voice was rough and gravelly in the quiet car.

"Giselle. You finally came back to me."

The words hit Amy like a physical blow to the chest. The blood in her veins turned to ice. The air was sucked out of the car.

She yanked her hand back with violent force. Her elbow slammed hard against the reinforced glass of the car window. A loud thud echoed in the space. Pain shot up her arm, but it was nothing compared to the tearing sensation in her chest.

Brigham frowned, annoyed by the sudden loss of contact. He reached out again, his large hands trying to pull her into his chest.

"Don't touch me." Amy shoved both her hands against his shoulders. She pushed him with every ounce of strength she had.

Brigham fell back. His head cracked against the leather headrest with a heavy thud. He let out a low grunt and closed his eyes again.

The car pulled into the underground garage of their apartment building. Amy sat rigid, staring straight ahead. When the doors opened, she told the driver to carry Brigham to the elevator. Her voice was completely dead.

Up in the penthouse, the driver dropped Brigham onto the center of the bed in the master bedroom and left.

Brigham rolled onto his back. He was still restless, his hands tearing at the remaining buttons of his shirt.

Amy walked into the master bathroom. She turned on the cold water. She soaked a hand towel and wrung it out. She walked back to the bed and stood over him. She looked down at the man who had just ripped her heart out and stomped on it.

Suddenly, Brigham sat up. His hand shot out and grabbed her waist. He yanked her forward.

Amy lost her balance and fell onto the mattress. Before she could push up, his heavy body covered hers, pinning her down.

He kept his eyes closed. His mouth found her neck. He pressed wet, sloppy kisses against her skin. His hands gripped her hips tightly.

"Giselle." He mumbled against her collarbone. "Giselle."

Bile rose in Amy's throat. The humiliation was a physical weight crushing her lungs. She thrashed under him, but he was too heavy.

Her hand flailed out, hitting the nightstand. Her fingers brushed against the heavy glass base of an award trophy sitting there.

She grabbed the cold glass. She squeezed her eyes shut. She swung her arm up and brought the heavy base down hard against the side of his forehead.

The dull crack of glass hitting bone echoed in the bedroom. Brigham's body went completely rigid for a second. Then, all the fight left his muscles. He collapsed onto the mattress, rolling off Amy.

Blood immediately began to pool at his hairline, sliding down his temple. He was completely unconscious.

Amy pushed herself backward until her back hit the headboard. She slid down and sat on the floor. Her hands were shaking violently. She stared at the smear of red blood on her fingertips. Her chest heaved as she dragged air into her burning lungs.

She did not reach for her phone to call an ambulance. She stared at him for five minutes. Then, she stood up. Her legs felt like lead. She walked to the bathroom, grabbed the first aid kit, and walked back.

She wiped the blood away with a wet towel. She peeled the backing off a large gauze pad and slapped it roughly over the cut on his forehead. She didn't bother with tape. She just left him there.

The next morning, the apartment was silent. Amy did not wait for Brigham to wake up. She changed into her clothes, grabbed her bag, and took the elevator down. She went straight to the university lab.

At noon, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out. It was a text from an unknown number. It contained an address for a Michelin-starred restaurant in Midtown, the kind of place that required reservations months in advance.

The second text came immediately after. "I am Giselle. I think we need to talk. About Brigham." She stared at the screen, her grip tightening on the phone. She must have gotten the number from someone in the Myers household. The thought made her skin crawl, a stark reminder of how easily her private boundaries could be breached.

Amy bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper. She stripped off her white lab coat. She changed into a sharp, tailored black suit she kept in her locker. She walked out of the building.

When she arrived at the restaurant, the hostess took one look at her name and immediately led her to the most private VIP room in the back.

Giselle was sitting at the table. She was sipping coffee from a delicate porcelain cup. When Amy walked in, Giselle did not stand up. She slowly lowered her cup and let her eyes drag up and down Amy's body, assessing her like a cheap piece of furniture.

Giselle smiled. It was a thin, cruel smile. "Let's not waste time. We both know you are just a placeholder. A cheap copy he used while I was gone."

Giselle reached into her Birkin bag. She pulled out a thick manila envelope and slid it across the polished wood table. It stopped right in front of Amy.

"It is a draft of a divorce agreement." Giselle leaned back in her chair. "If you sign it quietly and step aside, I will make sure you get a very generous compensation package. Enough to keep you comfortable."

Amy looked down at the envelope. She did not touch it. She reached out and wrapped her fingers around the tall glass of ice water sitting in front of her.

She picked up the glass and threw the freezing water directly into Giselle's face.

Giselle shrieked. The sound was high and piercing. She jumped up, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. Water dripped from her eyelashes and soaked the front of her silk blouse. The waiters outside the door immediately looked through the glass panels, their eyes wide.

Amy stood up. She looked down at Giselle, her face completely blank. "Keep your garbage to yourself."

She turned on her heel and walked out of the room. Her steps were steady until she pushed through the front doors of the restaurant.

The cold wind hit her face. Her shoulders dropped. The tough facade crumbled. Her eyes burned, and the edges of her vision blurred with tears. She took a deep breath, forcing the tears back down.

She walked three blocks to a high-end men's boutique. She spent an hour picking out a silk tie for her adoptive father, Howard. Tonight was his seventieth birthday banquet. Brigham had promised her a month ago that he would attend.

By evening, Amy was standing in the grand banquet hall. She wore a modest but elegant evening gown. Her makeup hid the dark circles under her eyes.

Guests were arriving. Howard stood near the entrance, leaning on his cane. He kept looking toward the door. "Where is Brigham?" he asked, his voice full of expectation.

Amy forced a bright smile onto her face. "He is on a very important cross-border conference call. He will be here soon."

Ten minutes before the dinner officially started, Amy locked herself in a bathroom stall. She dialed Brigham's number over and over. It rang out every time. Her fingers flew across the screen, typing a text. "Please. Just show up for ten minutes. It's his 70th."

Her phone buzzed. A reply from Brigham.

"Emergency situation came up. Cannot leave. Give your father my regards. I sent a gift."

Amy stared at the gray text bubble. Her fingernails dug so hard into her palms that the skin nearly broke. She held her breath until her lungs ached.

She put the phone away. She pulled out her lipstick, reapplied it perfectly, and pushed the stall door open. She walked back into the loud, bright banquet hall.

Throughout the night, relatives kept coming up to her. "Where is your husband? Is everything okay?"

"He is on a call with Europe." Amy repeated the lie until her throat felt raw.

Howard watched her from across the room. He saw the tight grip she had on her champagne glass. He saw the fake smile. His eyes filled with pity.

When it was time to cut the cake, the doors opened. A delivery team walked in carrying a massive, incredibly expensive antique vase. The card read: "From Brigham Myers."

The crowd oozed with admiration. But to Amy, the vase sitting there in the middle of the room felt like a physical slap across the face.

The banquet finally ended. The last of the guests drove away. Amy walked out of the hall, her hand securely wrapped around Howard's arm.

The New York night air was biting. Amy took off her wrap and draped it over Howard's shoulders. She tried to keep her posture straight, but her bones felt heavy with exhaustion.

They stood at the street corner, waiting for the valet to bring their car.

Across the street, a black Maybach glided slowly to a stop.

Amy's breath caught in her throat. She knew that license plate. She knew the custom tint on the windows. Her eyes locked onto the vehicle.

The car was parked directly in front of the Sotheby's auction house. A valet in a crisp uniform rushed forward and pulled the rear door open.

Brigham stepped out onto the pavement. He was wearing a perfectly tailored black tuxedo. The streetlights caught the sharp angles of his face.

He did not walk toward the entrance. Instead, he turned back to the open car door. He extended his hand inside.

A slender arm reached out. The hand was covered in a long, black velvet glove. It rested delicately on Brigham's palm. Giselle stepped out of the car.

Brigham moved closer to her. He reached up and gently adjusted the fur shawl around her shoulders. Giselle looked up at him and smiled. Brigham smiled back. The intimacy in their body language was undeniable.

Amy stood frozen on the corner. Howard stood right beside her. Both of them saw everything.

Howard's face turned a dark, angry red. The hand gripping his wooden cane began to shake violently.

The air around Amy vanished. Her chest tightened so hard she thought her ribs might crack. The cross-border conference call. The lie she had told fifty people tonight to protect his image. It was all a joke. He skipped her father's seventieth birthday to take Giselle shopping for jewelry.

A few relatives who had just walked out of the hall stopped behind them. They followed Amy's gaze. A collective gasp went up. Whispers started immediately.

"Look at that. Poor Amy."

Every whispered word felt like a needle driving straight into Amy's spine.

Howard slammed his cane against the concrete. "I am going to kill him." He took a step off the curb.

Amy grabbed his arm with both hands. She pulled him back with all her weight. "No, Dad. Please. Don't." She shook her head frantically. The tears she had held back all night finally broke free, spilling hot and fast down her cheeks.

She could not handle a public screaming match. She could not let these people watch her beg for dignity on a street corner.

Across the street, Brigham suddenly stopped. The sharp, echoing crack of Howard's wooden cane hitting the concrete pierced through the ambient city noise. It caught his attention instantly. He turned his head and squinted across the four lanes of traffic. A sudden flash from a passing tourist's camera illuminated the opposite corner for a split second. His heart stopped. He recognized the familiar silhouette of Howard leaning on his cane, and the rigid, trembling posture of the woman beside him. It was Amy.

Brigham's body went completely rigid. The soft smile vanished from his face. A flash of pure panic crossed his features. His jaw clenched tight.

He immediately dropped his hand from Giselle's waist. He took half a step forward, toward the street, toward Amy.

Giselle noticed the shift in his attention. She followed his line of sight and saw Amy crying. A tiny, triumphant smirk flashed across Giselle's lips before disappearing.

"Ah!" Giselle let out a sharp, breathless cry. Her ankle suddenly gave out. She collapsed sideways, falling directly into Brigham's space.

Gravity forced Brigham to react. He spun back around and caught her by the waist before she hit the pavement. He held her up, his face close to hers as he checked if she was hurt.

When Brigham finally looked back across the street, the corner was empty.

Amy had shoved Howard into the back of a yellow taxi. She slammed the door shut. The cab sped away from the curb.

Inside the taxi, Amy stared at the rearview mirror. She watched the reflection of the street shrink. Brigham was still holding Giselle.

Amy closed her eyes. She leaned her head against the cold window.

Howard reached over and rubbed her back. His hand was warm and heavy. "Amy," he said, his voice thick with sorrow. "Stop doing this to yourself. Stop bending over backwards for a man who doesn't see you. You always have a home with me."

Amy slid down in the seat. She rested her head on her father's shoulder. She opened her mouth and let out a silent, agonizing sob. The last string holding her heart together snapped completely.