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.

It was 2:00 AM. The penthouse was pitch black. Amy sat in the center of the large living room sofa. She had not turned on a single lamp. She sat perfectly still, her hands folded in her lap, staring at the front door.

The electronic keypad beeped. The heavy door clicked open.

Brigham walked in. The cold night air clung to his wool coat. He reached out and flipped the wall switch. The crystal chandelier flooded the room with harsh light.

He stopped in his tracks when he saw Amy sitting there. His eyes flickered with exhaustion. He rubbed his jaw, the muscle there ticking visibly.

He walked over to the coffee table. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, square box. The Sotheby's logo was stamped in gold on the top. He set it down on the glass table.

"Giselle's charity foundation needed a centerpiece for their upcoming auction," he said. His voice was low, trying to sound reasonable. "The piece had a complicated ownership history tied to a Myers Corp. subsidiary. I had to be there to sign off on the legal transfer. That's all it was."

He flipped the box open. A massive pink diamond necklace sparkled against the black velvet. "I saw this and thought of you. It's an apology for missing the dinner."

Amy did not look at the diamond. She looked at his face. Her eyes were completely dead.

"Do you think you can just buy my forgiveness?" she asked. Her voice was flat, devoid of any emotion. "Every time you humiliate me, you throw a piece of jewelry at me like I'm a dog."

Brigham's face darkened. He hated when she pushed back like this. He unbuttoned his coat and threw it over a chair.

"You are being unreasonable, Amy." He sat down on the opposite end of the sofa. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Giselle is alone in the city. She has no one else to help her navigate these circles. We are just friends."

"Friends." Amy let out a short, sharp laugh. The sound held no humor. It was pure acid. It scraped against Brigham's nerves.

The air in the room grew heavy and suffocating. Brigham stood up. "I am not doing this tonight. I am going to the guest room."

He took two steps before his phone vibrated violently against the glass table. The screen lit up. Giselle's name flashed in bright white letters.

Brigham snatched the phone and answered it. "Yes?"

Through the quiet room, Amy could hear the high-pitched, hysterical sobbing coming from the speaker. "Brigham! I can't breathe! My chest hurts so much. Please, I'm scared. Please come."

All the color drained from Brigham's face. He didn't even hesitate. He grabbed his car keys from the bowl by the door.

Amy stood up. Her knees locked. "If you walk out that door right now, we are done. What are we, Brigham?"

Brigham stopped with his hand on the doorknob. He did not turn around. His knuckles were white gripping the metal.

"She is having a severe panic attack. Her life might be in danger. Stop acting like a child."

He pulled the door open and stepped out. The heavy door slammed shut behind him. The loud bang echoed off the high ceilings.

Amy stood in the middle of the room. A physical pain ripped through her chest, so sharp she gasped for air. It felt like an invisible hand had reached into her ribs and crushed her heart.

She slowly sank to the floor. She pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs. She waited for the tears to come. But her eyes were completely dry. There was nothing left to cry out.

Ten minutes passed. She stood up. Her face was calm. The chaotic pain was gone, replaced by a freezing, absolute certainty.

She walked into the massive walk-in closet. She pulled down a medium-sized suitcase. She packed three pairs of jeans, some sweaters, her lab coats, and her passport.

She walked past the rows of designer dresses Brigham had bought her. She ignored the velvet display cases filled with diamonds and emeralds. She did not touch a single thing he had paid for.

She walked back into the living room. She picked up the Sotheby's box with the pink diamond. She walked to the kitchen and dropped it into the trash can, right on top of the velvet box from yesterday.

At 3:00 AM, Amy rolled her suitcase out of the penthouse. She did not look back.

She stood on the curb and hailed a yellow cab. "Take me to the Columbia University staff housing," she told the driver.

She sat in the back seat. She pulled out her phone. She opened her contacts, found Brigham's name, and hit 'Block Caller'. She turned the screen off and watched the city lights blur past the window.