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.

One week later. The fluorescent lights of the university biology lab hummed loudly. Amy stared through the lenses of her microscope, adjusting the focus knob. The repetitive nature of the cell counting was the only thing keeping her mind from spiraling.

The heavy lab door swung open and banged against the wall. Chloe Nash, her coworker, stood there looking uncomfortable. "Amy, the Dean wants to see you in his office. Right now."

Amy pulled off her safety goggles. She rubbed her tired eyes and walked down the hall to the administrative building.

Dean Alistair Cromwell sat behind his massive mahogany desk. He had a wide, fake smile plastered on his face. He pushed a printed itinerary across the desk.

"Amy, I need you to act as the university's representative this afternoon. We are hosting a very important donor for a campus tour."

Amy glanced at the paper. The name at the top was printed in bold letters: Brigham Myers.

Her stomach dropped. She pushed the paper back. "I can't do this, Dean Cromwell. I have a critical deadline for the glacier ecology data tomorrow."

The Dean's smile vanished. His eyes turned cold and hard. "Mr. Myers just donated fifty million dollars for the new modern art wing. The board is giving the naming rights to a new trustee he recommended. This is a political necessity, Dr. Torres."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "If you refuse this assignment, I will personally see to it that your research funding for the next academic year is completely frozen. That includes your clearance for the Antarctica project."

Amy's jaw clenched. She bit the inside of her cheek. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth. Her career, her escape plan to Antarctica, was entirely in this man's hands.

"Fine. I will do it."

At 2:00 PM, Amy stood on the concrete steps of the main administrative building. She wore a stiff, gray pencil skirt and a white button-down shirt.

Three black, armored SUVs rolled into the campus plaza. Students stopped walking. Media photographers, tipped off by the university PR team, raised their cameras. The flashes started popping like strobe lights.

The middle SUV stopped. The door opened. Brigham stepped out. He looked immaculate in a dark navy suit. He stood tall, exuding power and control.

He did not look at the crowd. He walked around to the other side of the vehicle and opened the door. He reached inside and carefully lifted a woman out, placing her gently into a sleek, custom wheelchair.

It was Giselle. She wore large dark sunglasses and a soft cashmere blanket draped over her legs. She looked incredibly fragile.

Amy watched them. A wave of nausea hit her stomach so hard she had to swallow back bile. She forced her facial muscles into a polite, professional smile and walked down the steps.

Dean Cromwell rushed forward. "Mr. Myers! Welcome. This is Dr. Torres, our top researcher. She will be leading your tour today."

Brigham looked up. His eyes locked onto Amy. A muscle in his jaw twitched violently. His fingers tightened on the handles of the wheelchair. He clearly had no idea she worked at this specific campus.

Giselle slowly pulled off her sunglasses. She looked up at Amy. A sweet, victorious smile spread across her face. "Hello, Amy."

The tour began. Amy held a small megaphone. She walked backward, reciting the history of the brick buildings and the library. Her voice was completely monotone.

Brigham pushed Giselle's wheelchair. He stayed right behind her, never leaving her side. He did not look at the buildings Amy pointed out.

Kade Vance walked next to them. He laughed loudly, pointing at a statue. "Hey Giselle, maybe they'll put a statue of you in front of the new art wing. The future Mrs. Myers deserves it, right?"

Kade completely ignored Amy's presence. He spoke as if she was invisible.

Brigham did not correct Kade. He did not tell him to shut up. Instead, he leaned down and asked Giselle if she needed a bottle of water.

The silence from Brigham was a public endorsement. He was letting his friend humiliate his legal wife in front of dozens of students and cameras.

The students walking by started whispering. Some pointed at Amy. The pity in their eyes was worse than the mockery.

Amy's knuckles turned stark white as she gripped the handle of the megaphone. Her fingernails dug into the plastic. She kept her back straight and continued walking.

Giselle watched Amy's rigid posture. Her eyes narrowed with malice. She let her hand drop casually to the side of the wheelchair. Her fingers brushed against the metal brake lever.