The victory was bought with blood.

Three days later, the narrative shifted seamlessly from financial scandal to hero worship. Bennett had won. The acquisition was complete. The Randolph stock soared.

But the footage playing on the lobby screen showed a different reality: Bennett, unconscious, being loaded into an ambulance outside the stock exchange. He had collapsed from exhaustion and a stress-induced arrhythmia immediately after signing the papers.

"A Warrior for His Legacy," the headline read.

I sat in the hushed luxury of the hotel lobby, waiting for the car that would take me to the airport. My flight was in four hours. I watched the screen as Elia stepped up to a podium, dabbing at eyes that remained suspiciously dry with a lace handkerchief.

"Bennett fought for us," she told the cameras, her voice trembling perfectly. "He promised me he would win, and he did. We are going to get married as soon as he recovers."

I turned away. It was a circus, and I was no longer in the audience.

"Kelsey."

The voice didn't just startle me; it froze me.

Bennett was standing at the entrance of the hotel lobby. He shouldn't have been there. He should have been in a hospital bed, hooked up to monitors.

He was deathly pale, his left arm in a sling, a bandage peeking out from the collar of his shirt. He looked like a ghost who had forgotten how to rest.

He walked toward me, ignoring the alarmed stares of the concierge.

"You're leaving," he said. It wasn't a question; it was an accusation. He looked at the suitcases next to me.

"My flight is tonight," I said. I didn't stand up.

"I won," he said. His eyes were feverish, bright with an unhealthy, manic energy. "Did you see? I crushed them. I did it for the family."

"You did it for Elia," I corrected quietly.

He winced, as if I had poked a fresh bruise. He reached into his pocket with his good hand and pulled out a small black box.

"I bought this on the way here," he said, his breath coming in short, painful rasps. "I made the driver stop. It's a promise ring. Or a... a reconciliation gift. Whatever you want to call it."

He opened the box. A sapphire the size of a quail egg sat on a velvet cushion. It was gaudy. It was expensive. It was exactly the kind of thing Elia would kill for.

"I don't want it," I said.

"Why are you doing this?" His voice rose, cracking under the strain. "I almost died, Kelsey. I was in that boardroom for forty-eight hours straight. I bled for this money. And I'm here, standing in front of you, asking you to come home."

"Home?" I looked at him. Really looked at him. I saw the lines of selfishness etched around his mouth. I saw the blindness in his eyes. "Bennett, you didn't come here because you missed me. You came here because you need an audience for your victory lap. Elia is busy talking to the press, so you came to find the only other person who knows who you really are."

He flinched. "That's not fair."

"Keep the ring," I said. "Give it to Elia. It matches her ambition."

He slammed the box shut. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the quiet lobby.

"You're punishing me. That's what this is. You're playing hard to get because I hurt your feelings at the gala. Fine. I'll wait. But don't think you're walking away with anything more than what's in these bags."

"That's the plan," I said.

He stared at me, his chest heaving. Then he laughed, a short, bitter bark.

"You'll be back," he said. "Paris is expensive. You'll run out of money in a month, and you'll come crawling back. And maybe, if you're nice, I'll let you stay in the guest house."

He turned and walked away, limping slightly. He looked victorious and broken all at once.

I watched him go. I waited for the hurt, but it didn't come. I felt nothing. No anger. No sadness. Just a quiet, hollow relief.

My phone buzzed. A notification from the airline.

Flight AF007 to Paris: On Time.

"Ma'am?" The driver was standing beside me. "We should load the bags."

"Yes," I said, standing up. "Let's go."

I never made it to the airport.

An hour before my scheduled departure, my lawyer called. There was a complication with the asset division-a single, crucial signature missing on the transfer of the gallery lease.

It was the one thing I actually cared about.

Bennett had insisted on a meeting.

He claimed it was strictly business. He claimed he wanted to sign the papers and finally be done with it.

The location? The Modern Art Annex.

The gallery where we'd had our first date.

Of course it was.

I walked in, bracing myself for a fight. The cavernous space was dark, lit only by hundreds of pillar candles lining the floor like a vigil. A soft jazz rendition of our song drifted from hidden speakers, echoing off the concrete walls.

It wasn't a meeting.

It was an ambush.

Bennett emerged from the shadows.

He was wearing the tuxedo from our wedding. It looked ridiculous now, straining slightly at the buttons, and he stood there in the flickering dimness like a phantom from a dead life.

"I thought we could start over," he said, spreading his arms wide.

"I rented the whole place. Just for us."

"Where are the papers, Bennett?" I asked.

I didn't step fully into the room. I stayed anchored by the door, my hand gripping the cold metal of the handle.

"Forget the papers," he pleaded. "Look around. Remember this? Remember us?"

He pointed toward the vaulted ceiling.

Suddenly, a projection system roared to life, lighting up the roof. Fireworks. Digital pyrotechnics exploding in the shape of hearts and intertwining initials.

B & K.

It was impressive. It was romantic. And it was completely, utterly hollow.

"You hate fireworks," I said, my voice flat. "You told me they were noisy and polluting."

"People change," he insisted, taking a step toward me. "I want to change for you, Kelsey. I have a surprise. A big one."

"Is the surprise that you finally grew a conscience?"

Before he could answer, a harsh spotlight snapped on, hitting the balcony above us.

"Surprise!"

Elia stood there, gripping a microphone.

She was wearing a white dress that looked suspiciously, intentionally, like a wedding gown. She was laughing.

The jazz music cut out with a digital screech.

"Did you like it, Kelsey?" Elia asked, her voice booming through the gallery speakers, distorted by the amplification. "I planned every detail. The candles. The music. Even the fireworks."

I looked at Bennett.

He didn't look embarrassed. He looked... proud.

"She has a great eye for design, doesn't she?" Bennett said, beaming up at the balcony. "She wanted to help me win you back. She said we could be a modern family. All of us together."

My stomach dropped.

It wasn't just a trap. It was a humiliation ritual.

"You planned this?" I asked, looking up at Elia.

"Down to the song," she smirked.

"Bennett didn't even remember what your 'song' was. I had to Google it."

Bennett laughed, a nervous, hollow sound. "She's amazing, isn't she? She just wants everyone to be happy."

I looked from Elia's triumphant, sneering face to Bennett's oblivious one.

"You are a puppet," I whispered to Bennett.

"She pulls a string, and you dance. She planned this whole night not to get us back together, but to show me that she owns you. She owns your memories. She owns your gestures. She owns your very spine."

"You're being ungrateful," Bennett frowned, confused by my reaction. "We're trying to be nice."

Elia began to descend the stairs, holding something in her hand.

It was a small sculpture I had made for Bennett on our first anniversary. A twisted metal heart, welded from scrap.

"I found this in the trash," she said, tossing it in her hand like a baseball.

"Thought it would make a cute centerpiece."

She opened her hand.

The metal heart fell.

It hit the polished concrete floor with a violent, dissonant clang, chipping the finish.

"Oops," she giggled.

Suddenly, guests-Bennett's friends, business partners, people who had been hiding in the shadows of the back rooms-started to clap.

They emerged into the candlelight, applauding Elia's "performance art."

"Best planner ever!" someone shouted from the dark.

Bennett beamed.

He put his arm around Elia's waist, pulling her close. "She really is something."

I looked at them.

The man I had loved was gone. In his place stood a hollow shell, filled to the brim with Elia's poison.

"You deserve each other," I said.

I turned on my heel and walked out.

The sound of their applause followed me into the street. It sounded like rain on a tin roof-empty, loud, and relentlessly annoying.

I went straight to the hospital-not for medical attention, but for the final signature.

My lawyer had texted me the update: Bennett was there again. Apparently, Elia had "fainted" from the excitement of the party.

I found them in the VIP wing.

Bennett sat in a chair beside Elia's bed, his shirt sleeve rolled up. A clear tube ran from his arm into a machine, which then fed directly into her.

He was giving her blood. Literally draining himself to keep her glowing.

Elia spotted me standing in the doorway. She smiled, weak yet victorious. She lifted Bennett's hand and kissed his knuckles, her eyes locked on mine.

"Look, Ben," she whispered. "She came to say goodbye."

Bennett turned. He looked shattered. His skin was an ashen gray.

"Kelsey," he rasped. "Elia needs blood. Her iron is critically low."

"Of course she does," I said. "She's a parasite. That's what they do."

"Don't start," he warned, though his voice lacked the energy to carry any real threat.

I walked into the room, refusing to look at Elia. I reached into my bag and pulled out the divorce papers I had printed at the hotel.

"Sign them," I said. "Now."

"Can't this wait?" Bennett asked. "I'm hooked up to a machine."

"Your right hand is free," I pointed out.

I slapped the papers onto the overbed table hovering above Elia's legs and tossed a pen on top of them.

"If you don't sign them, I will sell my story to the press tomorrow morning," I said calmly. "I will tell them about the fake miscarriage scares. I will tell them about the illegal leverage you used for the takeover. I have the files, Bennett. I copied them before I left."

Bennett's eyes widened. "You wouldn't."

"Try me."

He looked at me, then down at the papers. He picked up the pen. His hand shook as he scrawled his signature.

"There," he spat. "Are you happy? You're walking away from millions."

"I'm walking away from a disaster," I said.

I took the papers and finally looked at Elia.

"He's all yours," I said. "I hope you have enough blood to keep him alive, because once the money runs out, he's going to be very heavy to carry."

"Get out," Elia hissed.

"Gladly."

I walked out of the room. Moments later, a nurse came rushing down the hall.

"Code Blue in room 304!" she shouted.

Room 304. That was Bennett's room.

I paused. I heard the alarms start to blare. I heard shouting.

"His heart rate is dropping! He's bottoming out! The strain was too much!"

I stood there for a second. My instinct-the ingrained reflex of a wife-screamed at me to run back. To check on him.

Then, I looked at the signed papers in my hand.

I turned my back on the alarms and walked to the elevator. I pressed the button for the ground floor.

"Goodbye, Bennett," I whispered.

I walked out of the hospital and hailed a cab.

"JFK Airport," I told the driver. "International terminal."