The drive to The Hamptons was usually a relief, a visual exhale as the concrete canyons of Manhattan gave way to the green, rolling manicured lawns of Long Island. Today, the motion of the limousine just made Catherine nauseous.

She sat in the back, checking her reflection in her compact mirror. She applied another layer of concealer under her eyes. The dark circles were stubborn today. She pressed a hand to her lower back; the dull ache was a constant companion now.

The car crunched over the gravel driveway of "The Breakers," the Vanderbilt family's ancestral estate. It was a massive, intimidating structure of stone and ivy, overlooking the Atlantic Ocean.

Sebastian wasn't here. He was "working" in the city. It was just Catherine and the Matriarch.

Margaret Vanderbilt was waiting in the rose garden, sitting in a high-backed wicker chair like a queen on a throne. She was eighty years old, sharp as a tack, and the only person in this family who didn't look at Catherine like she was a transaction.

"Catherine, darling!" Margaret exclaimed as Catherine approached. She extended a frail, ring-adorned hand.

Catherine took it, bending down to kiss the old woman's cheek. "Hello, Grandmother. You look wonderful."

Margaret pulled her closer, her cloudy eyes narrowing. "You look thin, child. Too thin. Are you eating?"

"Just a new diet trend, Grandmother," Catherine lied smoothly. "Intermittent fasting. It's very popular."

Margaret scoffed, tapping her cane on the stone pavers. "Starvation is not a trend. Sit. Have some tea."

A maid poured Earl Grey into delicate china cups. Catherine took a sip, the warmth soothing her stomach.

"Where is my grandson?" Margaret asked sharply.

"He's... busy," Catherine said, the excuse tasting like ash in her mouth. "The merger. He wanted to come, but..."

"Men are fools," Margaret interrupted. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, worn velvet pouch. She pushed it across the table.

"Open it."

Catherine undid the strings. Inside was a brooch—an intricate emerald hummingbird with diamond wings. It was heavy, old, and priceless.

"This belonged to my mother," Margaret said softly. "I want you to have it. For the mother of the next CEO."

Catherine's hand froze. The brooch felt hot against her skin. The expectation of an heir again. It was everywhere.

"Grandmother, I..."

"You must seduce him, Catherine," Margaret said, leaning forward with surprising intensity. "Marriage is a job. Sometimes you have to work overtime. Make him forget his spreadsheets. Make him forget... distractions."

Distractions. Even Margaret knew about Serena.

"I'll try," Catherine whispered, pinning the brooch to her dress. It felt like a lie.

"Go," Margaret shooed her. "Go to the kitchen. Bake those scones he likes. The vanilla bean ones. The way to a Vanderbilt's heart is through his stomach, unfortunately. They are simple creatures."

Catherine forced a smile. She went to the massive, industrial-sized kitchen. Baking had always been her therapy. The precise measurements, the chemistry, the smell of vanilla and flour—it was controllable.

She spent two hours kneading dough, the physical exertion making her sweat. She zoned out, pretending for a moment that she was just a normal wife, baking for a husband who would come home and eat them with a smile.

When the scones were golden brown and cooling, she packed them into a wicker basket lined with linen.

One last try, she told herself. I will go to him. I will be the wife he wants. Maybe if I show him I'm still here, he'll see me.

She had the driver take her back to the city, straight to the SV Corp headquarters. The glass tower pierced the sky, a monument to Sebastian's ego.

Catherine walked into the lobby, holding the basket. She felt ridiculous, like Little Red Riding Hood entering the wolf's den.

She approached the security turnstiles, the familiar path she had taken a hundred times. She tapped her platinum-level access card against the reader.

BEEP-BEEP. A red light flashed. "ACCESS DENIED."

Catherine frowned. She tapped it again. BEEP-BEEP. "ACCESS DENIED."

"Excuse me, Ma'am," a security guard stepped forward. He was new, young, with a severe haircut.

"My card seems to be malfunctioning," Catherine said, trying to keep her voice light. "I'm Catherine Vanderbilt."

The guard looked down at his console, then back at her. "I'm sorry, Ms. Vanderbilt. The system shows your clearance has been... suspended. Pending an update."

"Suspended?" Catherine felt a flush of humiliation. "I'm the Chairman's wife. I have a permanent pass."

"I understand that, Ma'am. But the new security protocol requires active employee status or a scheduled appointment for the executive elevators. The directive came down from the VP's office this morning."

The VP's office. Serena.

Serena had revoked her access. She had locked the wife out of the building.

"I need to see Sebastian," Catherine said, her voice trembling with suppressed rage. "Call his assistant. Lyndon."

The guard hesitated, seeing the look in her eyes. He picked up the phone. He whispered something, eyes flicking to her.

A minute later, the elevator pinged and Lyndon, Sebastian's nervous personal assistant, came rushing out. He looked sweaty.

"Mrs. Vanderbilt! Oh my god, I am so sorry," Lyndon stammered, waving at the guard to open the gate. "System glitch. Total accident. We're switching servers."

Catherine stepped through the gate, her grip on the basket tightening. "A glitch from the VP's office, Lyndon?"

Lyndon paled. He didn't answer. He stepped in front of the elevator bank, effectively blocking her path.

"Uh, actually, he's in a meeting. A very... intense strategy session. High level. No interruptions allowed."

Catherine looked at Lyndon. He was a terrible liar. His left eye was twitching.

"A strategy session?" Catherine asked.

"Yes. Very technical. Boring, really."

"Is Serena Kensington in there?"

The question hung in the air. Lyndon opened his mouth, closed it, then looked at his shoes.

"She... she is part of the strategy team now. Yes."

Catherine felt a cold calmness settle over her. "Move, Lyndon."

"Mrs. Vanderbilt, I really can't—"

"I said move."

She stepped around him and pressed the call button. The doors opened instantly. She stepped inside, leaving Lyndon wringing his hands in the lobby.

She watched the numbers climb. 10... 20... 40... 50.

The elevator was taking her to the sky, but she felt like she was descending into hell.

The elevator ride felt eternal, a vacuum of silence where Catherine's heartbeat was the only sound. Thump. Thump. Thump.

When the doors finally slid open on the Executive Floor, the air was different. Cooler. Filtered. It smelled of money and ozone.

The reception desk was empty. Catherine walked down the long corridor toward the CEO's office. The walls were glass—Sebastian liked transparency in business, ironically enough.

She heard laughter before she saw them.

It was a deep, genuine sound. A sound she hadn't heard from Sebastian in years. It stopped her in her tracks.

She approached the glass wall. The blinds were partially drawn, but there was a gap.

Sebastian was sitting on the edge of his massive mahogany desk, his legs extended, ankles crossed. He looked relaxed, his tie undone, a smile on his face that reached his eyes.

Standing between his legs was Serena.

She wasn't touching him inappropriately, technically. She was adjusting his collar, her hands smoothing the fabric of his shirt. But the intimacy of the pose was undeniable. It was the body language of lovers. They were a closed circuit, a magnetic field that excluded the rest of the world.

Serena said something, and Sebastian threw his head back and laughed again.

Catherine felt like she had been punched in the gut. She held the basket of scones so tight the wicker creaked.

She shouldn't go in. She should turn around and leave.

But the anger—hot and sudden—overrode her dignity. She walked to the heavy glass door and knocked. Sharp. Three times.

The laughter cut off instantly.

Sebastian jumped off the desk, his face hardening into that familiar mask of annoyance. Serena turned slowly, a smile plastering itself onto her face.

"Catherine!" Serena exclaimed, her voice sugary sweet. "What a surprise!"

Catherine pushed the door open and walked in. The scent of the scones—vanilla and butter—wafted into the sterile room, clashing with the smell of Serena's perfume.

"I brought lunch," Catherine said, her voice remarkably steady. She set the basket down on the conference table.

"Oh, how domestic," Serena said, walking over. She was wearing a white sheath dress that looked suspiciously bridal. "I love pastries. Did you buy them from that bakery on 5th?"

"I made them," Catherine corrected.

"You bake?" Serena looked at Sebastian, eyebrows raised. "I didn't know you had a... homemaker side, Catherine."

Serena reached for the basket, lifting her right hand to peel back the linen cloth.

The light from the window caught her wrist.

Catherine stopped breathing.

There, dangling from Serena's delicate wrist, was a gold bracelet. Paved with diamonds.

It was a Cartier Love Bracelet. Identical to the one Sebastian had given Catherine that morning.

Catherine stared at it. Her vision tunneled. The room seemed to tilt.

Serena noticed Catherine's gaze. She lifted her wrist, admiring the jewelry.

"Isn't it gorgeous?" Serena cooed. "Sebastian gave it to me this morning. A 'Welcome Aboard' gift for the new VP."

She turned to Sebastian, grinning playfully. "He got a bulk discount, didn't he, Seb? Two for the price of one?"

The silence that followed was deafening.

Sebastian looked uncomfortable. He shifted his weight, adjusting his cuffs. He didn't deny it. He didn't say, "No, Catherine's was special." He just looked annoyed that Serena had made the joke.

Catherine felt the humiliation burn through her veins like acid.

It wasn't just a gift. It was inventory. He had ordered them like office supplies. One for the wife, one for the mistress. Mass-produced affection.

The scones in the basket suddenly seemed pathetic. A desperate, homemade attempt to win affection from a man who bought his love in bulk.

"They're stale," Catherine said abruptly.

"What?" Serena asked, hand hovering over a scone.

"The scones. They're stale. Don't eat them."

Catherine grabbed the basket. She walked to the metal trash bin next to the door and dropped it in.

Thud.

The sound was final.

"Catherine, don't be dramatic," Sebastian snapped, his patience snapping. "Serena was just joking."

"I'm not being dramatic," Catherine said, turning to face them. Her eyes were dry, but burning. "I'm just taking out the trash."

She didn't look at Sebastian. She couldn't. If she looked at him, she might scream, and she didn't have the energy to scream.

She walked out of the office.

"Catherine!" Sebastian called after her.

She didn't stop. She hit the elevator button repeatedly, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

I am fading, she thought, pressing her hand against the cold metal doors. I am broken, and he bought me a discount bracelet.

The doors opened, and she stepped inside, sliding down to the floor as soon as they closed. She hugged her knees to her chest, hyperventilating, alone in the descending box.

The penthouse was dark when Sebastian finally came home. It was past midnight.

Catherine was sitting in the living room, on one of the white armchairs, staring out at the city lights. She hadn't turned on a single lamp.

The front door opened, bringing with it the noise of the hallway and the scent of him. He walked in, tossing his keys on the console table. He flipped the light switch.

The sudden brightness was blinding. Catherine blinked, her eyes adjusting.

"Why are you sitting in the dark?" Sebastian asked, his tone irritable. He looked tired, but it was a satisfied kind of tired. The kind that comes after a long, productive day.

Catherine didn't move. "Why does she have my bracelet?"

Sebastian sighed. He walked to the bar, loosening his tie. "We're really doing this? Now?"

"Yes. Now."

He poured a drink. "It's a bracelet, Catherine. Half of New York owns one. It's a status symbol. It seemed appropriate for a VP."

"You gave it to me as an apology for missing our anniversary," Catherine said, her voice low. "You gave it to her as a welcome gift. On the same day. From the same order."

"It was convenient," Sebastian said, shrugging. "My assistant ordered them. It saved time."

"Am I just a line item on an expense report to you?" Catherine asked. "Is our marriage just logistics?"

Sebastian slammed the glass down on the counter. Liquid sloshed over the rim.

"You're being paranoid," he accused, turning to face her. "You're looking for reasons to be unhappy."

"She is your ex-girlfriend, Sebastian. She is working in your office. She is wearing your jewelry."

"She is qualified!" Sebastian shouted. "And she has no one else! Do you understand that? Her father died bankrupt. She has no family. She tried to end her life when I left her three years ago!"

The secret hung in the air between them.

Catherine stared at him. So that was it. The guilt anchor.

"She tried to kill herself?" Catherine whispered.

"Yes," Sebastian said, his voice dropping, thick with shame and responsibility. "Because I chose to marry you. I broke her, Catherine. I owe her safety. I owe her stability."

He gestured around the penthouse. "You have the ring. You have the house. You have the status. You have... everything. You are strong. She is broken."

"Be the bigger person, Catherine," he pleaded, though it sounded more like a command. "Stop competing with a woman who has nothing."

Catherine stood up. Her legs felt weak. The unfairness of it choked her.

I am broken too, she wanted to scream. My body is failing me. I am scared every time I look in the mirror.

But she couldn't say it. Not now. Not when he had just declared that Serena's fragility was the reason he prioritized her. If Catherine told him she was sick, she would just be another broken thing competing for his pity. And Serena had a head start on pity.

"I'm broken too," she whispered.

Sebastian didn't hear her. He was already looking at his phone, checking a text message.

"I'm sleeping in the guest room," he announced. "I have an early flight tomorrow. I don't want to argue all night."

He walked past her, his shoulder brushing against hers. He didn't even pause.

Catherine gripped the back of the sofa to stop herself from falling.

"The bigger person," she repeated to the empty room. She let out a laugh that sounded manic, sharp and jagged.

She walked to her design studio at the back of the apartment. It was her sanctuary. She turned on the drafting table light.

She grabbed her charcoal stick, but then paused. She needed this preserved. She needed it safe. She picked up her tablet instead, opening the digital sketching app. She began to draw furiously, the stylus scratching against the glass. She didn't draw a gown for a gala. She drew something dark, sharp, structural. A dress that looked like armor. A dress for a funeral.

She wrote The Mourning Collection at the top of the digital canvas. As she worked, the files automatically synced to the private family cloud server—the one Sebastian insisted they use for "security."

Her phone buzzed on the table.

She picked it up. A text from an unknown number.

She opened it. It was a photo. Grainy, old, scanned from a yearbook or a polaroid.

It was Sebastian and Serena, maybe ten years ago. They were at a college party. Sebastian was looking at Serena with an expression of raw, unguarded adoration. It was a look of total surrender.

Below the photo was a caption:

He never looked at you like that.

Catherine stared at the screen until it went black.