The penthouse was silent. It was a sprawling, multi-million dollar silence that felt more oppressive than peaceful. Felicity kicked off her heels near the door, leaving them where they fell-one upright, one tipped on its side. It was a small act of rebellion in a house where everything had its place.

She walked into the kitchen. The refrigerator was a stainless steel monolith filled with organic kale, free-range eggs, and expensive juices she rarely drank. She pulled out ingredients mechanically. Tonight was the anniversary. She would cook his favorite meal. Beef Wellington. It was complex, time-consuming, and required patience. Maybe if she focused on the puff pastry, she wouldn't think about Jenilee Shaw at an OB-GYN clinic.

She chopped mushrooms for the duxelles. The rhythmic thud-thud-thud of the knife against the wooden board calmed her racing mind.

Hours passed. The sun set, turning the skyline outside the floor-to-ceiling windows into a glittering grid of lights. The Beef Wellington sat on the marble counter, cooling. The salad wilted.

The clock on the microwave read 11:04 PM.

The elevator dinged.

Felicity didn't move from her spot by the island. She heard his footsteps-heavy, tired. Garold Chandler walked into the kitchen. He was loosening his tie, pulling the silk knot free with a jerk of his hand. He smelled of scotch and a perfume that was floral and cloying. Not hers.

He glanced at the food on the counter. His expression didn't change. There was no guilt, no apology. Just a weary sort of annoyance.

"You're still up," he said.

"I made dinner," Felicity said softly. "I can reheat it."

Garold waved a hand, dismissing the hours of work with a single gesture. "I ate."

He walked past her, heading toward the master bedroom. Felicity watched his back. The broad shoulders, the tailored suit that cost more than most people's cars. Her heart pounded against her ribs, a frantic, bird-like fluttering.

She followed him.

He was unbuttoning his shirt, tossing it onto the armchair. His back was to her.

"Did you see the news today?" she asked.

Garold paused. She saw the muscles in his back tense, locking up. Then he resumed unbuttoning his cuffs.

"Gossip is for the idle, Felicity. I don't have time for it."

She walked up behind him. She wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her cheek against the warmth of his back. It was a desperate move. She knew it. She needed to feel something real, something that wasn't the cold leather of a waiting room chair.

"Do you want children, Garold?" she whispered.

He went rigid.

His hands came down over hers, not to hold them, but to pry them apart. He pulled her arms from his waist with firm, undeniable force. He turned around.

He looked down at her. His eyes were the color of steel, and just as hard. There was no affection in them. Not even a flicker.

"Not with you," he said.

The words didn't have any heat. They were factual. Dry.

Felicity took a step back, as if he had physically shoved her. The air left her lungs.

Garold turned away and walked into the bathroom. The door clicked shut. A moment later, the sound of the shower started-a rush of water drowning out the sound of her own ragged breathing.

She stared at the closed door. The finality of it settled over her like a shroud. Not with you.

She turned and walked back to the kitchen. The Beef Wellington looked congealed and sad. She picked up the plate and scraped the entire meal into the trash. The heavy ceramic thudded against the side of the bin.

She poured herself a glass of water from the tap. Her hand was steady now. The trembling had stopped.

She walked past the master bedroom. She didn't go in. instead, she went down the hall to the guest bedroom. She went inside and closed the door.

She turned the lock. The click was loud in the quiet apartment.

Morning sunlight flooded the penthouse, harsh and unforgiving. It highlighted the dust motes dancing in the air and the smudge on the glass coffee table.

Felicity sat on the white sofa. She was already dressed. She wore a sharp navy suit, her hair pulled back into a severe bun. Her makeup was flawless, a mask of composure.

Garold walked into the living room, buttoning his cuff. He paused when he saw her. He blinked, clearly surprised to see her up, dressed, and sitting there instead of bustling around the kitchen making his espresso.

"You're up early," he muttered, walking toward the kitchen. He expected coffee.

"Sit down, Garold," Felicity said.

He stopped. He turned to look at her, a frown creasing his forehead. "Excuse me?"

She pushed a blue folder across the glass table. It slid smoothly, stopping right at the edge near him.

Garold sighed, the sound of a man indulging a child. He walked over and picked it up. "What is this? Another bill from the club? Or did you crash the car again?"

"It's a divorce agreement," Felicity said. Her voice was calm. Unwavering.

Garold froze. His fingers tightened on the folder. He let out a scoff, a sound of pure disbelief. He tossed the folder back onto the table without opening it.

"Don't be dramatic, Felicity. If you want a higher allowance, just ask. You don't need to play these games."

Felicity stood up. She met his gaze. She didn't flinch.

"I don't want your money, Garold. I want my freedom."

Garold stepped closer. He was tall, over six feet, and he used his height now, looming over her. It was a tactic that usually worked. Usually, she would shrink back.

"You have obligations," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "The contract. My family. You don't just walk away because you're feeling neglected."

Felicity smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. It was a cold curve of her lips that didn't reach her eyes.

"I'm doing you a favor. Go be a father to Jenilee's child. I'm sure she needs you more than I do."

Garold's face darkened. "I told you to stop listening to gossip."

"And I'm telling you I'm done listening to you." She took a step toward him, invading his personal space. She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Although, I am surprised she's pregnant. Considering your... performance issues."

Garold's face turned a violent shade of red. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek.

"What did you say?" he growled.

Felicity shrugged, checking her manicured nails. "I mean, three minutes isn't exactly a marathon, darling. Maybe Jenilee inspires you more than I did. Or maybe she just fakes it better."

Garold slammed his hand down on the glass table. The vase of lilies rattled. "You watch your mouth."

He was furious. His masculinity, usually so unassailable, had been pricked. He looked like he wanted to grab her, to shake her.

Before he could move, a phone rang. It was loud, shrill, cutting through the tension. It was his phone, sitting on the kitchen counter.

The screen lit up. Jenilee.

Garold looked at the phone, then back at Felicity. The anger in his eyes warred with something else-panic, maybe? Or duty.

Felicity gestured toward the counter. "Better answer that. Mommy needs you."

Garold pointed a finger at her. "We are not done."

He turned and grabbed the phone, answering it with a harsh, "What?"

"Garold, please, I don't know what to do..." Jenilee's voice was audible even from where Felicity stood. It was a weeping, breathless sound, perfectly pitched for sympathy.

Garold's shoulders dropped. He glared at Felicity one last time, mouthed Stay here, and then turned on his heel. He walked rapidly to the elevator, pressing the button with unnecessary force. The doors slid open, he stepped in, and they closed, swallowing him and his mistress's drama.

Felicity was alone.

She exhaled a long breath, her shoulders sagging. The adrenaline that had fueled her confrontation drained away, leaving her exhausted.

She didn't waste time. She walked into the master bedroom. She pulled her old suitcase from the back of the closet-the battered Samsonite she'd had since college.

She packed efficiently. She took the clothes she had bought herself before the marriage. Jeans, t-shirts, comfortable sweaters. She left the couture gowns, the silk blouses, the uncomfortable lingerie Garold liked. She packed her sketchbooks, the heavy, bound volumes filled with charcoal drawings she hadn't shown anyone in years.

She stood by the dresser. The velvet jewelry box sat there. She opened it. Diamonds, emeralds, pearls. Gifts for birthdays, anniversaries, apologies. She closed the lid.

She took the black Amex card from her wallet and placed it on the mahogany surface. Beside it, she placed the keys to the Mercedes.

Finally, she twisted the platinum band off her finger. It left a pale indentation on her skin. She set it on top of the divorce papers she had retrieved from the living room and placed on his nightstand.

She zipped the suitcase. It was light.

She took the service elevator. It smelled of cleaning fluid and garbage, but it meant she didn't have to pass the doorman who would inevitably call Garold.

Evening came, bringing shadows back to the penthouse.

Garold returned. He was tired, his tie gone, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar. Dealing with Jenilee had been exhausting-a false alarm, she claimed, just stress.

"Felicity?" he called out.

Silence.

"Felicity, stop hiding. We need to discuss the gala."

He walked into the living room. Empty. Kitchen. Empty.

He stormed into the bedroom. "I'm not in the mood for games-"

He stopped. The closet door was open. Her side was... sparse. The racks of designer clothes were still there, but the shelves where she kept her personal things, her journals, her comfortable clothes-they were bare.

He looked at the nightstand.

The divorce papers sat there. And on top of them, catching the dim light, was the ring.

He walked over and picked it up. The metal was cold. It felt heavy in his palm. A surge of irrational anger blinded him. She actually left. She dared to leave him.

He grabbed the papers. He didn't read them. He marched into his home office, shoved the thick stack of documents into the shredder, and hit the button. The machine whirred and ground, chewing the legal text into confetti.

"You don't get to leave until I say so," he muttered to the empty room.

His private line rang. He looked at the caller ID. Grandmother Rose.

He took a breath, composing himself. "Hello, Grandmother."

"Where is your wife?" Rose Chandler's voice was sharp, crackling with static and authority.

"She's... resting," Garold lied.

"Well, wake her up. The Family Gala is next week. I expect her to be there, and I expect her to look presentable. And Garold? I've decided she needs a real job. The Foundation needs a new director. It will keep her busy and stop her from moping."

Garold rubbed his temple. "I'll tell her."

"See that you do." The line went dead.

Garold stared at the phone. He needed her. He needed her to play the part for Rose, or his inheritance of the remaining shares would be in jeopardy.

He dialed Felicity's number.

It rang once. Then straight to voicemail.

He threw the phone onto the leather couch. It bounced and landed on the rug.