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.

The wind whipped Felicity's hair across her face. The convertible top was down, and Chantelle was driving fast, the city lights fading in the rearview mirror.

"You actually did it," Chantelle yelled over the wind. "I can't believe you left the ring."

"It didn't fit anymore," Felicity said, staring at the dark highway.

They pulled into a retro diner on the outskirts of the city an hour later. It was a chrome-and-neon relic that smelled of grease and coffee. They slid into a red vinyl booth.

"So, the rumors," Chantelle said, dipping a fry into a milkshake. "Jenilee was seen at Bergdorf's buying baby clothes. It's all over the blogs."

Felicity took a fry. She felt surprisingly hungry. "Let her buy them. It's not my problem."

"What's the plan, Fel? You have no cash, no cards."

"I have a portfolio," Felicity said. "And I have an interview."

"With who?"

"Twelve Bridges."

Chantelle choked on her shake. "The fashion conglomerate? Honey, they chew people up."

"I have an in."

They finished eating, and Chantelle drove them further out, toward the coast. The GPS led them down a gravel road that hadn't been paved in decades. They pulled up to a rusted iron gate covered in ivy.

South Pond Estate.

It was her inheritance from her grandmother. It had been sitting empty for five years. The house loomed in the darkness, a Victorian structure with peeling paint and dark windows.

"Are you sure about this?" Chantelle asked, looking at the house with distaste. "It looks like the set of a horror movie."

"It's mine," Felicity said. "It's the only thing that's just mine."

She got out and unlocked the gate with a rusty key. It groaned in protest. Chantelle helped her carry the suitcase to the porch. They hugged, a fierce squeeze.

"Don't tell anyone where I am," Felicity whispered.

"Lips sealed. Call me if you get murdered by a ghost."

Chantelle drove off, taillights disappearing into the night.

Felicity entered the house. The air was stale, thick with dust and the smell of old wood. She flipped a switch. Nothing. She tried another. A lamp in the corner flickered to life, casting long, eerie shadows. The furniture was covered in white sheets, looking like phantom guests.

She pulled a sheet off the sofa. Dust clouds erupted, making her cough. She waved her hand, clearing the air.

She went to the kitchen. She turned the faucet. The pipes groaned, shuddered, and spat out a stream of brown, sludgy water.

Great. No drinking water. No food. No bedding.

She sat on the floor, opening her laptop. The battery was at 40%. She tethered it to her phone and logged into a secure email account.

User: Aria_Design

There was one new email. From: Monica Vane, Creative Director, Twelve Bridges.

Subject: Request for Interview

Dear Aria, We have reviewed your digital submission. It is... intriguing. Can you come in tomorrow at 10 AM?

Felicity typed a reply: Confirmed.

She shut the laptop. She curled up on the dusty sofa, pulling her coat over her as a blanket. The house creaked around her, settling for the night. It was cold, dirty, and lonely.

But for the first time in three years, she didn't feel suffocated.

Outside the gate, a black sedan slowed down, idled for a moment, and then sped away into the darkness.