"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.

Felicity woke up with a stiff neck and a dry throat. She washed her face with a bottle of water she found in the pantry-expired, but sealed.

She went to the detached garage. Her old college car, a white Volkswagen Beetle, sat under a tarp. It took three tries to start the engine, but it roared to life.

She drove into the nearest town center. She needed supplies. She pulled up to "Maison Luxe," a high-end home goods store she used to frequent as Mrs. Chandler.

The automatic doors slid open. The air conditioning was scented with lavender. Sarah, a sales associate who had helped her furnish the penthouse, rushed over.

"Mrs. Chandler! So good to see you. We just got the new Egyptian cotton line in."

Felicity smiled tightly. "Just the essentials today, Sarah."

She filled a cart. High-thread-count sheets, fluffy towels, heavy-duty cleaning supplies, a coffee maker, and several large scented candles to mask the mildew smell of South Pond.

She approached the counter. Sarah rang everything up.

"That will be three thousand, five hundred and forty dollars."

Felicity pulled out her Amex Centurion-the black card. She handed it over.

Sarah swiped it. Beep.

"Oh, error," Sarah said. She wiped the chip on her skirt and inserted it.

Beep.

The screen flashed red. DECLINED. CONTACT ISSUER.

Sarah frowned. "That's odd. Do you have another card?"

The line behind Felicity shifted. A woman in a tennis outfit sighed loudly.

Felicity felt heat creep up her neck. She pulled out a Visa. It was linked to the joint account.

Beep. DECLINED.

Realization hit her like a bucket of ice water. Garold. He had frozen everything. He was grounding her like a teenager.

The Store Manager walked over. He glanced at the screen, then at Felicity. His smile was polite but his eyes were condescending.

"Mrs. Chandler, perhaps there's a security hold? Maybe you should call your husband to sort it out?"

A whisper from the line behind her: "Isn't that the one from Page Six? I heard he cut her off."

Felicity's face burned. Humiliation, hot and sharp, pricked at her eyes.

"No need," she said. Her voice was steady, though her hands were shaking. "I don't need to call him."

She looked at the pile of luxury goods. The soft sheets. The candles.

"Remove everything," she said. "Except the bleach and the scrubbers."

"Just... the cleaning supplies?" Sarah asked, confused.

"Yes."

Felicity dug into her purse. She had forty dollars in cash.

She paid for the bleach and sponges. She left the store, leaving the cart full of comfort behind. She walked to her old Beetle, head held high, ignoring the stares.

Once inside the car, she gripped the steering wheel. She squeezed it until her knuckles turned white.

She pulled out her phone and checked her banking app. Account Frozen. Action authorized by Primary Holder: G. Chandler.

She screamed. It was a raw, guttural sound of frustration. She slammed her hand against the steering wheel, hitting the horn. The blare echoed in the parking lot.