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.

Night had fallen over South Pond. The house smelled of bleach now, but it was freezing. The heating system was ancient and barely working.

Felicity's stomach growled. A loud, angry protest. She had forgotten to buy food. She had spent her forty dollars on cleaning supplies.

She sat on the floor of the kitchen. She was starving. She needed cash. Just a loan, until she got the job.

She pulled out her phone. Her fingers were numb from scrubbing the floors with cold water. She opened her messaging app. She intended to text Chantelle.

She typed quickly, her thumbs clumsy with cold: I'm starving and they froze my cards. Can you send me $500? I'll pay you back as soon as I get paid.

She hit send. She threw the phone onto the counter and went to scrub a stubborn stain on the sink.

In a private dining room at a steakhouse in Manhattan, Garold's phone lit up.

He was dining with potential investors. He glanced at the screen. A message from Felicity.

He read the preview. A smirk touched his lips.

He excused himself and stepped into the hallway.

So she broke, he thought. It took less than 24 hours. Predictable.

He typed a reply: Begging already? Come home, apologize for the scene you caused, and I'll unlock them. Stop being childish.

At South Pond, Felicity's phone pinged.

She picked it up, expecting Chantelle's usual "Sure babe! Sending now!"

She saw the sender name: Garold.

She froze. She read the message. Begging already?

Her blood boiled. The heat of her anger warmed her faster than the heater ever could. She looked at her sent message. She had sent it to him.

Mortification washed over her. She had just handed him a victory.

She typed back furiously: Wrong number. Rot in hell.

She tapped the info icon. Block Caller.

She stared at the phone. She wasn't going to let him win. She wasn't going to starve.

She opened her banking app again. She scrolled past the frozen joint accounts. She remembered. Years ago, her grandmother had set up a small offshore account for her royalties when she first started designing under the pseudonym.

She logged in. User: Aria.

Balance: $124,500.00.

It wasn't millions. But it was hers, a secret emergency fund she hadn't touched in years. Her larger royalty payments were tied up in a trust that was much harder to access quickly, but this... this was enough.

Relief washed over her, making her knees weak. She transferred funds to her digital wallet.

She opened a food delivery app. She ordered two large pizzas and a bottle of wine.

An hour later, she sat on the floor, eating a slice of pepperoni pizza. It tasted like victory.

She picked up her phone and called her lawyer, Mr. Tate.

"Mr. Tate," she said, chewing. "I want to sue for half. And I want to make it painful."