The suitcase was old. One of the wheels had a tendency to stick, dragging across the hardwood floor with a scratching sound that grated on Cristina's nerves. She pulled it from the back of the closet, blowing off a layer of dust.

She didn't pack the gowns. She didn't pack the jewelry Jackson had bought her for public appearances. She took jeans, t-shirts, and the thick wool sweaters she wore when she was alone.

In the corner of the walk-in closet, hidden behind a row of winter coats, sat a black sketchbook. Its cover was worn, the edges fraying.

Cristina reached for it. Her fingers brushed the leather. This book contained the last five years of her soul. Every design that had saved Floyd Enterprises from bankruptcy started on these pages.

She hesitated. Leaving it felt like leaving a limb behind. But taking it felt like stealing from a life she no longer owned. She placed it at the bottom of the suitcase, buried beneath denim.

The doorbell rang. It wasn't the melodic chime of a guest, but the sharp, insistent buzz of service.

Cristina walked to the foyer. She opened the door to find Jackson's personal assistant, a young woman named Sarah who always looked at Cristina with a mixture of pity and disdain.

"Mr. Floyd sent this," Sarah said. She didn't say hello. She thrust a clipboard forward.

Cristina looked at the document. Non-Disclosure Agreement.

"He wants to ensure privacy regarding the family matters," Sarah said, popping her gum. "Standard procedure for... ex-partners."

Cristina laughed. It was a dry, humorless sound. "He thinks I want to talk about this? He thinks I'm proud of being discarded?"

Sarah took a step back, surprised by the edge in Cristina's voice. "Just sign it, Mrs... Ms. Powell. Or he cuts off the severance check."

"There is no severance check," Cristina said. "I signed the prenup. I get nothing."

"Oh," Sarah said. Her smirk returned. "Well, sign it anyway. Or he'll sue you for emotional distress caused to Ms. Powell."

Cristina grabbed the clipboard. She scanned the bold clauses: Defamation, Trade Secrets, Financial Privacy. Her eyes narrowed. She knew the law better than Jackson gave her credit for. An NDA could silence a wife, but it couldn't cover up criminal acts. It couldn't protect against felonies. She uncapped the pen. Let him think he's safe, she thought. This piece of paper won't save him from the truth. She signed it with a flourish, the pen tearing through the paper slightly. She shoved it back at Sarah.

"Get out."

Sarah turned on her heel and practically ran to the elevator.

Cristina closed the door and leaned against it. Her phone pinged with an email notification. She checked it. It was from Bella Vance, a contact in Paris.

The position at the institute is yours if you want it. We start next month.

Cristina typed a reply. I'll be there.

Then, another notification. A text from the bank. Joint Account ending in 4590: Frozen. Access Denied.

He was cutting off her oxygen. He wanted her penniless and stranded.

Cristina walked back to the bedroom. She went to the nightstand and pulled out the bottom drawer. She felt around underneath it until her fingers found a small piece of tape. She peeled it back.

A black debit card fell into her palm.

It was the account Jackson didn't know about. The account where "Sunny"-the anonymous designer-deposited her freelance royalties from international clients who didn't care about the Floyd name.

She wasn't destitute. She was rich. But Jackson couldn't know that yet.

She called Mrs. Higgins, the housekeeper, to arrange for boxes, then walked into the living room. A massive portrait of her and Jackson hung over the fireplace. It was from their wedding day. He looked bored. She looked hopeful.

Cristina went to the kitchen and grabbed a pair of kitchen shears.

She walked up to the painting. Without hesitating, she jammed the point of the scissors into the canvas, right between their faces.

The sound of ripping fabric was satisfying. She sliced down, then across. She cut her own face out of the frame, leaving Jackson standing alone against a jagged white background.

She crumpled the piece of canvas with her face on it and threw it into the trash can.

Outside, the sky opened up. Rain lashed against the glass, blurring the city lights into streaks of gray and yellow. It was a cold, miserable night.

She wrapped her trench coat tighter around herself. The apartment felt like a tomb now. Empty. Echoing.

The front door lock tumbled.

Cristina froze. Her heart hammered against her ribs. He wasn't supposed to be back until morning.

Jackson pushed the door open. He was soaking wet, his hair plastered to his forehead. He looked wild, unlike his usual composed self. He scanned the room, his eyes landing on the slashed painting, then on the suitcase by the door.

"What the hell did you do?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

"I'm leaving," Cristina said. Her voice was steady, though her knees felt like water. "Just like you asked."

Jackson kicked a cardboard box out of his way. It slid across the floor and hit the wall with a thud. "I didn't tell you to destroy the house."

He walked toward her, shedding his wet coat. As he pulled it off, a stack of photographs fell from the inside pocket. They scattered across the polished floor like a deck of cards.

Cristina looked down. She couldn't help it.

They were photos of Jackson and Davida. In Paris. In Milan. In Tokyo. Dates stamped in the corner corresponded to the weeks Jackson had been away on "crucial business trips."

She crouched down and picked one up. It was a close-up of them laughing, their foreheads touching. On the back, in Jackson's handwriting: My reason for breathing.

"Give me those," Jackson snapped. He lunged forward and snatched the photo from her hand.

"You took her with you," Cristina said. She felt sick. A physical wave of nausea rolled through her stomach. "All those times I was here, managing the company accounts, handling the press... you were on vacation with her."

"She needed treatments," Jackson lied. His face flushed. "Specialists in Europe."

"In front of the Eiffel Tower?" Cristina pointed to another photo on the floor. "Is that where the clinic is?"

Jackson didn't answer. He shoved the photos into his pocket. "It doesn't matter. It's over."

Cristina backed away from him. She bumped into the glass door leading to the terrace. Hanging there was a mobile she had made three years ago. A thousand paper cranes.

She had folded them when Jackson was in the hospital for pneumonia. Legend said a thousand cranes granted a wish. Her wish had been for him to live.

"You always hated these," Cristina said. She reached up and grabbed the main string.

"I hated them because they were clutter," Jackson said, his eyes narrowing as he looked at her high-collared coat. "Just like those ridiculous sweaters you always wore, hiding in the corner, folding trash. You were always so... concealed. It was suffocating."

She yanked. The string snapped.

Paper birds rained down around them. Pink, blue, yellow. They fluttered to the floor, innocent and pathetic.

Jackson looked at the mess. "You're acting crazy."

"Crazy?" Cristina laughed. She grabbed a handful of the cranes. She walked to the kitchen counter where she had left the shredder she used for documents.

She turned it on. The machine whirred to life.

"These were my prayers for you," she said. She dropped the first crane into the teeth of the machine. It screeched as it chewed the paper.

"Don't," Jackson said. He looked disturbed.

Cristina kept feeding them in. One by one. Then handful by handful. The noise was deafening in the quiet apartment.

"Stop it!" Jackson shouted. He reached for her arm.

Cristina spun around, holding the shears she had used on the painting. She didn't raise them, but she held them tight.

"Don't touch me," she whispered. Her eyes were dead. "Trash belongs in the trash, Jackson."

Jackson recoiled. He looked at her as if he didn't recognize her. The submissive, quiet wife was gone.

Cristina turned back to the shredder. She grabbed the last pile of cranes. As she shoved them in, the sharp edge of the stiff paper sliced her index finger.

Blood welled up, bright red. It dripped onto the white pile of shredded paper.

She didn't flinch. She didn't put the finger in her mouth. She just watched the blood fall.

Jackson stared at the blood. He looked like he wanted to help, but his feet were rooted to the spot. The guilt was there, fleetingly, on his face, before he masked it with anger.

"Fine," he said. He grabbed his wet coat. "If you want to bleed, bleed alone."

He turned and stormed out, slamming the door so hard the walls shook.

Cristina waited until the elevator dinged. Then, her legs gave out. She slid down the kitchen cabinets until she hit the floor, sitting amongst the shredded remains of her prayers and the drops of her own blood.

The morning sun was gray and weak. Cristina sat on the floor, her laptop balanced on her knees. She was on the immigration website, finalizing her visa for France.

Her finger throbbed. She had wrapped a band-aid around the cut, but it stung every time she typed.

The laptop screen changed. A video call request popped up.

Davida Powell.

Cristina stared at the name. Her thumb hovered over the 'Decline' button. But a morbid curiosity took over. She wanted to see the face of the woman who had won.

She clicked 'Accept'.

Davida's face filled the screen. She was in a hospital bed, surrounded by ridiculous bouquets of white lilies. She looked pale, but her eyes were bright with malice.

"Hey, sis," Davida cooed. Her voice was raspy.

"What do you want, Davida?"

Davida lifted her left hand to brush a strand of hair from her face. The movement was deliberate. On her ring finger sat a massive pink diamond.

Cristina's breath hitched. The Floyd family heirloom. Jackson had told her it was lost in a vault years ago.

"Just wanted to see if you were okay," Davida said, admiring the ring. "Jackson said you were hysterical last night. Breaking things. Bleeding all over the floor."

Cristina quietly took a screenshot of the ring.

"I'm packing," Cristina said. "You won. Enjoy the prize."

"Oh, I will," Davida smiled. "He stayed here all night, you know. Sleeping in the chair. He told me he's going to give me the wedding you never had. A real one."

Cristina felt the bile rise in her throat. "He's all yours, Dee. The late nights, the coldness, the lies. You can have it all."

Davida's smile faltered. She didn't like that Cristina wasn't crying. She reached for her phone and played an audio file.

It was Jackson's voice. I promise, Dee. As soon as she's gone, we'll go to Fiji. Just you and me. No baggage.

"Baggage," Davida repeated. "That's you."

Cristina looked into the camera lens. "One man's trash is another man's treasure, Davida. But in this case, I think I'm just taking out the garbage for you. You're welcome."

She ended the call before Davida could respond. She immediately blocked the number. Then she blocked Jackson.

She stood up and walked to the master closet. Jackson's side was still full. Rows of Italian suits, custom shirts, silk ties. Thousands of dollars of fabric.

She stared at the suits. She could shred them, but that was petty. That was emotional. She needed to be surgical.

She grabbed a large black trash bag. She pulled the suits off the hangers, folding them roughly, and stuffed them into the bags. One bag. Two bags. Five bags.

She dragged them to the service elevator and called the Salvation Army pickup line. "I have a donation," she said into the phone. "From the Floyd residence. High-end menswear. Yes, pick it up immediately."

Twenty minutes later, the apartment was empty of his presence. When the porters hauled the bags away, she felt the space physically lighten.

She went to the bathroom and took her phone. She popped the SIM card slot open with an earring. The tiny chip fell into her palm.

She snapped it in half.

She dropped the pieces into the toilet and flushed. The swirling water took away her number, her contacts, her connection to them.

She walked back to the living room. Her suitcase was by the door. She was ready.

But then she remembered the sketchbook.

She had left it on the desk in the study when she was packing the night before.

She cursed under her breath. She couldn't leave that behind. It had the prototypes for the Spring Collection. If Jackson found it, he would know she was Sunny.

She turned around and headed toward the study.