"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.

The movers were downstairs with the last of her boxes. Cristina ran back into the apartment, her heels clicking on the marble.

She reached the study and grabbed the black sketchbook from the desk. She clutched it to her chest, relief washing over her.

Then, the front door beeped.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Click.

The code was entered.

Cristina's eyes widened. She looked around frantically. There was no way to the exit without passing the foyer.

She dove behind the heavy velvet curtains that covered the French windows in the study. She pressed herself against the cold glass, making herself as flat as possible.

"I don't care what she took!" Jackson's voice was booming. He sounded stressed. He walked into the living room, followed by the heavy tread of another man. Harrison Wells, the family lawyer.

"The press is going to eat us alive if the stock drops," Harrison said. His voice was calm, pragmatic. "Davida needs a narrative, Jackson. 'Sick heiress' isn't enough anymore. People are calling her a homewrecker."

"She's not a homewrecker," Jackson growled. "She's a victim."

"The public sees a trophy wife kicked out for a stepsister," Harrison said. "We need to show Davida brings value to the company. Tangible value."

Jackson sighed. Cristina heard the rustle of fabric as he sat on the leather sofa. "Put her on speaker."

The phone rang. Davida picked up. She was crying.

"Jack? They're laughing at me on Twitter. They're saying I'm just a leech."

"Shh, baby, calm down," Jackson's voice was gentle. "We have a plan."

"I want the brand," Davida sniffled. "I want Sunny."

Cristina stopped breathing. She pressed her hand over her mouth.

"Davida," Harrison interjected. "The Sunny designs are anonymous. We don't hold the copyright directly; it's through a shell company."

"Cristina is gone," Jackson said. His voice was ice cold. "She left everything. She signed the NDA. She signed the exit papers. She has no claim."

"But she designed them," Harrison said softly.

"No one knows that," Jackson said. "As far as the world knows, Sunny is a ghost. We just need to give the ghost a face."

"My face," Davida said. Her crying stopped instantly.

"We transfer the IP rights to Davida," Jackson explained. "We announce at Fashion Week that Davida has been 'Sunny' all along. That she was designing from her hospital bed. It's the perfect comeback story. The genius invalid."

"It's fraud, Jackson," Harrison warned.

"It's business," Jackson countered. "Cristina is out. She's probably halfway to Ohio by now. She'll never know."

Cristina felt a rage so hot it almost burned her skin. They weren't just taking her husband and her home. They were stealing her mind. Her identity.

"The sketches?" Davida asked. "Do you have the new book? The Spring Collection?"

"It should be in the study," Jackson said. "She left everything else."

Footsteps. They were coming toward the study.

Cristina squeezed her eyes shut. She held the sketchbook so tight her knuckles turned white.

The door to the study creaked open.

"I don't see it on the desk," Harrison said.

"Check the drawers," Jackson ordered.

Cristina heard drawers sliding open and slamming shut. They were feet away from her.

Buzz. Buzz.

The intercom on the wall rang loudly.

"Mr. Floyd?" The doorman's voice. "The movers are asking if they can clear the loading dock. They're waiting for Mrs. Floyd... uh, Ms. Powell."

Jackson groaned. "Get rid of them. Tell them she's gone."

"I'll handle it," Harrison said. "I need to get the paperwork for the transfer anyway."

"Fine," Jackson said. "I'll get some water."

The footsteps retreated. The study door was left ajar.

Cristina waited five seconds. Ten. She heard the refrigerator door open in the kitchen down the hall.

She slipped out from behind the curtain. She kicked off her heels, holding them in one hand and the sketchbook in the other.

She ran.

She moved like a ghost across the carpet. She reached the front door. She opened it slowly, praying the hinges wouldn't squeak.

She slipped into the hallway and let the door click shut.

She didn't wait for the elevator. She ran for the stairs. She sprinted down three flights before collapsing against the railing, gasping for air.

She looked at the sketchbook in her hand.

"You want a war?" she whispered to the empty stairwell. "I'll give you a war."