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."

The diner smelled of stale coffee and bleach. It was 2:00 AM. Cristina sat in a booth in the back, the sketchbook on the table in front of her.

On the small TV mounted in the corner, a news anchor was talking about New York Fashion Week.

...and rumors are swirling that Floyd Enterprises will finally reveal the face behind the mysterious brand 'Sunny'.

Cristina took a sip of water. Her hand was trembling. She couldn't do this alone. Jackson had the lawyers, the money, the security. She had a book and a frozen bank account.

She reached into her wallet. Hidden behind her ID was a card. It was thick, matte black, with no name. Just a number and an embossed symbol of a scalpel.

The Surgeon.

Five years ago, Jackson needed a kidney. He was dying. They were on a waitlist that was too long. Cristina had gone to the underground. She had met a man who said he could fix anything for a price. She had offered her own kidney, but she wasn't a match. The man-Columbus Mcleod-had found one anyway. He hadn't asked for money. He had asked for something far more personal. A genetic sample. A part of her future. She remembered the cold clinic, the procedure she had hidden from Jackson, the ache in her lower abdomen that lasted for weeks.

She had never called him since. Until now.

She walked to the payphone near the restrooms. She dialed the number.

It rang once.

"Speak," a deep, distorted voice answered.

"This is Origami," Cristina said. It was the code name he gave her because she was folding paper cranes in the waiting room that night.

Silence. Then, the voice cleared, the distortion gone. It was a rich, baritone voice. "It's been a long time, little bird."

"I need help," Cristina said. "I need into Fashion Week. The Floyd Gala. And I need protection."

"Jackson Floyd is a powerful man," the voice said. "Crossing him is expensive."

"I don't have money," Cristina said. "But I have the truth. He's stealing my life."

"I know," the man said. "I've been watching."

Cristina gripped the phone receiver. "Will you help me?"

"The price is high, Origami. If I step in, you belong to the organization. Your talent. Your future. You become mine."

Cristina looked at her reflection in the dirty mirror of the cigarette machine. She looked tired. Broken.

"Deal," she said.

"Go back to your booth," he said. "Wait."

The line went dead.

Ten minutes later, a man in a dark suit walked into the diner. He carried a silver box. He placed it on her table and left without a word.

Cristina opened it. Inside was a black credit card with no limit, a burner phone, and an invitation to the Gala. The name on the invite was Sunny.

Beneath the invite lay a sleek digital tablet. Cristina turned it on. It displayed a detailed dossier of the Gala's guest list. One name was highlighted in red: Marcus Thorne, Editor-in-Chief of TechDaily. A note attached read: He is incorruptible. He will verify the metadata. Use him.

A text message appeared on the phone.

8:00 PM. Don't be late. A car will collect you.

Cristina closed the box. She stood up.

She left the diner and hailed a cab. She went to a salon in Chelsea that stayed open late for VIPs. She slapped the black card on the counter.

"Cut it," she told the stylist.

"How short?"

"Short enough that I can't hide behind it anymore."

Two hours later, the long, mousy brown hair was gone. In its place was a sharp, angled bob, dyed a deep, raven black. Her eyes, usually soft, looked striking and fierce against the dark hair.

She went to a boutique she knew held private stock. She bought the dress she had designed three years ago but Jackson forbade her from releasing because it was "too provocative."

It was gold. Liquid gold. Named Nirvana.

By 7:55 PM, she was standing on the curb. A long black sedan with tinted windows pulled up. The driver opened the door.

Cristina slid into the leather seat. She smoothed the sketchbook on her lap.

"To Lincoln Center," she said.