Fletcher walked into the pool of light cast by the streetlamps outside. He looked wrecked. His tie was undone, hanging loose around his neck like a noose. He pulled it off in one fluid motion and tossed it onto the Persian rug without looking where it landed.

As he moved closer, the smell hit her. It was stronger now than it had been on the luggage. Aged whiskey, stale cigar smoke, and that floral scent-Chanel No. 5. It wasn't her perfume. She wore Jo Malone, something light and unobtrusive. This was heavy, musky, a scent that clung to skin.

Alexa stood her ground, her fingernails digging into her palms. "You're back."

Fletcher didn't look at her. He walked past her to the wet bar, pouring himself a glass of water from a crystal pitcher. He downed it in one go, his Adam's apple bobbing.

Only then did he turn. He leaned back against the bar, crossing his ankles. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with red, but his gaze was as sharp as a scalpel.

"Still up?" His voice was gravelly, rough from disuse or too much talking. "Waiting for an allowance check?"

The insult landed with precision. Alexa flinched. "I didn't know when you were coming back. You didn't call."

Fletcher let out a short, humorless laugh. It was a sound devoid of joy. "I come back to my own property, Alexa. Do I need to file an itinerary with the tenant?"

"I am your wife," she said, her voice shaking slightly. "Not a tenant."

Fletcher pushed off the bar. He moved toward her, his strides long and predatory. The air around him felt charged, dangerous. He stopped just inches from her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his body.

He reached out. For a split second, Alexa thought he might touch her cheek. Instead, his fingers clamped around her chin. His skin was ice cold. He tilted her face up, forcing her to look into his eyes. They were dark, swirling with an emotion she couldn't place-anger? Exhaustion? Disgust?

"Wife," he repeated, testing the word like it was poison. "The devoted wife who tracks my location through gossip columns?"

Alexa's breath hitched. "I saw the news alert. And then Judy sent me..."

"Judy," he spat the name out. He dropped his hand from her face as if touching her burned him. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his fingers. "You and your little network of spies. Did you enjoy the show? Did it give you something to talk about with your nursing friends?"

"I'm a surgeon," she corrected automatically.

"Right. The surgeon." He looked around the room, his eyes scanning the space with manic intensity. His gaze landed on the sofa where she had been sitting. A throw pillow was dented.

His eyes narrowed. "Were you entertaining? Is that why you're still awake at midnight?"

"What?" Alexa blinked, confused. "No. I was alone."

"It smells like... animal," he said, wrinkling his nose. He took a step toward the sofa. "And cheap food."

"I made dinner," she said quietly. "Steak. Your favorite."

"I ate at The Pierre," he said, turning his back on her. "Real food."

He walked toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms. Alexa felt a surge of desperation. This couldn't be it. Three months apart and this was the conversation?

"Fletcher," she called out.

He stopped at the door to the master suite. He didn't turn around. His shoulders were tense, the muscles visible through his white dress shirt.

"Don't come in here tonight," he said. His voice was low, final. "Sleep in the guest room. Or the maid's quarters. I don't care."

"Why?" she whispered.

"Because," he said, opening the door and stepping into the darkness of the bedroom, "I'm tired of looking at mistakes."

The door slammed shut. The sound echoed through the penthouse, vibrating in the floorboards under Alexa's feet.

She stood there for a long time. The silence returned, heavier than before. She looked down at her hands. They were trembling.

Slowly, she turned and walked toward the guest wing. It was sterile, unused, the bed sheets stiff and cold. She lay down on top of the duvet, still wearing her clothes.

Through the wall, she could hear the shower running in the master bathroom. He was scrubbing himself clean. Scrubbing off the travel, the whiskey, the other woman's perfume.

Or maybe, she thought as a single tear leaked out of her eye and tracked into her ear, he was trying to scrub off the feeling of being home.

The biological clock of a surgeon is a cruel master. Alexa's eyes snapped open at 5:45 AM, despite having only drifted off three hours prior. Her body ached from the stiffness of the guest bed mattress, a stark reminder of her displacement. A wave of dizziness washed over her as she sat up, her body protesting the lack of sleep and sustenance.

She moved through the penthouse like a ghost, avoiding the creaky floorboards in the hallway. In the kitchen, the morning light was gray and unforgiving. She started the espresso machine, the grinding of beans sounding like a jackhammer in the quiet apartment.

Meow.

The sound was soft, insistent. Alexa looked down. The Calico cat had ventured out from under the sofa and was now winding itself around her ankles in figure eights.

"You're hungry, aren't you?" Alexa whispered. She crouched down, her knees popping. Her hands trembled slightly from sheer exhaustion as she found a saucer and poured a splash of lactose-free milk she kept for herself.

"What is that stench?"

The voice was a whip crack. Alexa jerked upright, nearly knocking the saucer over.

Fletcher stood in the kitchen doorway. He was wearing a silk dressing gown, dark navy, tied loosely at the waist. His hair was damp, combed back, but his face was pale. He looked at the cat with an expression of pure revulsion, as if she had brought a radioactive isotope into the kitchen.

The cat, sensing the hostility, arched its back and hissed.

"How did that thing get in here?" Fletcher demanded. He stepped into the kitchen, his bare feet slapping against the marble. "Martha!"

"Don't yell at her," Alexa said, stepping between Fletcher and the cat. "I let her in. It was freezing outside."

Fletcher stopped. He looked from the cat to Alexa, his lip curling. "A stray. Of course. You would bring a stray into a Montgomery home."

The emphasis on stray was deliberate. It wasn't about the cat. It was about the girl whose parents died in a 'car accident' leaving her with nothing but a trust fund managed by his grandmother.

"She's clean," Alexa said, her voice tight. "She doesn't bother anyone."

"It's breathing my air," Fletcher said. He moved closer, towering over her. "Get rid of it. By tonight."

He kicked the edge of the saucer. It spun across the floor, milk splattering onto the pristine white cabinetry. The cat scrambled, claws skittering on the stone, and bolted for the living room.

"Hey!" Alexa shouted, anger finally piercing through her fear. "You don't get to do that! You don't get to control everything!"

"I control what lives in my house," Fletcher hissed. He leaned down, his face inches from hers. "You want companionship, Alexa? Is that it? You're so lonely you need a rodent to keep you warm?"

His eyes dropped to her chest, then back to her eyes. The insinuation was crude, a slap in the face. "Or were you hoping I'd provide that service?"

Alexa's face burned hot. "You're disgusting."

"I'm realistic," he countered. He straightened up, dismissing her with a turn of his shoulder. He walked to the coffee machine where her cup was waiting.

He picked it up, sniffed it, and then poured the entire contents into the sink. The dark liquid swirled down the drain.

"Too weak," he muttered. He set the empty cup down on the counter with a loud clack. "Just like you. Bland. Flavorless."

He walked out of the kitchen without looking back. "Clean up that milk. It smells sour."

Alexa stood trembling in the kitchen. She looked at the white splatter on the floor, at the empty cup. Tears pricked her eyes, hot and stinging. She grabbed a paper towel and dropped to her knees.

As she scrubbed the milk, she whispered to the empty room, to the hiding cat, to herself. "I won't let him win."

Fletcher had been gone for twenty minutes when the doorbell rang. It wasn't the tentative buzz of a delivery driver; it was a long, authoritative press.

Alexa was still in her pajamas, her hair tied in a messy bun. She opened the door to find Cornelia Montgomery standing there.

Fletcher's mother was a vision in Chanel tweed. She wore a hat with a small veil, even though it was a Tuesday morning. Beside her, Martha stood with her hands clasped, looking smug.

Cornelia didn't say hello. She stepped inside, peeling off her leather gloves finger by finger. She ran a bare finger along the edge of the foyer console table. She inspected the tip of her finger, frowned, and then turned to Alexa.

"I hear there is a crisis," Cornelia said. Her voice was like crushed velvet-soft, but suffocating.

"Good morning, Cornelia," Alexa said, pulling her robe tighter. "There's no crisis."

"Martha tells me you and Fletcher were screaming at each other at six in the morning over an animal." Cornelia walked into the living room, claiming the space instantly. She sat on the center of the sofa, her back rigid. "Sit, Alexa. No, don't sit. You'll wrinkle the silk."

Alexa remained standing, feeling like a schoolgirl called to the principal's office. She shot a glare at Martha, who was busy fluffing a pillow that didn't need fluffing.

"Fletcher just got back," Cornelia said. "He is under immense pressure with the merger. He needs a sanctuary, not a petting zoo."

"It's one cat," Alexa said.

"It's a symptom," Cornelia corrected sharply. She reached into her handbag and pulled out a piece of heavy cardstock. "This is the schedule for the week. The gala at the Met is on Thursday. You fired the florist?"

"The quotes were ridiculous," Alexa defended herself. "I can arrange flowers. I have hands."

"We don't use our hands, Alexa," Cornelia sneered. "We employ people. Doing it yourself looks... desperate. It looks cheap. Like you're trying to save pennies from the grocery budget."

"I was trying to be responsible."

"You were being a peasant," Cornelia snapped. "This is the Montgomery family. Appearance is currency. And right now, your stock is plummeting."

Martha cleared her throat. "If I may, Madam... Ms. Emerson also insisted on cooking last night. The ventilation system is still struggling."

Cornelia looked at Alexa with genuine pity. "Oh, honey. You really don't get it, do you? You aren't the help. But you also aren't quite... us."

She stood up and walked over to Alexa. She reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind Alexa's ear. The touch was cold.

"Remember who pulled you out of the wreckage, Alexa. Remember whose name protects you from the scandal that destroyed your parents."

The blood drained from Alexa's face. The secret. The lie that kept her tethered. The family claimed her parents were involved in embezzlement and died fleeing the authorities. The Montgomerys had 'saved' her reputation.

"I haven't forgotten," Alexa whispered.

"Good," Cornelia said. "Because as long as you are a burden to Fletcher, you are in debt. And debts must be paid."

She signaled to Martha. "Come, Martha. Let's inspect the guest suites. I want to make sure they are suitable for Felicity when she visits."

They walked away, their laughter echoing down the hall. Alexa stood in the living room, her hands shaking so hard she had to grip the back of a chair. She saw a crystal vase on the table. For one blinding second, she wanted to pick it up and hurl it at the wall.

Instead, she took a deep breath. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction. But she marked Martha's face in her mind. That score would be settled.