Emmie stood in the biting wind until her legs went numb. The front door opened, and a maid coldly told her to go inside. Emmie moved like a corpse.

She walked into the opulent foyer. Two security guards stood at the base of the grand staircase, blocking the way to the second floor.

Mr. Stone, the head of security, stepped into her path. "Mrs. Ellis. Until the surgery, your access is restricted to the first-floor guest room and the back gardens."

Emmie didn't argue. She didn't even look at him. She turned and walked down the long hallway toward the guest wing.

Halfway down the hall, Hortensia appeared. She wore a luxurious silk robe. She held a teacup in one hand, her other hand casually resting on her collarbone.

A massive pink diamond necklace rested against her skin.

Hortensia stopped right in front of Emmie. She ran her fingers over the diamonds.

"Daxton bought this for me on the way home," Hortensia said, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. "To calm my nerves after you upset me."

Hortensia leaned in close. The smell of her heavy perfume made Emmie sick.

"Your grandfather is a useless, dying burden," Hortensia whispered maliciously. "He should just die and save us all the trouble."

Emmie's eyes snapped up. The dead emptiness in them vanished, replaced by a sharp, violent rage.

She raised her hand and slapped Hortensia across the face with every ounce of strength she possessed.

The sharp crack echoed loudly down the hallway.

Hortensia gasped, dropping her teacup. It shattered on the expensive rug, hot tea splashing everywhere. She grabbed her cheek, her eyes wide with genuine shock.

"Say one more word about my family," Emmie said, her voice a low, lethal whisper, "and I will do a lot worse than that."

A maid screamed from the end of the hall and ran forward. Hortensia instantly let her knees buckle, collapsing into the maid's arms, sobbing hysterically.

Emmie didn't look back. She climbed the narrow iron spiral staircase leading to the rooftop greenhouse.

The greenhouse was filled with the thick, calming scent of Provence lavender. Emmie had planted and cared for every single one of them because Daxton liked the smell.

Emmie walked to the tool bench. She picked up a pair of heavy, iron gardening shears.

She walked to the massive planter boxes. Her face was completely blank. She raised the shears and began to cut.

She hacked at the thick stems. Purple flowers fell to the dirt in clumps. The violent snapping of the branches filled the glass room. The overwhelming scent of crushed lavender became a smell of pure destruction.

When the planter was completely ruined, she dropped the shears. They clattered against the stone floor.

She walked to a wicker chair in the corner and sat down. Her hands were shaking.

She pulled the thick envelope onto her lap and reached inside.

Beneath the medical records lay a thick stack of legal paper. A Divorce Agreement, drafted by the most ruthless law firm in Manhattan.

On the last page, Silas Brandt had already signed his name as her guarantor. The terms were brutal. It demanded Daxton leave with nothing.

Tears spilled out of Emmie's eyes, dropping onto her grandfather's signature. He had known. He had always known how much she suffered.

At the very bottom of the envelope was a small, silver key and a handwritten note.

The safety deposit box at UBS in Zurich holds the true Brandt trust. It is yours. Leave him. Be yourself, my little Emmie.

Emmie pressed the note against her chest. The warmth of his love fought against the freezing cold in her veins.

Her eyes hardened. The sorrow vanished, leaving only a cold, unbreakable resolve.

She pulled a fountain pen from her coat pocket. She pulled the cap off.

Without a single second of hesitation, she pressed the nib to the paper. The scratching sound of the pen cutting into the thick paper was loud in the quiet greenhouse.

She signed her name. The six years of pathetic, unrequited love were officially dead.

Emmie carefully folded the signed divorce agreement. She slid it, along with the silver key, into the hidden inner pocket of her trench coat.

She picked up the silver lighter from the table. She held the flame to her grandfather's handwritten note, watching it burn until nothing but black ash fell into the ashtray.

She stood up and walked out of the greenhouse. The sky outside was just beginning to turn a pale, bruised purple.

She went to the guest room, washed her face, and changed into a simple, gray loungewear set. Her expression was as calm as a stagnant pool of water.

She had a plan. If she was going to leave, she would leave on her own terms—and she needed to expose Hortensia's lies before the family court. A public breakfast where Hortensia's own hand would trigger her allergy... that would be the perfect evidence. She moved with cold, deliberate precision.

She walked into the massive, open-concept kitchen. Agnes, the head cook, saw her and immediately looked down, scrubbing a spotless counter to avoid eye contact.

Emmie ignored her. She opened the industrial refrigerator and pulled out the ingredients.

She moved with mechanical precision. She chopped celery, potatoes, and leeks, simmering a large pot of vegetable chowder—no seafood at all. She knew Hortensia's allergy all too well. On the side, she toasted whole wheat bread and prepared a small bowl of plain oatmeal.

Footsteps clicked against the hardwood floor. Daxton's mother, Meredith, and his sister, Alaia, walked into the dining room.

Meredith wrinkled her nose the second she saw Emmie carrying the soup tureen. "God, the whole house smells like a fish market," she sneered.

Alaia rolled her eyes, pulling out her chair. "She's practically a maid anyway. It's the only thing she's good for. Don't forget the lemon tart you promised me for tomorrow. I want it with extra zest. "

Emmie set the tureen down. Her face didn't change. She turned around and walked back to the kitchen to get her own coffee.

Hortensia floated down the stairs. She wore a pristine white dress. Her left cheek was visibly red—she had clearly pinched it to make the slap mark look worse.

Hortensia walked to the table. "Good morning, Mrs. Ellis," she said softly, turning her head just enough to make sure Meredith saw her cheek.

Meredith's eyes flicked to the red mark, then to Emmie. She knew exactly who had done it—the maid had reported everything. But she chose to say nothing, letting Hortensia play her victim role. "Hortensia, darling, what happened to your face?"

Hortensia's eyes filled with tears. She looked terrified, glancing toward the kitchen where Emmie was standing. She bit her lip and looked down.

Emmie walked out with her black coffee. She didn't look at them. She sat at the absolute furthest end of the long dining table.

Hortensia wiped a fake tear. "It's fine. I just want peace." To prove her point, she reached for the bowl of vegetable chowder.

She picked up a silver spoon from the center of the table and took a sip.

Emmie's eyes swept the table. The serving spoon Hortensia reached for had been used earlier for a crab salad—left over from last night's dinner that Emmie hadn't attended. She saw the tiny shred of crab meat still clinging to the handle. Hortensia must have seen it too.

Ten seconds later, Hortensia dropped the spoon. It clattered loudly against the china.

Hortensia slid off her chair, crashing heavily to the floor. Her fingers clawed frantically at the expensive Persian rug. She let out a horrific, high-pitched wheezing sound as her airway rapidly swelled shut, her eyes bulging with genuine panic as she fought for a single breath of air.

Meredith jumped up, knocking her chair backward. "Get the EpiPen! Call Daxton! Now!"

The dining room exploded into chaos. Maids ran in every direction.

Emmie sat perfectly still at the end of the table. She took a slow sip of her black coffee. Her cold eyes stared at Hortensia writhing on the floor.

Emmie knew exactly what she had done. She had made Hortensia a separate bowl of plain oatmeal. There was no seafood anywhere near her setting.

Emmie's eyes flicked to the spoon Hortensia had dropped. A tiny, microscopic shred of crab meat clung to the silver handle.

Hortensia had deliberately grabbed a contaminated serving spoon to eat the soup. She was weaponizing her own lethal allergy.

Heavy, frantic footsteps pounded down the stairs. Daxton burst into the dining room. His tie was undone, his hair messy.

He saw Hortensia on the floor. Then, his head snapped up.

His dark eyes locked onto Emmie. The look in his eyes was pure, unadulterated murder.

Daxton sprinted across the room and dropped to his knees. He pulled Hortensia's convulsing body into his arms.

He snatched the EpiPen from the trembling butler's hand. Without a second of hesitation, he slammed the needle into the outer thigh of Hortensia's leg.

Hortensia let out a weak, agonizing whimper.

Meredith stood over them, pointing a manicured finger at Emmie. "She did this! She slapped Hortensia this morning, and now she poisoned the breakfast! She wants to kill her!"

Daxton handed Hortensia to the paramedics who had just rushed through the front door.

He stood up. His chest heaved. He turned toward Emmie, his leather shoes hitting the floor with heavy, predatory thuds.

He stopped right next to where Emmie was sitting.

With a vicious swipe of his arm, Daxton swept everything in front of Emmie off the table. The coffee mug, the plate, the silverware—all of it smashed into the floor.

Shards of porcelain exploded across the room. Alaia shrieked and covered her ears. The dining room went dead silent.

Daxton planted both hands on the table, leaning down until his face was inches from Emmie's.

"Do not ever test my limits, Emmie," he growled, his voice vibrating with rage. "You are a vicious, calculating monster. You tried to murder her."

Emmie didn't flinch. She didn't blink. She looked at his furious face with absolute, chilling calm.

She slowly raised her hand and pointed at the floor. "She used the serving spoon. The one with crab meat on the handle. She did it to herself."

Daxton let out a harsh, barking laugh. He didn't even glance at the floor.

"Save your pathetic lies," he snapped. He straightened up, adjusting his suit jacket with a look of utter disgust.

"If Hortensia dies," Daxton said, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper, "I will tear the Brandt family apart piece by piece. I will make sure your grandfather spends his last days in a gutter."

The mention of her grandfather was the final strike. The last drop of warmth in Emmie's blood froze over.

She stood up. She smoothly brushed a nonexistent speck of dust off her gray loungewear.

She reached into the inner pocket of her trench coat hanging on the back of her chair. Her fingers wrapped around the thick stack of papers.

She pulled the Divorce Agreement out and slammed it down onto the mahogany table.

Smack.

The sharp sound made Daxton's eyes dart down.

Emmie looked him dead in the eye. Her voice was crystal clear and cold as ice. "The game is over, Daxton."

She tapped her index finger against her signature at the bottom of the page. "I am leaving with nothing. I am done with you."

Daxton stared at the bold letters at the top of the page: Divorce Agreement. His brow furrowed deeply.

Then, he scoffed. A cruel, arrogant smirk touched his lips.

"Another desperate cry for attention," Daxton sneered. He didn't even reach out to touch the paper. "You wouldn't last a day without the Ellis name. You don't have the guts to actually file that."

The wail of an ambulance siren pierced the air outside. The butler ran in. "Sir, they are loading Miss Lawrence into the ambulance."

Daxton gave Emmie one last look of pure contempt. "Stop playing with fire, Emmie. You will burn."

He turned and strode out of the room. Meredith and Alaia hurried after him, throwing venomous glares at Emmie as they left.

The dining room was empty. The floor was covered in broken china and spilled coffee.

Emmie looked down at the ignored divorce agreement on the table. A cold, mocking smile curved her lips.

She turned around and walked back into the kitchen. She opened the fridge, pulled out fresh lemons and ricotta cheese, and began to prep a lemon tart, exactly as she had promised Alaia weeks ago, before everything fell apart. A promise made in another life, but Emmie was a woman of her word—even to enemies.

Her hands were steady. The lemon tart wasn't a peace offering—it was a provocation. Alaia would see it, remember her own cruel words, and choke on every bite. Emmie smiled coldly. Let them think she was still the meek little wife. It would make her disappearance all the more satisfying.

She moved as if the world hadn't just ended.