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.

Twelve hours had passed since the breakfast chaos.

Emmie's hands moved with robotic precision. She cut the cold butter into the flour, rubbing it between her fingers until it formed the perfect crumbly dough.

She zested the bright yellow lemons, the sharp, acidic smell cutting through the heavy tension in the kitchen. She folded the zest into the rich ricotta cheese.

She pressed the dough into the tart pans, filled them, and slid them into the hot oven. She set the timer and leaned against the cold granite counter, staring blankly at the wall.

Ding.

Emmie pulled the golden-brown lemon tarts out of the oven. They looked perfect.

She arranged them meticulously on a polished silver tray and placed it dead center on the kitchen island.

She untied her apron, folded it into a neat square, and set it aside. She didn't look back.

Emmie walked up the grand spiral staircase to the second floor. She needed to pack.

As she walked down the long hallway, she noticed the heavy double doors of the master bedroom were slightly ajar.

She stopped. Through the crack, she saw Daxton sitting on the edge of the massive king-sized bed.

Hortensia was sitting between his legs, wearing one of Daxton's oversized white dress shirts. Daxton was gently stroking her hair, whispering something soft into her ear.

Hortensia had been discharged hours ago—the hospital had kept her for observation only until her vitals stabilized. The allergic reaction, though terrifying, had been short-lived.

Emmie stood there. She felt a physical snap in her chest. The final thread connecting her to this house broke.

She didn't push the door open. She didn't scream. She turned her head and kept walking until she reached the guest room.

She dragged a small, battered black carry-on suitcase from the back of the closet.

She ignored the racks of Chanel dresses, the Cartier jewelry boxes, and the Hermès bags Daxton had bought her for public appearances. She packed three pairs of old jeans, some plain sweaters, and a pair of worn-out sneakers she had brought with her six years ago.

She unzipped the inner lining of the suitcase and carefully hid the thick envelope containing her grandfather's letter and the Swiss bank key.

Just as she zipped the suitcase shut, a sharp, authoritative knock echoed from the guest room door. Emmie opened it. A courier in an unmarked uniform stood there, holding a rigid cardboard envelope. He had been cleared at the gate by a guard who didn't recognize the firm's logo—one of her grandfather's old contacts. His expression was carefully blank. "Priority legal delivery for Emmie Brandt. Security cleared it at the gate," he said, holding out a sleek electronic pad. "Signature required."

Emmie signed the electronic pad. She closed the door and ripped the pull-tab off the envelope.

Inside was a thick stack of documents from her grandfather's elite legal team. On top was the official, certified receipt of filing for her divorce petition, stamped with the date and time, confirming the legal process had irreversibly begun. What Emmie didn't know was that her grandfather's lawyers had filed the divorce petition electronically the moment she signed it, using a special emergency clause that bypassed standard waiting periods. Beneath it was a formal confirmation letter from the Zurich bank. Her grandfather's lawyers had successfully executed the emergency clause to activate the true Brandt trust the moment the divorce was filed. The safety net was officially in place. It was done.

Looking at that red seal, a massive weight lifted off her chest, instantly followed by a wave of hollow exhaustion.

She shoved the document into her shoulder bag. She grabbed the handle of her suitcase and pulled it up.

The wheels rumbled against the thick carpet as she walked out of the room.

She reached the top of the main staircase, ready to leave forever. But she stopped. She looked down the hall toward the narrow iron spiral staircase that led to the rooftop greenhouse.

It was the only place in this massive, cold mansion where she had felt peace. She needed to say goodbye.

She left her suitcase at the corner of the hallway and climbed the iron stairs.

The afternoon sun poured through the glass ceiling as she pushed the greenhouse door open.

Emmie froze.

Hortensia was standing in the middle of the room. She was holding a heavy, stainless-steel electric kettle. Steam poured from the spout.

Hortensia tilted the kettle and poured boiling water directly onto the roots of Emmie's incredibly rare, blooming Ghost Orchids.