The electronic billboard above the Jarvis Group plaza usually displayed stock prices or corporate slogans about innovation and legacy. Today it showed Branson Jarvis with his hand on a woman's waist, both of them laughing on a Beverly Hills hotel balcony.

The image was grainy, clearly telephoto, but the Cartier Love bracelets on their wrists caught the morning sun with vicious clarity. Page Six's logo burned in the corner. The headline scrolled beneath: WALL STREET WOLF FINDS NEW PACK: BRANSON JARVIS & JASMYN KENT'S COASTAL TRYST.

Faith stopped walking.

Around her, financial district workers slowed their morning rush, phones emerging from pockets, fingers pointing. She heard the words clearly-"his wife," "finally," "knew it"-carried on wind that smelled of exhaust and expensive coffee.

Holly made a sound like she'd been punched. "Those lying bastards, that screen is Jarvis property, they have no right-" She started forward, shoulders squared, seventeen years of loyalty transforming into protective fury.

Faith caught her wrist. The bones moved beneath her fingers, fragile and bird-like.

"Mrs. Jarvis, we can demand they shut it down, there's a protocol for-"

"No."

Faith looked at the image. Branson's head was thrown back in that laugh she'd learned to recognize as performance-too loud, too long, designed to be photographed. The woman's face was turned up to his, adoring, familiar. Jasmyn Kent. Twenty-three years old. Oscar nominee. The face of Jarvis Media's biggest franchise.

Three weeks ago, Faith had found the bracelet in Branson's study drawer. Gold, small, clearly feminine. She'd held it for thirty seconds before replacing it exactly as she'd found it. She hadn't asked. He wouldn't have answered, or would have answered with that look-bored, impatient, wondering why she was wasting his time.

The screen flickered. NASDAQ numbers replaced the photograph, green and red scrolling too fast to read.

Faith turned toward the building.

"Mrs. Jarvis-" Holly's voice cracked.

"Julian." Faith didn't look back. "The elevator."

Her lawyer fell into step beside her, briefcase swinging with metronomic precision. Holly scrambled after them, the manila envelopes clutched to her chest like armor.

The lobby was cathedral-sized, all marble and indirect lighting, the kind of space designed to make visitors feel small. Faith had been here twice before—once for the company’s IPO celebration, once for a Christmas party where she’d stood by the champagne fountain for two hours smiling at people whose names she’d memorized from spreadsheets.

Every head turned as she crossed the floor.

She felt their eyes—curious, calculating, already composing the emails and text messages that would spread through the building before she reached the top floor. Mrs. Jarvis here. Alone. Without appointment.

Let them look. Let them talk.

She walked straight through the center of the lobby, past the leather seating area where Julian had originally suggested they meet. He kept pace beside her, adjusting his cuffs, his face arranged in the careful neutrality of a man who’d learned that wealthy people’s marriages were battlefields.

"Mrs. Jarvis." He didn't offer his hand this time. "Ready?"

"Ready."

They moved toward the private elevator bank, three figures in formation—lawyer, client, assistant—walking like they had every right to be there. Which they did. Which Branson had probably never considered she would claim.

The front desk supervisor intercepted them ten feet from the elevator doors. Young, nervous, clearly recognizing faces from company newsletters.

"Mrs. Jarvis, I'm so sorry, but Mr. Jarvis is in a board meeting, a video conference with the London office, if you'd like to leave a message I can-"

Julian produced a business card between two fingers, held it like a weapon. "Morrison, Price & Cole. We're here for a private legal consultation with my client. Obstructing attorney-client communication raises questions about corporate interference in personal matters that I'm certain Mr. Jarvis would prefer not to explore."

The supervisor's mouth opened. Closed. He looked at the card, at Julian's expression, at Faith's face.

"I-of course. Let me just-"

He stepped aside.

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime. Faith walked inside, turned, and watched Holly and Julian follow. The doors closed on the supervisor's pale face, on the lobby's curious stares, on the life she'd constructed from other people's expectations.

The ascent was silent. Faith watched the floor numbers climb-20, 35, 50-and felt something loosen in her chest with each passing level. She was doing this. She was really doing this.

At floor 60, Julian opened his briefcase. "The zero-compensation clause is on page seventeen. I've highlighted the relevant sections. He'll try to argue duress, but the prenup's ironclad-we just need his signature."

Faith nodded. Her fingers found the envelope's edge again, tracing, tracing.

The elevator slowed. The doors opened onto a corridor of gray carpet and recessed lighting, the kind of anonymous luxury that cost thousands per square foot to achieve. At the far end, double doors of Brazilian rosewood marked the corner office.

Faith stepped out. Her heels made no sound on the carpet.

Behind her, Holly whispered something-prayer or curse, Faith couldn't tell. Julian's briefcase clicked shut.

She walked toward the doors. Toward Branson. Toward the end of everything she'd been and the beginning of whatever came next.

Leo Chen had been Branson's chief of staff for six years, which meant he'd learned to anticipate problems before they became crises. He'd handled whistleblowers, regulatory investigations, and one memorable incident involving a board member's spouse and a compromised email server.

He'd never handled Faith Jarvis walking toward his desk with a lawyer and murder in her eyes.

"Mrs. Jarvis." He stood, moving automatically to block the corridor. "Mr. Jarvis is in a closed session. If you'll allow me to-"

"Move."

The word was quiet. Leo had heard Branson use that tone exactly twice-once before firing a CFO, once before destroying a competitor's acquisition. Both times, people had lost jobs.

He didn't move. "Mrs. Jarvis, I really must insist-"

Faith stopped walking. She looked at him-really looked, the way she never had at company functions where she'd smiled and shaken hands and remembered everyone's children's names. Her eyes were gray-green, Leo realized. He'd never noticed before. They looked like winter ocean.

"Leo." She knew his name. Of course she knew his name. "I've sat next to you at seven Christmas dinners. I've sent your mother flowers when she was ill.Move."

He stepped aside.

Julian brushed past him, briefcase leading like a shield. Holly followed, her face set in determined lines that suggested she'd physically restrain him if he tried to intervene again.

Faith reached the rosewood doors. Her hand closed on the brass handle-cold, heavy, designed to impress-and she pushed.

The door swung open with a sound like a gunshot.

Branson stood at the window, phone to his ear, back to the room. His voice carried-"-tell Frankfurt we'll absorb the currency risk, but I want those contracts by close of business-"-the clipped authority that had built Jarvis Group from regional player to global force.

He turned.

For a moment, nothing. Just the calculation that made him lethal in negotiations-assessing, prioritizing, deciding how much this interruption would cost him.

"Faith." He didn't hang up. "I'm in a meeting."

"I know."

She walked to the visitor chairs. Sat. Crossed her legs, the beige coat falling open to show nothing expensive underneath-no jewelry, no designer label, nothing he could read or counter.

Julian and Holly took flanking positions. The formation was unmistakable: legal counsel, witness, client. Branson's eyes tracked the arrangement, narrowing.

He spoke into the phone: "Call you back." The screen went dark. "What the hell is this?"

Faith didn't answer. She watched him move to his desk-big as a bed, black as a coffin, positioned to dominate anyone who sat before it. He leaned forward, hands flat on the surface, and she saw him register Julian's presence, the law firm logo on the briefcase, the manila envelopes in Holly's white-knuckled grip.

His jaw tightened. "If this is about that billboard-" He reached into a drawer, pulled out a checkbook, slapped it on the desk between them. "Write whatever number gets you out of my office. I'm not doing this today."

Faith looked at the checkbook. At his hand-long fingers, heavy signet ring, the nails perfectly manicured-resting beside it like he was offering her a gift.

She reached into her own bag. The envelope came out heavy, substantial, the kind of paper that cost five dollars per sheet. She placed it on top of the checkbook.

The sound was sharp. Final.

Branson's hand withdrew. He looked at the envelope, at the words printed in bold across the front-PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE-and something flickered in his face. Not surprise. Something more complicated. Something that looked almost like recognition.

"You're joking." He didn't touch the envelope. "This is-what, a negotiating tactic? You want the house in Aspen, is that it? The yacht?"

He was talking to fill space, Faith realized. Buying time while he recalculated.

"Julian." She didn't look away from Branson's face. "Explain the documents."

Her lawyer stepped forward. "Mr. Jarvis, my client is petitioning for divorce under New York State domestic relations law. We have two proposed settlement structures for your review. I recommend we-"

"Get out." Branson didn't raise his voice. He never raised his voice. "Both of you. Faith and I will discuss this privately."

"No." Faith stood. She placed both hands on the desk's edge and leaned forward, close enough to smell his cologne, close enough to see the small scar above his eyebrow from a polo accident she'd watched from the sidelines. "We won't. You've refused private conversation for three years. You don't get to demand it now."

Branson straightened. He was taller than her, broader, the physical advantage he'd always possessed and never needed to use. His hands curled into fists on the desk surface.

"You have no idea what you're doing." The words came soft, almost gentle. "You have no job, no skills, no family. I've given you everything-clothes, travel, security-and you think you can walk away? You think you can survive without me?"

Faith smiled. It felt strange on her face, stretched and sharp.

"Sign the papers, Branson. Or don't. But we're done."

Faith sat down. The leather sighed beneath her, expensive and yielding, designed to make occupants comfortable while Branson destroyed them.

She crossed her legs again, ankle on knee, the posture deliberately casual. "Julian. Option one."

Her lawyer opened his briefcase with a click that sounded like a lock disengaging. "Mr. Jarvis, under New York's equitable distribution statute, my client is entitled to fifty percent of marital assets. Given the duration of the marriage and Mrs. Jarvis's contributions to your public image and charitable foundations, we're prepared to argue for sixty percent of Jarvis family trust principal, plus the Fifth Avenue apartment, the Aspen property, and ongoing support commensurate with the marital standard of living."

Branson's laugh was short and ugly. "Sixty percent." He looked at Faith like she'd transformed into something unrecognizable. "You finally show your teeth, darling. All these years of playing the grateful orphan, and it was always about the money."

"Option two," Faith said.

Julian produced a second document. Thinner. Simpler. "Mrs. Jarvis waives all claims to marital property, trust distributions, real estate holdings, and future support. She retains only premarital assets and personal effects. In exchange, she requests immediate dissolution without contest, and your cooperation in filing joint paperwork with the court today."

The silence stretched.

Branson picked up the second document. His eyes moved fast, trained to absorb contract language, finding the clauses that mattered. Page after page of waivers, releases, quitclaims. Zero. Zero. Zero.

He dropped the papers. "This is a trick."

"No trick."

"You're telling me-" He leaned forward, palms flat on the desk, the posture he used when he was about to close a deal or destroy an opponent. "-that you'll walk away with nothing? The clothes on your back and whatever you brought into this marriage?"

"Less than that." Faith reached into her bag. "I don't want the clothes. I don't want anything that came from you."

Her fingers closed on plastic. She tossed the USB drive onto the desk-it skidded across the polished surface and stopped against his hand, a small black rectangle containing everything she'd learned while he ignored her.

"What's this?"

"A business proposal." Faith stood again. She couldn't sit still anymore, not with this much adrenaline in her blood. "Dax Kincaid's people sent it over six months ago. Unsolicited. He thought a dissatisfied wife might be a useful asset. I wasn't interested then. I'm not interested now. But I kept his research."

Branson's hand closed on the drive. He didn't insert it into his computer-he knew better than to open unknown files on his primary system-but his thumb traced the casing, and she saw him recognize the manufacturer. Military-grade encryption. The kind Kincaid's fund used for sensitive communications.

"You're bluffing."

"Am I?"

She walked to the window. Seventy-three stories down, the city moved in patterns she'd learned to read during the years she'd pretended to be decorative. Traffic flows. Pedestrian density. The invisible networks of power and information that Branson navigated so effortlessly.

"I've had a lot of time, Branson. You were never home. Your mother stopped inviting me to lunch after I refused to chair her committee. So I started reading. I read the financial reports you left on your desk. The prospectuses. The market analyses." She turned back to face him. "I know how your empire works. I know where it's vulnerable. And I know that if I file for divorce with cause-adultery, cruelty, abandonment-the discovery process will open every Jarvis Group subsidiary to examination. Every shell company. Every political contribution that skirted disclosure requirements."

Branson's face had gone still. That was worse than his anger-that frozen calculation that meant he was treating her as a genuine threat.

"Kincaid wants to short your stock," Faith continued. "He's been building a position for months, waiting for the right catalyst. A messy divorce, public allegations, regulatory scrutiny-that's his catalyst. I've seen his models. If I cooperate with his fund, Jarvis Group loses forty percent of market value in ninety days. Maybe more."

"You wouldn't." The words came flat, certain. "You don't have the stomach for destruction. You're-"

"What? Grateful? Obedient?" Faith laughed, and the sound surprised them both. "I was those things. You trained me well. But you made one mistake, Branson. You taught me that everything has a price. Even me. Especially me."

She walked back to the desk. Placed both palms flat on the surface, mirroring his posture, close enough to smell the coffee on his breath.

"Sign the zero-compensation agreement. Today. Or I call Kincaid, and we find out exactly how much destruction I can stomach."