Herminia yanked a black suitcase from the top shelf of the closet and threw it open on the thick carpet.

She ignored the rows of designer dresses and luxury handbags Bradley had bought her. She grabbed only her old, faded t-shirts, a few pairs of jeans, and her essential documents.

She walked to the vanity mirror and stared at her pale face. Her eyes were hard, focused.

Slowly, she worked the massive diamond wedding ring off her left ring finger. Her hand didn't shake.

Without a second of hesitation, she walked to the living room and dropped the ring directly on top of the divorce agreement.

She zipped the suitcase shut. The metal teeth locked with a sharp, final sound.

Herminia dragged the suitcase out of the apartment. She didn't look back at the golden cage that had trapped her for three years.

She stepped into the private elevator and hit the lobby button. When the doors slid open, the security guards in the marble lobby stared at her in shock.

Arthur, the family's private driver, rushed over. "Madam, where are you going? Do you need me to prepare the car?"

Herminia looked at him, expression flat. "I am no longer Mrs. Elliott."

She walked past him, pushed through the revolving glass doors, and stepped into the crisp autumn air of New York.

She flagged down a yellow cab, threw her suitcase in the trunk, and slid into the back seat. "The Plaza Hotel."

As the cab sped down the highway, Herminia pulled out her phone and dialed.

The call connected almost instantly. Anne Roberson's anxious voice came through. "Herminia? Are you okay?"

"I'm finally free, Anne," Herminia said, her voice a little hoarse.

A loud cheer erupted from the other end. "Thank God! I'm coming to the airport right now. Wait for me!"

An hour later, the yellow cab pulled up to the grand entrance of The Plaza. Herminia stepped out and immediately spotted a bright red Porsche parked illegally at the curb.

Anne jumped out in her high heels and pulled Herminia into a bone-crushing hug. "That blind bastard Bradley doesn't deserve you!" she yelled, not caring who heard. "Happy rebirth day!"

The tension in Herminia's shoulders finally released. She offered her first genuine smile in months.

They tossed the suitcase in the back and got into the low sports car. Anne handed her a hot cup of coffee. "So, what's the plan? A month in Europe to detox?"

Herminia shook her head. She reached into her tote bag and pulled out a heavy, matte-black encrypted laptop. Her fingers flew over the keyboard as she typed in a complex string of passwords.

The screen lit up with a classified dashboard labeled "Project Iris." A massive funding gap in MY Corporation flashed red.

Herminia's gaze hardened. The tired, defeated look vanished from her face.

"Cancel the vacation," she said, staring at the screen. "I have urgent business to handle."

The Mediterranean sun beat down on the private terrace of the luxury resort. Bradley lay on a lounge chair behind dark sunglasses, swirling a glass of champagne.

Kristal stepped out of the infinity pool in a tiny bikini, water dripping down her tanned legs. She walked over and leaned her wet body against his shoulder.

Bradley instinctively shifted away.

A flash of pure annoyance crossed Kristal's eyes, but she hid it fast. She picked up a piece of sliced fruit and offered it to him with a sweet smile.

Before Bradley could respond, his private cell phone vibrated violently on the glass table. He glanced at the screen—his mother, Priscilla Allsworthy.

He answered. His mother's shrill voice pierced his ear instantly.

"Bradley! Your wife has not shown her face at the family estate for three days! How dare she disrespect the elders like this!"

Bradley sat up so fast his champagne sloshed onto his white robe. Ice-cold liquid soaked into the fabric, but he barely noticed. Three days? He thought Herminia was just throwing a tantrum in the Manhattan apartment. He never imagined she would skip the mandatory family gathering.

He muttered a quick excuse and hung up. A tight, suffocating pressure gripped his chest.

"Is sister making mother angry again?" Kristal asked, trying to sound innocent.

Bradley ignored her completely. He opened his contacts and dialed the number he hadn't called in three days.

No ringing. A cold, robotic female voice spoke: "The number you have dialed is no longer in service."

Bradley thought the signal was bad. He stood, walked to the edge of the terrace, and dialed again. The exact same robotic voice. She hadn't just blocked him. She had canceled her number entirely.

Ice-cold panic and hot anger twisted in his gut. His fingers squeezed the phone so hard the casing creaked.

He immediately dialed his executive assistant, Connor Hayes. "Go to the penthouse right now. Find out what she's doing."

Five minutes later, Connor called back. His voice was shaking. "Sir... the apartment is empty. Dust everywhere." He swallowed hard. "Madam took all her personal clothes. It looks like... she really moved out."

A high-pitched ringing filled Bradley's ears. That woman actually dared to leave him.

He turned and marched back into the suite, ripping off his robe and throwing on a dress shirt.

Kristal ran after him. "Bradley, what's wrong? We have the yacht party tonight!"

Bradley's face darkened. "The trip is canceled. We're going back to New York. Now."

Kristal bit her bottom lip and reached out to grab his sleeve. "But you promised—"

Bradley slapped her hand away without a second of hesitation. His eyes were flat and cold.

"Get the jet ready," he ordered Connor over the phone, ignoring Kristal entirely. He couldn't breathe in that room another second.

Kristal watched his back as he rushed out, her fingernails digging into her palms until they bled.

Two hours later, a private jet bearing the Elliott Capital logo tore through the European night sky, heading straight for New York.

Bradley shoved his thumb against the biometric lock. The heavy door of the Manhattan penthouse clicked open. He stormed into the dark apartment.

He didn't bother with the lights. The neon glow from the city outside lit up dust particles floating in the stagnant air. The faint, comforting smell of citrus—Herminia's scent—was completely gone. The place smelled like a tomb.

He took long, aggressive strides across the living room and threw open the master bedroom door. He walked straight into the walk-in closet. The corner that used to hold her plain clothes was stripped bare. Not a single hanger remained.

Bradley's breathing grew heavy and ragged. He turned and marched back into the living room. His eyes locked onto the glass coffee table.

Sitting perfectly in the center was the document. Resting heavily on top of it—the brilliant diamond wedding ring.

He walked over and stared at the ring. He remembered telling his assistant three years ago to just buy whatever was expensive.

He snatched the document and flipped to the last page. There, in sharp, elegant strokes, was Herminia's signature.

The sight of that ink burned his eyes. She really hadn't taken a single penny.

A violent, uncontrollable rage consumed him. He grabbed the thick stack of papers and ripped them in half. It wasn't enough. He tore them again and again until they were nothing but confetti, hurling the shreds onto the carpet.

He pulled out his phone and called Connor. His voice was ice. "Use every contact we have. I want Herminia's exact location in ten minutes."

He hung up and paced the living room like a caged animal. He kicked a tall floor lamp, sending it crashing into the wall.

Nine minutes later, his phone rang. Connor's voice was hesitant, trembling.

"Speak!" Bradley roared.

"Sir... she's at a private villa in Beverly Hills," Connor stammered. "It belongs to Ignacio Combs. The Hollywood actor."

The name made something snap inside Bradley. He knew Ignacio. That hypocrite was always smiling at Herminia at charity galas.

Jealousy clawed at his chest, hot and toxic. He thought she'd be starving on the streets, but she'd run straight into another man's arms. He kicked the glass coffee table. A loud crack echoed as the surface fractured.

He spun around and marched out the door, dialing his driver. "Get the jet ready. Now. I want to be in Los Angeles in five hours."

Hours later, after a tense, sleepless flight across the country, Bradley threw himself into the back seat of a waiting black Maybach at LAX. "Beverly Hills. Drive as fast as you can."

The Maybach tore through the night streets. Bradley gripped the edge of the leather seat, knuckles white. Images of Herminia smiling at that actor flashed in his mind. The jealousy made him want to tear the world apart.

He was going to drag her back. He'd break her legs and lock her up if he had to.

The Maybach let out a screeching wail as the brakes slammed hard, stopping aggressively in front of the brightly lit iron gates of the hillside villa.