The private elevator doors slid open, spilling Alyson directly into the massive, two-story penthouse overlooking Central Park.

The main lights were off.

The city glow from the floor-to-ceiling windows stretched the shadows of the minimalist furniture across the hardwood floor.

She walked straight to the master bedroom.

She pulled a large black Rimowa suitcase from the closet and dropped it flat onto the rug.

She ignored the rows of custom haute couture dresses Kenton's assistant had delivered each season.

Instead, she opened the bottom drawers and pulled out the faded sweaters and simple jeans she had brought into this marriage.

As her hand brushed the back of the drawer, her fingers grazed against a small, rusted brass key. It was the key to a hidden safe in the Holt family estate-the absolute last remaining thing her biological mother had left her before she was thrown into the foster system. She gripped the cold metal tightly, feeling its sharp edges ground her racing pulse, before deliberately slipping it into the concealed inner pocket of her handbag.

She was shoving three thick veterinary medicine textbooks into the corner of the suitcase when the electronic chime of the front door lock echoed through the quiet apartment.

Alyson's hands froze.

She had not expected Kenton to leave his own birthday party this early.

Heavy, uneven footsteps moved down the hallway.

Kenton appeared in the doorway of the master bedroom, bringing the sharp smell of alcohol and cold rain into the room.

He had loosened his tie, his collar unbuttoned, his chest rising and falling heavily.

He stared down at the open suitcase on the floor, a deep crease forming between his brows.

"How long are you going to keep this up?"

His voice was thick with suppressed rage and exhaustion.

Alyson did not look at him.

She grabbed the zipper of the suitcase and pulled it shut, the harsh metal grinding sound filling the tense air.

Kenton stepped forward and kicked the side of the suitcase with his leather shoe.

The heavy luggage slid across the floor and slammed into the foot of the bed.

Alyson finally stood up, her eyes locking onto his with the blankness of a stranger.

Kenton reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket.

He pulled out a heavy metal American Express Centurion card and tossed it onto the mattress.

"Here is your compensation. Go to Paris or Milan. Buy whatever you want, but stop annoying me with these cheap stunts."

He still believed the word divorce was just a negotiation tactic for a higher allowance.

Alyson looked down at the black card, the ultimate symbol of endless wealth.

A dry, hollow laugh scraped its way out of her throat.

"Do you really think everyone in the world has a price tag, Kenton?"

She took a step toward him, refusing to back down.

"Keep the card for Chelsea. She needs it a lot more than I do."

The mention of Chelsea's name made the muscles in Kenton's jaw tighten dangerously.

"You don't have the right to speak her name."

"You're right. I don't." Alyson kept her voice dangerously calm. "That's why I am giving her the position of Mrs. Whitaker."

She walked past him, grabbed the handle of her suitcase, and pulled it upright.

"The papers will be at your office tomorrow. Sign them."

Kenton's hand shot out.

His fingers clamped around her wrist like a steel vice, the pressure grinding her bones together.

"Alyson, do you honestly think that bloodsucking father of yours will even acknowledge you if you leave me?" he hissed, his breath hot against her face.

A sharp spike of pain shot up her arm, but she dug her free fingernails into her palm, refusing to flinch.

"That is none of your concern."

She ripped her arm out of his grip with a violent jerk.

The momentum sent her stumbling backward, her shoulder slamming hard into the wooden doorframe.

Kenton stared at his empty hand, a strange flash of panic crossing his eyes before his arrogance swallowed it whole.

"Fine! If you walk out that door, don't expect a single cent from me!" he roared.

Alyson gave him one final, empty look.

She dragged her suitcase out of the master bedroom.

She did not leave the apartment, knowing the storm outside was getting worse.

She walked down the long hallway to the guest room at the far end.

She stepped inside, pulled the door shut, and turned the deadbolt.

The sharp click of the lock echoed in the dark room, shutting Kenton and this toxic marriage out of her life for good.

The harsh morning light sliced through the gaps in the guest room blinds, burning Alyson's dry, sleepless eyes.

She sat up slowly, her muscles aching from the tension of the night before.

The phone on the nightstand was vibrating violently, the screen flashing with her mother Eleanor's name for the twelfth time.

Alyson let out a slow breath, her chest tight, and pressed the answer button.

Eleanor's shrill voice immediately pierced her eardrum.

"Alyson! Why weren't you at Kenton's birthday party last night? Tonight is your sister's welcome back dinner, and you need to get your ass back to Long Island right now!"

Before Alyson could form a single word of refusal, the line went dead.

She stared at the black screen, her stomach churning with a familiar, sickening dread.

She got out of bed and pulled on a minimalist, unbranded black silk shirt from a niche Belgian designer and matching trousers-a subtle testament to a refined taste she’d cultivated as Kenton’s wife—a polished armor provided by his wealth to mask the years of grime from the slums.

She walked out of the guest room into the silent penthouse.

Kenton was already gone, likely at the office, and the black card was exactly where he had left it.

She grabbed her car keys from the counter and took the elevator down to the garage.

An hour later, her car idled in front of the massive wrought-iron gates of the Holt family estate.

The gates swung open slowly, welcoming her into the nightmare she had been discarded from as a child, only to be dragged back into as an adult.

She walked into the grand French-style dining room.

The long mahogany table was covered in fresh white roses and polished silver.

Sitting near the head of the table, bathed in the light of the crystal chandelier, was Chelsea.

She wore a pristine white lace couture dress, looking every bit the delicate, cherished princess.

Warren Holt sat at the head of the table, his face softened into a rare, affectionate smile as he listened to Chelsea talk about her time in Europe.

The moment Alyson stepped into the room, the warm air turned to ice.

Eleanor marched over, her eyes raking over Alyson's black outfit with pure disgust. To Eleanor's untrained eye, the exquisite draping and silent luxury of the fabric were entirely invisible.

"Today is a happy day for your sister. Why are you dressed like you're going to a funeral?"

Alyson swallowed the bitter lump in her throat.

She walked to the far end of the long table and pulled out a chair.

"Sorry. This is all I have."

Chelsea immediately placed a hand over her collarbone, her eyes widening in perfect, practiced innocence.

"Mom, don't be mad at my sister. She's probably just in a bad mood."

Warren slammed his coffee cup down on the saucer, the porcelain clattering loudly.

"A bad mood? She stole your fiancé and three years of your life. She has no right to be in a bad mood," Warren snapped, his voice hard and unforgiving.

Alyson's hands dropped below the table.

She dug her fingernails so deeply into her palms that the skin nearly broke.

"Father, that drugged glass of champagne was handed to me."

"Enough!" Eleanor slammed her hand flat against the table. "Are you still trying to lie? If you weren't so jealous of Chelsea, none of this would have happened!"

Alyson looked at the two people who shared her blood—the same people who had signed the papers to abandon her to the foster system the moment she became an inconvenience.

The last fragile string connecting her to this family snapped, leaving a hollow, echoing void in her chest.

Warren cleared his throat, adjusting his posture.

"Chelsea is preparing to enter the Manhattan charity circle. You will use your title as Mrs. Whitaker to introduce her to the core board members."

"And," Eleanor added smoothly, "you need to create more opportunities for her and Kenton to be alone in public. You need to slowly give her position back."

A raw, ugly laugh ripped out of Alyson's throat.

The sound bounced off the high ceilings, sharp and completely out of place in the elegant room.

"You want me to pimp out my own husband to my sister?" she asked, pronouncing every word with deadly precision.

The crude word made Warren and Eleanor's faces turn a mottled red.

Chelsea's eyes instantly filled with tears. She bit her lower lip, looking utterly devastated.

"Sister, how could you say something so awful... I just want to make up for lost time."

Warren pointed a shaking finger directly at Alyson's face.

"You shameless, ungrateful brat! I don't know why we ever brought you back from the gutter!"

Alyson stood up so fast her chair scraped violently across the expensive rug.

She looked down at her parents, her eyes colder than the winter rain.

"Since the sight of me disgusts you so much, I won't stay here and ruin your appetite."

Alyson grabbed her handbag from the back of the chair and walked toward the grand foyer.

Her heels struck the marble floor with heavy, definitive clicks, each step crushing the last remnants of her loyalty to this house.

"Stop right there! Who gave you permission to leave!" Warren roared from the dining room.

Alyson did not even turn her head.

She reached out and pushed the heavy oak front doors open.

A violent gust of wind, thick with freezing rain, blasted into the entryway.

Just as she stepped onto the threshold, a high-pitched scream echoed behind her.

It was Eleanor.

Alyson instinctively looked over her shoulder.

Chelsea was collapsed on the Persian rug, her face pale, one hand clutching her chest as she gasped desperately for air.

"Chelsea! My baby, what's wrong!" Eleanor dropped to her knees, pulling Chelsea into her arms.

Chelsea's chest heaved violently, large tears spilling down her cheeks.

"Mom... my chest hurts so much... Does my sister still hate me..."

Warren rushed forward, screaming at the butler.

"Get her pills! Call the family doctor right now!"

He whipped his head around, glaring at Alyson with a hatred so pure it burned.

"Are you happy now? Will you only be satisfied when you kill your sister?"

Alyson stood in the open doorway, the cold wind whipping her hair across her face.

She watched the pathetic, theatrical performance on the floor.

Her heart didn't ache. She just felt a deep, exhausting disgust.

She turned her back on them and stepped out onto the covered porch.

At that exact moment, a sleek black Maybach tore through the heavy rain and slammed to a halt in the driveway.

The rear door swung open.

Kenton stepped out, wearing a dark grey custom suit, his face tight with urgency.

He had clearly rushed over after receiving a call from the Holts about the dinner.

His eyes immediately locked onto Alyson standing alone on the top step.

Before he could demand to know what she was doing, Eleanor's hysterical crying drifted out the open door.

"Kenton! Come quick! Chelsea is having a panic attack!"

The color drained from Kenton's face.

He lunged up the stairs.

Alyson was standing in his path.

Without breaking his stride, Kenton shoved his hand against Alyson's shoulder to move her out of the way.

The marble steps were slick with rain.

The force of his push threw Alyson off balance.

Her ankle twisted violently, and she stumbled hard, her knee slamming into the wet stone to stop herself from falling down the entire flight of stairs.

A sharp pain shot up her leg, but Kenton didn't even look back.

He sprinted into the foyer and dropped to one knee, pulling Chelsea from Eleanor's arms and pressing her against his chest.

"Chelsea, look at me. Breathe," Kenton ordered, his voice thick with a desperate tenderness Alyson had never heard before.

Chelsea buried her face in his suit jacket, her voice trembling.

"Kenton... maybe I shouldn't have come back... My sister..."

Kenton's head snapped up.

His eyes found Alyson, who was slowly pulling herself up from the wet ground.

"What is wrong with you, Alyson? She is your own flesh and blood!" he shouted, his voice echoing over the sound of the rain.

Alyson stood in the downpour, letting the freezing water soak through her silk shirt.

She looked at the man she had loved for three years holding the woman who had ruined her life.

"You should all buy tickets to Broadway," she said, her voice dead and hollow.

She turned around and walked down the steps into the storm.

Kenton's jaw clenched in fury. He scooped Chelsea up into his arms.

"I'm taking her to the hospital," he told the Holts, carrying her out to the Maybach.

His driver instantly opened an umbrella, shielding them as Kenton placed her gently in the back seat.

The engine roared to life.

The heavy car accelerated down the driveway, the tires slicing through a deep puddle.

A wave of dirty, freezing mud splashed across the back of Alyson's legs as the car sped past her, leaving her entirely alone.