Amira sat in her car in the parking lot of a discreet cocktail lounge three towns over. She had stopped at a pharmacy for butterfly bandages and antiseptic. Using the rearview mirror, she cleaned the wound on her temple. It was jagged, ugly, but it would heal.

She needed a drink. The pain in her head was throbbing, but the pain in her chest was a screaming void.

She pulled out her phone. She opened the encrypted app. She hesitated. What was she doing? Showing her weakness to a stranger? But he wasn't just a stranger. He was an exit. This injury, this humiliation, was proof that she needed that exit now. It was a piece of evidence, not a plea for sympathy.

She took a selfie. The bandage, the bloodshot eyes, the exhaustion. She sent it to Carleton.

Rough day.

The reply came instantly.

Who did this?

The three words felt like a warm blanket. He didn't ask "what happened." He asked "who." He knew there was a villain.

Work hazard, she typed back.

She went inside. The lounge was dark, smelling of expensive bourbon and cedar. Zoe was already in a booth in the back, waving frantically.

Amira slid into the booth. Zoe gasped.

"Oh my god, Amira. Your face."

"Double vodka," Amira told the waitress who appeared. "Neat."

She drank the first one in one gulp. Then she told Zoe everything. The proposal. The contract. The plan to leave in thirty days.

The lounge door opened. A gust of wind and loud laughter blew in.

Amira stiffened. She knew that laugh.

It was Ethan. He walked in with his entourage-Landon, Xavier, and a few other hangers-on. They were celebrating. They took the large leather sofa grouping right behind Amira's booth.

Amira slid down in her seat, hiding behind the ornate wooden pillar. Zoe's eyes went wide. "Don't look," she whispered.

Amira didn't look. She listened.

"Where's the good doctor tonight?" Xavier asked, his voice carrying over the soft jazz music.

Ethan laughed. "Probably crying in her room. Or cleaning up her mess."

"She tried to break up with me today," Ethan announced, his tone bragging.

The table erupted in laughter. "No way," Landon said. "She's got nowhere to go."

"Exactly," Ethan said. "She's like a stray dog. You kick her, you starve her, she still comes back wagging her tail. It's pathetic, really."

Amira gripped her glass. Her knuckles turned white. The glass felt like it might shatter in her hand.

"Delisa is a queen," Ethan continued. "Amira is just... a placeholder. She's cheap. Low maintenance. That's why I kept her around so long. She's convenient."

Tears pricked Amira's eyes, hot and angry. She swallowed them down with the second vodka. She wouldn't cry for him. Not ever again.

She signaled Zoe. "We're leaving."

They stood up. Amira kept her head down, using her hair to hide her face. She moved quickly toward the exit.

But her purse strap caught on the corner of the table. It pulled tight, knocking a heavy crystal ashtray onto the floor.

Smash.

The sound cut through the lounge's refined chatter.

Ethan turned around.

His eyes landed on Amira. He saw the bandage. He saw the look in her eyes.

His smirk vanished.

"Amira?"

Amira didn't stop. She yanked her purse free and pushed through the door into the night air.

"Amira! Stop!"

Heavy footsteps pounded on the pavement behind her. Ethan grabbed her arm, spinning her around. His grip was bruising.

"What were you doing there? Spying on me?" he accused, his face twisted with suspicion.

"Let go of me," Amira said calmly.

"You're making a scene," he hissed, glancing around at the empty parking lot. "Get in the car."

His black SUV was idling at the curb, the driver waiting. Ethan dragged her toward it. She dug her heels in, but he was stronger. He shoved her into the backseat and climbed in after her, locking the doors with a click that sounded like a prison cell closing.

"Drive," he ordered.

The car merged onto the highway, the city lights blurring past.

Ethan turned on her. "You look like trash with that bandage on your face. You're embarrassing me."

"You caused this," Amira said, staring straight ahead.

"I saved Delisa. You were just in the way. You're always in the way."

Amira turned to look at him. "I heard what you said. About the dog."

Ethan paused. He shrugged, adjusting his cuffs. "It's true. You have no one but me. I pay for your life. I pay for your car. I made you."

"I'm a doctor. I made myself," she said.

"Without my money, you're nothing," he spat. "You're a nobody from Queens."

"Then I'd rather be nothing." She took a breath. "I don't love you anymore, Ethan. It's gone."

The silence in the car was deafening. Ethan's face twitched. A vein in his forehead pulsed. He couldn't handle rejection. He couldn't handle losing control.

"You don't get to stop loving me," he growled. He reached out and grabbed her chin, his fingers digging into her jaw, forcing her to look at him. "Take it back."

Amira stared into his eyes. They were empty. "No."

His phone rang. Delisa.

Ethan released her chin with a shove. He answered the phone, frustrated. "What?"

He listened for a moment. Then he looked at Amira. His expression shifted from anger to pure malice.

"Pull over," Ethan told the driver.

The driver hesitated. "Sir? We're on the highway."

"I said pull over!"

The SUV swerved to the shoulder, tires crunching on gravel, slowing rapidly.

The car came to a halt on the dark shoulder of the highway. Rain had started to fall, drumming against the roof.

Ethan opened the door on Amira's side. The noise of passing trucks was deafening.

"Get out," he said.

Amira looked at the speeding cars. "Here? It's dangerous."

"Delisa needs me. She's upset about the paparazzi. You're just dead weight. Get out!"

He placed his hand on her shoulder and pushed. Amira stumbled out, her heels sinking into the wet gravel.

He grabbed her purse from the seat and threw it out after her. It landed in a puddle.

"Walk home. Maybe it'll teach you some gratitude."

He slammed the door.

The SUV peeled away, tires spinning, spraying her with mud and exhaust. Amira watched the taillights disappear into the rain.

She stood alone in the dark. The rain soaked her clothes instantly, chilling her to the bone. She picked up her purse. Her phone battery was at 15%. No signal.

She started walking.

Her only goal was the faint glow of an exit sign in the distance. Every step was a battle. Her feet, already sore, began to blister in her thin shoes. Trucks roared past, shaking the ground, splashing dirty, freezing water onto her legs. It felt like an eternity, but after nearly an hour of shivering and stumbling, she reached the off-ramp. A brightly lit 24-hour gas station stood like a beacon. She ducked inside, dripping water all over the linoleum, ignoring the cashier's stare. Her hands were shaking so badly she could barely hold her phone steady, but she saw it: one bar of service. It was enough. She called the first car service she could find, the dispatcher quoting a price that made her stomach clench, but she agreed without hesitation.

The long, silent ride back to the city gave her too much time to think. By the time she arrived at the Penthouse building, she was shivering uncontrollably. The doorman, George, who usually smiled at her, looked at her awkwardly. He didn't open the door. He just watched her struggle with the heavy glass.

"Rough night, Dr. Cortez?" he asked, avoiding eye contact.

Amira just nodded, too tired to speak. She took the elevator up. The numbers ticked by slowly. 10... 20... Penthouse.

She unlocked the door.

The hallway was filled with luggage. Louis Vuitton. Stacks of it.

Amira froze. It wasn't hers.

She walked closer. The monogram on the side of the largest trunk read: D.C.

Delisa Conrad.

Amira realized then that she hadn't just been abandoned on the highway. She had been replaced.