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.

Amira walked past the mountain of luggage. Her wet shoes squelched on the marble.

She walked into the master bedroom.

Delisa was sitting at the vanity-Amira's vanity. She was wearing one of Ethan's shirts. She was applying night cream, looking at herself in the mirror.

"Oh," Delisa said, spotting Amira in the reflection. "You made it back."

Ethan emerged from the bathroom, brushing his teeth. He looked at Amira, then at her wet clothes, and shrugged.

"Delisa is staying. Indefinitely," Ethan announced around the toothbrush.

"PR reasons," he added after spitting. "The paparazzi thing. We need to present a united front. She can't be alone."

"Where do I sleep?" Amira asked. Her voice was hollow, a ghost of a sound.

"The guest room is full of her clothes," Ethan said. "The couch? Or the floor."

Delisa laughed softly. "You're used to the floor, aren't you?"

Something inside Amira snapped. It wasn't a loud snap. It was the quiet, final sound of a lock clicking open.

She didn't scream. She didn't cry.

She turned around and walked to the storage closet down the hall. She found her old suitcase, the one she had brought with her eight years ago.

She went to the guest room, pushed past racks of Delisa's designer gowns, and began to pack.

She packed her laptop. Her medical degrees. Her passport. Her underwear. Jeans. T-shirts.

She left the diamond earrings Ethan had given her for their anniversary. She left the silk dresses he forced her to wear to galas. She left the shoes that hurt her feet.

She picked up the framed photo of her parents from the nightstand. She wrapped it carefully in a sweater and placed it in the bag.

Ethan leaned against the doorframe, watching her. He looked amused.

"You'll be back," he said. "You'll be back in a week when the money runs out. You can't survive out there."

Amira zipped the bag. The sound was sharp, decisive.

She walked past him.

"Leave the key card," he demanded.

Amira stopped at the console table in the foyer. She pulled the key card from her pocket. She dropped it. It hit the table with a plastic clatter.

"Goodbye, Ethan."

She walked out the door. She didn't look back.

She took the elevator down alone. She stepped out into the cold New York night. She had no home. She was about to have no job.

She pulled out her phone. 4% battery.

She opened the chat with Carleton.

Is the offer to stay still open?

Three dots appeared instantly.

Always. Address attached.

The reply came with a location pin and a short string of numbers. The code for the front door is 8520. It's a smart lock. Given the circumstances, please consider this a safe place to stay until we can sort out the official details. Your safety is the priority.

Amira called an Uber. It wasn't a black car. It was a dented Toyota Camry that smelled of pine air freshener. She sat in the back, hugging her bag, watching the city change through the rain-streaked window. The skyscrapers of Manhattan gave way to the lower, brick skyline of Queens.

The car stopped in a quiet neighborhood. Tree-lined streets. Brownstones.

The address was a modest, three-story house. It looked well-kept, but simple. No doorman. No gold plating.

She punched the code into the keypad by the door. It beeped green, and the lock clicked open.

She dragged her suitcase inside.

The interior was sparse. Minimalist. The furniture was clean lines, neutral colors. It looked like the home of someone who lived on a budget but had good taste. To Amira, it looked like freedom.

She walked into the kitchen. There was a note on the island, written in a sharp, angular handwriting.

Make yourself at home. Room on the left is yours. - C

Beside the note was a box of tea. Earl Grey with Lavender. Her favorite. Aunt Rosa must have told him, she mused, a small, tired smile touching her lips.

She walked to the room on the left. It was small, but the bed looked soft. There was a window that looked out onto a small garden.

She sat on the bed. The mattress gave under her weight, welcoming her.

She felt safe. For the first time in eight years, the knot of anxiety in her chest loosened.

She took out her phone. She plugged it into the charger on the nightstand.

She opened her contacts. She found Ethan Dejesus.

She pressed Block Contact.

She went to her photos. She selected every photo of him. Delete. Delete. Delete.

She unpacked the photo of her parents and placed it on the nightstand.

She went to the bathroom and showered. She scrubbed her skin until it was pink, washing away the mud, the blood, and the smell of Ethan's cologne that seemed to cling to her.

She put on an oversized t-shirt and made a cup of the tea.

She sat by the window, sipping the hot liquid. It was quiet. No paparazzi. No yelling. Just the sound of rain on the glass.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Carleton.

Safe?

Amira typed back.

Yes. Thank you.

She smiled. She was marrying a poor actuary, living in a small house in Queens, and she had never been happier. The phone screen went dark, reflecting her own calm, exhausted face. Outside, the rain finally began to soften, washing the city clean.