The door of the Maybach thudded shut, sealing them inside. The silence was instant and absolute.

The air in the car smelled of rain, leather, and him. Beneath that, faint but undeniable, was the scent of her. Aubree's perfume. Something heavy and floral, like gardenias left out in the heat too long. It clung to his jacket. It filled Alexia's nose and made the bile rise in her throat.

Jensen leaned his head back against the seat, closing his eyes. He looked exhausted. For a second, the mask slipped, and Alexia saw the lines of tension around his mouth.

Alexia's hand twitched. The instinct to reach out, to touch his forehead, to ask if he had a headache, was a phantom limb. It was an old habit from a time when he used to look at her and see her. She clenched her hand into a fist on her lap.

Next time, he said, his eyes still closed, "don't dress like you're attending a funeral. It's depressing."

Alexia swallowed. The words tasted like ash. "I'm not feeling well, Jensen."

He didn't open his eyes. "You're never feeling well, Alexia. It's always something. A headache. A stomach ache. It's exhausting."

Alexia looked out the window. The city lights smeared into long, neon streaks. It wasn't an excuse. It was a fact. But facts didn't matter in the Carlson court of law. Only perceptions mattered.

His phone buzzed.

His eyes snapped open. He pulled it from his pocket, the screen lighting up his face in a ghostly blue. Alexia saw the name. Bree.

Thanks for tonight. You saved me from that bore from Goldman. XOXO.

A small, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. He typed a reply, his thumbs moving quickly. Then he flipped the phone face down on his thigh.

Alexia's stomach cramped violently. A gasp escaped her lips before she could stifle it. She fumbled with the clasp of her purse, her fingers shaking. She needed the painkillers. She needed something to stop the burning.

The pill bottle rattled against her keys.

Jensen's head snapped toward her. "What is that noise? Stop fidgeting."

Alexia froze. She dropped the bottle back into the depths of the bag. "Mints," she whispered. "Just mints."

He sighed, a sound of pure irritation.

The rest of the ride passed in a silence so heavy it felt like it had mass. When they pulled into the underground garage of the penthouse building, the darkness felt appropriate.

In the elevator, he watched the numbers climb. Alexia watched the floor.

As soon as the doors opened into the foyer, he walked away. "I'm going to the study," he said over his shoulder. "Don't wait up."

The door to the study clicked shut.

Alexia stood alone in the dark living room. She pressed her forehead against the cold glass of the window. She was twenty-six years old. She was married to one of the most powerful men in New York. And she had never been more alone.

The next morning, the fluorescent lights of Carlson Global felt like an interrogation.

Alexia swiped her badge-Alexia Pierce, Technical Consultant-and walked toward the R&D department. Her right side was a dull, throbbing ache now, a constant companion.

She passed the break room. Laughter spilled out.

Alexia heard Vivian from Marketing. "Did you see the photos on Page Six? Jensen and Aubree. They look like royalty."

Another voice. "Where was the wife?"

Vivian snorted. "Probably fixing a printer somewhere. Honestly, I don't know why he stays married to her. It's like watching a swan try to date a pigeon."

Alexia stopped. Her hand gripped the strap of her laptop bag.

A throat cleared loudly behind her.

She turned. Alf Snider, the head of engineering and the only person in this building who knew Alexia had written the core code for the new AI interface, was standing there. He looked furious.

Back to work! Alf barked at the break room. The laughter died instantly.

He turned to Alexia, his expression softening into concern. "Alexia. You look terrible."

She managed a weak smile. "Good morning to you too, Alf."

He didn't smile back. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Seriously. You're pale. You're sweating. Go home."

I can't, she said. "The migration isn't stable yet."

He reached out and gently took her arm, steadying her as she swayed slightly. "You are the only stable thing in this entire company, Alexia. But you're going to collapse."

Alexia opened her mouth to argue, but a shadow fell over them.

Jensen was standing at the end of the corridor. He was flanked by the CFO and two board members. But his eyes were fixed on Alf's hand on Alexia's arm.

The temperature in the hallway seemed to drop ten degrees.

Jensen walked toward them. The executives trailed behind him, sensing blood.

Mr. Carlson, Alf began, stepping back, dropping his hand. "We were just discussing the-"

Jensen ignored him. He looked at Alexia. His gaze was a physical blow.

This is a place of business, he said, his voice low and lethal. "Not a singles bar."

Alexia felt the blood drain from her face. "Jensen…"

If you want to flirt with the staff, do it on your own time. Not on my payroll. And certainly not in my hallway.

The injustice of it choked Alexia. He had been with Aubree all night. He had let her touch him, whisper to him. And now this?

She looked down. "I'm sorry, Mr. Carlson."

Alf looked like he wanted to punch him. Alexia caught Alf's eye and shook her head slightly. Don't.

Jensen let out a short, derisive huff. "Get back to work. Both of you."

He walked away. He didn't look back.

Alexia stood there, shaking, while the whispers in the break room started up again, louder this time.

The door to the CEO's office was heavy mahogany, a barrier meant to intimidate. Alexia didn't knock.

She pushed it open and walked in.

Jensen was behind his desk, signing a stack of documents. He didn't look up.

I didn't order coffee, he said. "Get out."

Alexia walked to the desk. Her legs felt like lead, but her mind was strangely clear. The pain in her side had sharpened into a singular point of focus. It clarified things.

She placed the blue folder on top of the document he was signing.

He stopped writing. He stared at the blue folder for a second before looking up. His eyes were narrowed.

What is this? Another invoice for one of your charities?

Alexia took a breath. "It's a divorce agreement, Jensen. I've already signed it."

For a moment, there was no sound but the hum of the central air. Jensen stared at her. Then, a short, sharp laugh escaped his lips.

He flipped the folder open, glancing at the pages with a look of utter boredom. "Is this the new strategy? Brinkmanship?"

He didn't read it. He didn't see the clauses where Alexia waived her rights to the spousal support. He didn't see the section where she relinquished claim to the penthouse.

If you want a higher allowance, Alexia, talk to the CFO. Don't waste my time with theatrics.

Alexia reached out and placed her hand on the folder. "I don't want your money. I'm leaving with what I came with. Nothing."

He looked at her then. Really looked at her. For a second, uncertainty flickered in his eyes. But he crushed it instantly, replacing it with arrogance.

You? Leave?

He stood up and walked around the desk. He towered over her. He smelled of expensive soap and authority.

You wouldn't last a week without the Carlson name, he said softly. "You like the credit cards. You like the galas. You like pretending you belong."

Alexia looked up at him. She saw the man she had loved since she was nineteen. The man she had given up a PhD for. The man she had written code for in the middle of the night so he could take credit in the morning.

I don't want any of it, she said. "I just want to breathe."

His jaw tightened. He grabbed the folder from the desk.

You are my wife, he said. "That is a lifetime contract. We have a merger pending. We have the shareholder meeting next week."

He walked to the shredder in the corner of the room.

Jensen, don't, Alexia said, but her voice was calm.

He fed the document into the machine. The grinding noise was loud, violent. It ate the paper, strip by strip.

There, he said, dusting his hands off. "Negotiation over."

He walked back to her, leaning in close. His voice was a low growl. "Stop acting like a child. Go home. Get ready for the dinner on Friday. And never pull a stunt like this again."

He turned his back to her.

Alexia watched him. She realized then that he didn't keep her because he loved her. He kept her because he owned her. She was an asset. A depreciating one, perhaps, but still his.

I have another copy, she whispered.

He didn't turn around. "Get out."

Alexia walked out. She closed the door softly behind her.

She leaned against the wall in the corridor, her knees giving way. She slid down until she was crouching on the floor. She couldn't breathe. The pain was blinding now.

But through the pain, she felt something else. Rage.

She pulled her phone from her pocket. Her hands were shaking so hard she could barely type. She scrolled past Jensen's name. She scrolled past Eleanor's.

She pressed the contact for the one person in the Carlson family who hated Jensen almost as much as she did right now.

Clark.

She put the phone to her ear.

Clark, she said when he answered. "I need a favor."

The cafe was in the West Village, small, dark, and smelling of roasted beans. Alexia sat in the back corner, wearing sunglasses to hide her swollen eyes.

Clark Carlson slid into the booth opposite her. He looked like a softer, kinder version of his brother. He didn't have Jensen's sharp edges.

He looked at Alexia, and his face fell. "Jesus, Alexia. You look like you're dying."

I feel like it, she said. "But I'm not. I'm just… done."

He nodded slowly. He reached into his messenger bag and pulled out a key card. It was old, the plastic worn smooth.

Grandfather knows you're coming, Clark said.

Alexia froze. "You told Arthur?"

He called me. He saw the photos from the Pierre. He's furious, Alexia. He said no Pierce should be treated like a prop.

Tears pricked Alexia's eyes. Arthur Pierce. Her grandfather. The only family she had left. He was old, frail, and lived in the shadow of his past glory, but he loved her.

Clark pushed the card across the table. "Go to the estate. The safe in the library. You know the code?"

My birthday, she whispered.

Clark squeezed her hand. "He's your husband, Alexia, but he's an idiot. He thinks you're furniture. Prove him wrong."

Alexia drove to Long Island in a daze. The Pierce estate was nothing like the Carlson modern glass fortress. It was old stone, ivy, and history.

Mrs. Danvers, the housekeeper who had raised Alexia after her parents died, opened the door. She didn't say a word. She just pulled Alexia into a hug that smelled of lavender and starch.

Grandfather was in the library, sitting in his wheelchair by the fire.

Alexia knelt beside him. "I'm sorry," she sobbed. "I tried, Grandpa. I really tried."

He placed a trembling hand on her head. "You tried to love a stone, child. Stones don't love back. They just weigh you down."

He pointed to the bookshelf. "Open it."

Alexia moved the false book-The Count of Monte Cristo-and the panel slid open. The safe sat there, cold and steel. She typed in the numbers. 0-7-1-2.

The door clicked open.

Inside lay her life. The life she had paused. Her passport. Her birth certificate. And at the bottom, a thick envelope.

Alexia opened it. It was the patent. The algorithm she had written in college. The one Jensen said was "cute" but "not commercially viable." The one that was now the backbone of Carlson Global's logistics system.

She took it all.

Arthur held out a card. It was black, heavy titanium.

This is what's left of the Pierce family trust, he said. "It's not much compared to Carlson money, but it's yours. It's enough to start over."

I can't, Alexia started.

Take it! his voice cracked like a whip. "This is war, Alexia. You don't go to war without ammunition. Make him regret the day he overlooked you."

Alexia took the card. It felt cold against her skin.

She packed everything into a waterproof folder. She stood up, feeling lighter, even though the physical pain in her gut was getting worse.

Alexia walked out to her car. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the lawn.

She took her phone out. She snapped a picture of the passport, the patent, and the black card.

She sent it to Clark.

Got them.

A second later, Clark replied.

Showtime.