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.

The private club was a cavern of leather and smoke. Jensen swirled the amber liquid in his glass, bored.

Spencer, his college friend and a man who had never worked a day in his life, was droning on about a sailboat.

Jensen wasn't listening. He was thinking about the shredder. The sound of the paper tearing. The look in Alexia's eyes. It was bothering him. She usually cried. She usually begged. Today, she had just… existed. Coldly.

His phone buzzed on the table.

He glanced at it. A message from Clark.

He frowned. Clark never texted him. They spoke through lawyers or assistants.

He slid the phone open.

The image loaded.

Jensen stared.

It was a passport. Alexia's passport. And next to it, a birth certificate. And a patent document.

The caption read: She's serious, brother.

Jensen felt a cold drop of sweat slide down his spine. Why did she have her passport? Those documents were supposed to be in the safe at the penthouse. He kept them there. For safekeeping.

He sat up straight, the whiskey sloshing over his hand.

He called Clark. Straight to voicemail.

He called Alexia.

The subscriber you have called is not available.

Panic, sharp and unfamiliar, spiked in his chest. She couldn't leave. She wouldn't. She was Alexia. She was the constant. She was the background noise of his life. You didn't lose the background noise.

He stood up, knocking his chair over.

Where you going? Spencer asked. "Aubree is coming by in ten."

Tell her to go to hell, Jensen snapped.

He was halfway to the door when his mother called.

Eleanor.

He answered, walking fast. "What?"

Jensen! Eleanor shrieked. "You need to come home. The staff is in a panic."

What happened? Is the house on fire?

Alexia! She came back an hour ago. She ordered Mrs. Higgins to open the guest room. She's moving her things!

Jensen stopped walking. "She's what?"

She's moving into the guest room! Eleanor shouted. "Imagine the gossip if the staff talks. A separated couple in the penthouse? It's unacceptable! I told Mrs. Higgins to lock all the guest suites. I took the keys."

Jensen closed his eyes. "You did what?"

I forced her back into the master suite, Eleanor said, sounding proud. "She has nowhere else to sleep. You need to go home and fix this. Make her behave."

Jensen hung up.

He ran to his car. He drove fast, weaving through traffic, running two red lights.

She was trying to move out. She had her passport. She had gone to Clark.

She was actually doing it.

He slammed the car into park in the garage and took the elevator up. His heart was hammering against his ribs. It wasn't love, he told himself. It was control. It was order. She was disrupting the order.

He threw open the front door. The apartment was dark.

Mrs. Higgins was standing in the hallway, wringing her hands. "Sir, she… she's in the bedroom."

Jensen didn't stop. He marched to the double doors of the master suite.

He didn't knock. He shoved the doors open.