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.

The door banged against the wall with the sound of a gunshot.

Alexia jumped. She was on the floor, kneeling beside a pile of blankets she had arranged into a makeshift bed.

Jensen stared at the nest of pillows on the hardwood floor. Then he looked at the massive, king-sized bed, perfectly made, empty.

What are you doing? he asked. His voice was tight.

Alexia stood up. She was wearing oversized pajamas, but she still looked frail. Her hand went automatically to her side.

The guest rooms are locked, she said. Her voice was flat. "Eleanor's orders."

So you sleep on the floor? Like a dog?

I'm not sleeping in that bed with you, Jensen.

He walked into the room, kicking a pillow across the floor. "This is ridiculous. You are my wife. You sleep in the bed."

I'm your hostage, she corrected. "Not your wife."

He grabbed her arm. He didn't mean to squeeze, but he was angry. He was unsettled, though he wouldn't admit it.

Get in the bed, Alexia.

She winced. "You're hurting me."

He let go as if burned. He saw the red marks his fingers left on her pale skin. Guilt flashed through him, hot and quick, but he buried it under anger.

Fine, he spat. "Sleep on the floor. See if I care. If you get sick, don't expect me to play nurse."

He stormed into the bathroom. He turned the shower on cold. He stood under the spray, trying to wash away the image of her passport. Trying to wash away the feeling of losing control.

When he came out, the room was dark.

He got into bed. The sheets were cold.

He lay there, staring at the ceiling. He could hear her breathing on the floor. It was shallow, uneven. Hitching breaths.

He turned on his side. He looked over the edge of the bed.

She was curled into a tight ball, shivering.

Dammit.

He threw the covers off. He got out of bed and bent down.

Alexia.

She didn't answer. She just whimpered.

He scooped her up. She was terrifyingly light. She felt like a bird, all hollow bones and fragility.

No… she mumbled, pushing weakly against his chest.

Shut up, he whispered.

He laid her on the bed. He pulled the duvet over her.

She scrambled to the far edge, putting as much distance between them as the mattress allowed. She turned her back to him.

Jensen lay down on his side. He stared at the curve of her spine under the pajamas.

He wanted to reach out. He wanted to pull her back to the center. Back to him.

Instead, he turned his back to her.

They lay there, inches apart, separated by an ocean of silence.