Cressie was seated at the far end, near the kitchen door.

Beatrice tapped her spoon against her wine glass. "Attention, everyone. A toast. To the future of the Banks dynasty. A girl."

"Finally," Victoria, Ellsworth's cousin, drawled from across the table. She swirled her red wine, her eyes locking onto Cressie. "Let's hope she gets the Banks height and not the Winters... constitution."

A ripple of polite, cruel laughter went around the table.

Ellsworth was at the head of the table. He didn't laugh. He didn't scold her either. He just cut his steak, the knife slicing through the meat with surgical precision.

Cressie stared at her plate. She hadn't touched her food.

After dinner, the air in the house was thick with cigar smoke and brandy. Ellsworth caught Cressie's eye and jerked his head toward the study.

She followed him.

The study was dark, lit only by a green banker's lamp on the mahogany desk. The family lawyer, Arthur, was already there. He looked uncomfortable.

"Sit," Ellsworth said. He didn't sit. He leaned against the edge of the desk, crossing his arms.

Arthur slid a thick document across the leather surface.

"What is this?" Cressie asked, though she knew.

"A settlement," Ellsworth said. "We're ending this farce. The child will be a Banks. You will have visitation rights, of course. Generous alimony. A lump sum to pay off your father's debts."

He said it so casually. Like he was buying a company.

Cressie looked at the papers. Dissolution of Marriage.

She should have been devastated. She should have been crying, begging him to reconsider, to think of the baby. That's what the old Cressie would have done.

But the old Cressie had died in an elevator at Mount Sinai.

She picked up the Montblanc pen lying on the document. It felt heavy in her hand.

"I have conditions," she said. Her voice was steady. It surprised her.

Ellsworth raised an eyebrow. "You're in no position to negotiate, Cressie."

"I want the debt restructuring rights for Winters Inc.," she said. "Not a payoff. I want legal control of the restructuring process and the removal of the Banks lien on the Brooklyn property."

Ellsworth laughed. It was a short, sharp sound. "You? You want to play CFO? You haven't looked at a spreadsheet in three years."

"And," Cressie continued, ignoring him, "I keep the baby until she is weaned. Full physical custody for the first year. No nannies. Me."

Ellsworth looked at Arthur. Arthur shrugged. "It's reasonable, Mr. Banks. Courts favor the mother for nursing infants."

Ellsworth sighed, running a hand through his hair. He looked bored. "Fine. Whatever. Just sign the damn thing so we can move on."

He thought she was bluffing. He thought she wanted the restructuring rights so she could funnel money to her father. He had no idea she intended to save the company, not just pay its bills.

Cressie uncapped the pen. She didn't hesitate. She signed her name with a flourish, the ink dark and permanent.

Cressida Winters. Not Banks. She signed her maiden name.

She pushed the papers back. "Done."

Ellsworth blinked. He seemed taken aback by her speed. He had expected a fight. He had expected tears.

"That's it?" he asked.

"That's it," Cressie said. She stood up. "I'm going to bed."

She walked out of the study, leaving the two men in silence.

As she climbed the stairs, she heard voices from the parlor.

"Is she gone yet?" It was Victoria again. "God, imagine having to co-parent with that frump."

Cressie didn't stop. She went to her room-the guest room-and pulled out her suitcase. She didn't pack clothes. She packed her diploma. She packed the framed photo of her valedictorian speech. She packed the hard drive containing her old research.

She went to the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. She stripped off the expensive, ill-fitting dress Ellsworth had bought her. She stood there, naked, tracing the curve of her belly.

"We're leaving, baby," she whispered. "But first, we are going to burn their house down from the inside."

She put on noise-canceling headphones. She opened her laptop. She typed into the search bar: Forensic Audit Tools: Banks Capital.

Downstairs, Ellsworth was on the phone. "Yes, Jolie. It's done. She signed... No, she didn't cry. It was... weird."

Cressie couldn't hear him. She was already gone.

---

Cressie was in the kitchen, pouring hot water for tea, when Ellsworth stormed in. He was still wearing his pajamas, his hair messy. He looked furious.

"Did you know?" he demanded.

Cressie didn't turn. "Know what?"

"About the trust!" He slammed a hand onto the marble island.

Beatrice followed him in, looking grim. She was holding a copy of the divorce papers Cressie had signed the night before.

"The agreement is void," Beatrice announced.

Cressie turned slowly. "Excuse me?"

"Clause 14, Section B of the Banks Family Trust," Beatrice recited from memory. "In the event of a divorce proceedings initiated during a pregnancy of a direct heir, all liquid assets of the trust are frozen until the child reaches the age of one."

Ellsworth looked like he wanted to punch a wall. "If we file these papers now, the bank freezes my capital. Banks Capital grinds to a halt. I can't trade. I can't close the merger."

Cressie took a sip of her tea. It was scalding hot, but she welcomed the burn. "So?"

"So," Beatrice said, her voice like steel, "you are not getting divorced. Not yet. You will remain married, legally and publicly, until the child is born and the trust conditions are met."

Cressie let out a dry laugh. "You want me to live here? With him? While he parades his mistress around town?"

"You will live here," Beatrice commanded. "You will play the happy couple for the press. In exchange, we will double your settlement."

"I don't want your money," Cressie said. "I want peace."

"Then you'll have to wait for it," Ellsworth snapped. "I'm not bankrupting my company because of bad timing."

Cressie looked at him. He was pathetic. A billionaire held hostage by his grandmother's rules. This was her leverage. If she left, his empire crumbled.

"Fine," Cressie said. "But I have conditions."

"More conditions?" Ellsworth groaned.

"I'm moving to the West Wing guest suite. Permanently. You stay in the Master. I don't want to see you. I don't want to hear you. And I certainly don't want to smell your... extracurricular activities."

Ellsworth flushed. "This is my house."

"And it's my womb carrying your trust fund key," Cressie shot back. Her voice was sharp, authoritative. It was the voice she used to use in boardrooms.

Ellsworth stared at her, stunned.

"Deal," Beatrice said quickly. "West Wing. Separate lives. Just keep the ring on."

Cressie set her mug down. "Done."

She walked past Ellsworth, brushing his shoulder. He flinched, as if she were electric.

That night, Ellsworth lay in the Master bedroom. It was huge. It was cold.

He was used to Cressie being there. Even when he ignored her, her presence was a constant-a warm body, the sound of her breathing, the smell of her vanilla lotion.

Now, the bed felt like an ice rink.

He rolled over, punching the pillow. He grabbed his phone. Jolie had sent him a photo. She was wearing lingerie, pouting at the camera. Miss you, baby.

He looked at it. Usually, this would excite him. Usually, he would call a car and go to her apartment.

But tonight, he just felt... tired.

He zoomed in on the photo. In the background of Jolie's selfie, on her nightstand, was a book. The Art of War.

He frowned. Since when did Jolie read strategy?

He swiped the photo away.

Down the hall, in the West Wing, Cressie was humming. She was organizing her new room. It was smaller, simpler.

She put her hand on her belly. "Just a few more months," she promised. "We stay in the belly of the beast. And we watch."

---

Cressie put on her robe and went down to the kitchen. The house was silent.

Mrs. Higgins, the housekeeper, was at the stove. She was frying bacon. The smell was heavenly.

"Good morning, Mrs. Higgins," Cressie said, reaching for a plate.

Higgins slapped her hand away with a spatula.

"Not for you," Higgins said. Her lip curled. "Mr. Banks requested a specific diet for you. Oatmeal. Water. No fats."

Cressie looked at the pile of crispy bacon, the fluffy scrambled eggs, the toast. "I'm pregnant. I need protein."

"Mr. Banks says you're gaining too much weight," Higgins said smugly. "He says it's embarrassing."

Cressie felt the blood rush to her ears. "He said that?"

"Explicitly." Higgins turned back to the stove. "Make your own oatmeal. The instant kind is in the pantry."

Cressie looked at the food. It was perfectly prepared. It was Ellsworth's favorite breakfast.

She looked at the trash can.

Something inside her snapped. It wasn't a loud snap. It was a quiet, decisive click.

She picked up the platter of bacon and eggs.

"What are you doing?" Higgins screeched.

Cressie walked to the bin and tilted the plate. The food slid off-bacon, eggs, toast-into the garbage, landing on top of coffee grounds.

"You crazy witch!" Higgins lunged, but it was too late.

"If I can't eat," Cressie said, her voice deadly calm, "then no one eats."

"What is going on here?"

Ellsworth stood in the doorway, dressed for work. He looked at the empty platter. He looked at the trash.

"She threw your breakfast away!" Higgins wailed, pointing a greasy finger at Cressie. "She's hysterical! I told her she had to stick to the diet you ordered, and she went crazy!"

Ellsworth looked at Cressie. "You wasted food? Do you know how childish that is?"

"I'm hungry, Ellsworth," Cressie said. "And your servant refused to feed me."

"Mrs. Higgins is not a servant, she is family," Ellsworth corrected. "And she's right. You are... swollen. You need to watch it."

He sided with the help. He sided with the woman who had just slapped her hand.

Cressie looked at him. Really looked at him.

"Apologize to Mrs. Higgins," Ellsworth said.

The room went still.

"No," Cressie said.

"Excuse me?"

"I said no." Cressie untied her robe and retied it, tighter. "I'm going out for breakfast. Put it on your black card."

She walked out of the kitchen.

"Cressie!" Ellsworth shouted after her.

She didn't stop. She didn't turn around.

She went to the garage, got into the town car, and told the driver to take her to a diner in Queens. A greasy spoon where no one knew her name.

She ordered pancakes, eggs, sausages, and a milkshake. She ate alone in a booth, tears streaming down her face as she chewed.

When she was done, she wiped her face with a paper napkin. She felt full. She felt strong.

She pulled out her laptop. She connected to the diner's spotty Wi-Fi.

She opened a new document.

Subject: Banks Capital - Discrepancies in Liquidity Ratios & Shell Company Audit.

She cracked her knuckles.

"You want to starve me?" she whispered to the blinking cursor. "I'll audit your cash flow until it bleeds."

---