Aidan walked quietly down the hall. He stopped a maid and asked for a glass of warm milk. He carried it to Cecile's suite.

Hallie floated behind him. Her face was blank.

Aidan did not knock. He pushed the door open. Warm yellow light spilled onto the floor.

Cecile was not in bed. She had changed out of the heavy coat. She wore a very thin, black lace nightgown.

She sat on the rug by the large window. She pulled her knees to her chest. She looked out at the dark trees. She looked incredibly fragile.

She heard Aidan's footsteps. She turned her head. Her eyes were wide and wet.

Aidan walked over quickly. He put the milk on the small table. He frowned. "Why are you on the floor? It is cold."

Cecile reached out and grabbed his leg. She looked up at him. "I close my eyes and I see her. I am so afraid she will come back and take you."

Hallie hovered near the ceiling. She watched the performance. Her stomach turned.

Aidan sighed. He bent down and scooped Cecile off the floor. He carried her to the large bed and set her down.

He handed her the glass. He watched her take a sip. "No one is taking you away from me," he said softly.

Cecile put the glass down. She grabbed the edge of Aidan's shirt. Her knuckles turned white.

"Do not leave me tonight," she begged. Her voice cracked. "Please, Aidan. I am terrified."

Aidan froze. His jaw tightened. He knew he was still legally married. Staying in her bed crossed a line.

He gently tried to pull her hand away. "I am right next door. Call me if you need anything."

Cecile let go immediately. She turned her face away. A tear rolled down her cheek. "I understand. I do not want to trap you. Go."

The rejection hit Aidan's pride. He looked at her bare shoulders shaking.

Aidan took off his suit jacket. He threw it over a chair. "I will stay on the sofa."

Cecile turned back. She smiled through her tears. She pulled the heavy blanket back. She patted the empty space next to her.

"The sofa is hard," she whispered. "Sleep here. I promise I will just sleep."

The air in the room grew thick. Aidan stared at her pale skin under the black lace. His breathing got slightly heavier.

Hallie watched him. This was the final test.

Aidan reached for his wrist. He unclasped his heavy Patek Philippe watch. He dropped it on the nightstand.

He unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. He climbed into the bed.

Cecile immediately wrapped her arms around his waist. She buried her face in his neck.

Aidan did not push her away. He put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her closer.

Hallie closed her eyes. The last piece of her marriage shattered into dust.

Down on the bed, Cecile slowly opened her eyes. Aidan could not see her face.

She looked straight up at the ceiling, a wide, wicked smirk spreading across her face. The prize was finally hers.

Hallie felt nothing. The man in the bed was dead to her. She waited in the silence for the sun to rise.

The morning sun pushed through the heavy curtains.

Aidan sat up slowly. He did not wake Cecile. An HR report on his phone had just confirmed a stinging truth: his "missing" wife had been hiding in his own design department for years. He buttoned his shirt, his face cold and focused.

He walked out of the room.

Hallie's transparent body followed him. The invisible chain pulled her along.

Aidan got into his Maybach. The driver took him into Manhattan. The car stopped in front of the massive glass tower of the Monroe Group headquarters.

Aidan walked into the lobby. A group of executives immediately surrounded him. He stepped into the private executive elevator.

The doors closed. The elevator shot upward.

Suddenly, the invisible chain around Hallie's neck snapped.

As the elevator shot upward, the tension became unbearable, the distance stretching the link to its breaking point. A stronger pull emerged from below—a desperate, residual attachment to her own life's work, her sketchbook, which was still on the third floor. The new force yanked her down. She fell through the concrete floors.

She landed hard on the third floor. The design department.

It was a cramped, loud room filled with small desks. Hallie had spent three years working here under the name Valerie, hiding her identity from the staff.

She looked at her old desk in the corner.

Gladys Tierney, the head of cleaning, stood there. She was a large woman with a mean face. She held a black trash bag.

Gladys used her thick arm to sweep Valerie's pens and reference books into the bag. They hit the plastic with a loud thud.

A young intern stepped forward. She grabbed Gladys's sleeve. "Wait! Valerie's status was updated to sick leave. She might come back."

Gladys laughed loudly. She yanked her arm away. "Come back? Upper management gave the order to clear her out. She pissed off the wrong person."

Hallie floated near the desk. She knew exactly who gave that order. Aidan.

Gladys pulled open the bottom drawer. She dumped everything onto the floor.

A photograph fluttered down. It was Hallie's graduation picture from design school in Paris.

Gladys stepped right on it. Her dirty shoe left a black mark on Hallie's smiling face.

Hallie dropped to the floor. She tried to push the shoe away. Her hands passed through the leather.

Gladys bent down. She reached into the back of the empty drawer. She pulled out a sealed white envelope.

It was Hallie's final paycheck. She had worked eighty hours a week for that money.

Gladys looked left and right. No one was watching. She quickly shoved the envelope deep into her apron pocket.

"Consider this my cleaning fee," Gladys muttered to herself.

Hallie watched, a cold numbness spreading through her. Of course. In the world of the Monroes, even the scraps left for her were destined to be stolen by vultures. It was just another layer of the filth she was determined to burn to the ground. But the bright morning sun shining through the windows drained her energy. She could not move physical objects in the light.

Gladys grabbed the top of the black trash bag. She dragged it across the floor.

The sharp corner of the metal desk caught the thin plastic. The bag ripped slightly.

Inside the bag, a thick, black leather sketchbook shifted toward the hole. It held three years of Hallie's best haute couture designs.

Gladys did not notice. She dragged the bag toward the service elevator.

The young intern knelt down. She picked up the dirty photograph and hid it in her pocket.

Hallie felt a tiny drop of warmth for the girl. But she had to follow her sketchbook. She floated behind Gladys down the long hallway.