The morning sun poured through the sheer curtains of the Plaza suite, warming the tangled white sheets. Eleonora opened her eyes, her chest feeling incredibly light.

Brittany poked her head out of the bathroom, a green clay mask smeared across her face. "Get up. We are going to Bergdorf Goodman, and we are going to bleed that man dry."

Eleonora looked at her bare face in the vanity mirror. A slow smile stretched across her lips. She nodded.

They threw on comfortable clothes and walked arm-in-arm out of the hotel's revolving doors, stepping right onto Fifth Avenue.

They marched straight into the gleaming, perfumed halls of Bergdorf Goodman.

Eleonora pulled out the black American Express card tied to Jaret's account. She hadn't used it in three years.

She handed it to the clerk without blinking, purchasing three razor-sharp, aggressive power suits.

Brittany pointed to the shoe section. Eleonora swiped the card again for a pair of black, red-bottom stilettos. Her new armor.

They took the elevator to the top-floor restaurant. They ordered a ridiculous afternoon tea and clinked their crystal champagne flutes together.

Miles away, inside a dimly lit, exclusive cigar bar in Midtown, thick smoke hung in the air.

Jaret sat slouched in a deep leather chair. His knuckles were white as he gripped a crystal glass of whiskey.

His friends, Blake Vance and Reid Paxton, sat across from him, exchanging nervous glances.

Blake cleared his throat. "So... what's happening with Chelsie after the court thing?"

Jaret's face turned a violent shade of red. He slammed his glass down on the glass table. The loud crack made Blake flinch.

"She's a stupid bitch," Jaret snarled, his chest heaving. "She ruined my reputation over a petty grudge."

Reid leaned forward cautiously. "And Eleonora? Is she... okay?"

Jaret let out a harsh, arrogant scoff. He leaned back, crossing his arms.

"She's throwing a tantrum," Jaret said, his voice dripping with absolute certainty. "She'll cool off at a hotel for a few days, realize she has nothing without me, and come crawling back."

Jaret saw Blake and Reid exchange a quick, uncertain glance before they nodded. Their agreement felt hollow, and it only fueled his irritation.

The heavy silence in the room gnawed at Jaret's nerves. He suddenly felt a crawling sensation under his skin. He grabbed his Porsche keys and stood up.

He drove recklessly through the evening traffic, the engine roaring as he sped back to the penthouse garage.

Jaret rode the elevator up, violently tugging at his silk tie to loosen it. He planned to buy her a Birkin bag tomorrow to shut her up.

The elevator doors opened. The penthouse was pitch black. The silence hit him like a physical wall.

Jaret frowned. He slapped the wall switch, flooding the massive living room with harsh light.

"Nora?" he called out. His voice bounced off the walls, echoing back to him.

He kicked off his shoes and walked quickly to the master bedroom. The closet doors were wide open.

Jaret froze. Eleonora's side of the closet was gutted. Only the flashy gowns he had bought her hung there like dead skin.

A sharp spike of panic pierced straight through his ribs. His breathing turned shallow and fast.

He spun around and sprinted back into the living room, his eyes scanning the space wildly.

His gaze locked onto the massive oak desk in the center of the room.

Jaret walked toward it, his legs feeling like lead. He stared down at the thick stack of papers.

Resting right on top of her sharp, decisive signature was the three-carat diamond ring. It sparkled under the chandelier, mocking him.

Jaret stared at the diamond ring. His hands shook violently as he reached out and picked up the divorce agreement.

He saw her signature. The ink was dark and permanent. A muscle in his jaw twitched uncontrollably.

Just then, his phone vibrated in his pocket. Then it vibrated again. And again.

Jaret ripped the phone out of his pocket. Three push notifications from American Express lit up the screen.

Charge Approved: Bergdorf Goodman. $4,500.

Charge Approved: Bergdorf Goodman. $1,200.

Charge Approved: Bergdorf Goodman. $850.

The charges were from just a few hours ago. The panic in his chest instantly boiled over into a blinding, feral rage.

He ground his teeth together so hard his jaw ached. He slammed the divorce papers back onto the desk, scattering the pages across the wood.

He hit Eleonora's name in his contacts and held the phone to his ear. The ringing sound made him pace the floor like a caged animal.

Inside the Plaza suite, Eleonora sat on the sofa, admiring the sharp lines of her new stilettos.

Her phone lit up on the marble coffee table. Jaret.

Her smile vanished. Her face turned to stone.

She took a slow, steady breath. She tapped the speaker button and left the phone sitting on the marble.

"What the hell is wrong with you? !" Jaret's roar blasted through the speaker, filling the quiet room.

He didn't stop to breathe. "You think maxing out my cards is going to make me beg? You think this cheap stunt works on me?"

Eleonora sat perfectly still. Her heart rate didn't elevate by a single beat.

When he finally stopped to take a breath, she spoke. Her voice was flat, like she was reading a grocery list. "Look at the papers on the desk, Jaret."

Jaret let out a cruel, mocking laugh. "You think you can just walk out? You're swiping my card to survive right now. You are nothing without me."

"Those charges," Eleonora said smoothly, "are my severance pay for seven years of being your unpaid maid and event planner."

The word 'maid' hit Jaret's ego like a sledgehammer. "I gave you everything! You lived like a queen!" he screamed.

"Sign the papers, Jaret. Don't waste my time," she cut him off, her tone dropping to absolute zero.

Jaret's breathing grew ragged. He refused to believe this was real.

"You listen to me," Jaret commanded, his voice dripping with toxic authority. "You get your ass back to this apartment tonight, or I cut off every single card with your name on it."

Eleonora let out a soft, breathy chuckle. It was a sound of pure pity.

"I already cut the card in half," she said calmly. "The rest of the legal filings will be couriered to your office tomorrow."

Before Jaret could form another word, Eleonora hit the red button.

The call disconnected.

Jaret stared at the black screen of his phone. The dial tone buzzed in his ear.

A violent surge of helplessness ripped through him. He lost his mind.

He pulled his arm back and hurled the thousand-dollar phone straight at the floor-to-ceiling window.

The phone smashed against the bulletproof glass, leaving a white scuff mark before shattering into dozens of pieces on the hardwood floor.

Jaret gripped the edges of the oak desk, his chest heaving. He stared at the diamond ring with bloodshot eyes.

"I will never let you win," he whispered to the empty room. "You'll come begging."

The next morning, Eleonora stood in the business center of the Plaza Hotel.

She sat at the computer, her fingers flying across the keyboard. She quickly formatted the final property waiver and the court filing forms.

The printer spit out the warm, ink-stained pages. She stacked them neatly and slid them into a thick brown envelope.

She walked over to the concierge desk. "I need your fastest courier service to Midtown Manhattan," she told the clerk.

Ten minutes later, a man in a courier uniform walked into the lobby. Eleonora handed him the envelope and a fifty-dollar tip.

"This must be handed directly to Jaret Burns. No assistants. No receptionists," she instructed.

Across the city, in a massive corner office overlooking the skyline, Jaret sat behind his CEO desk.

He had a brand-new phone sitting next to his keyboard. His eyes kept darting to the screen, waiting for her text apologizing for last night.

A soft knock on the glass door broke his focus. His secretary walked in, looking terrified, holding a brown envelope.

"Sir, this is a priority legal document. The courier insisted you sign for it personally," she stammered.

Jaret frowned deeply. He snatched the envelope from her hands and ripped the top open.

The papers slid out onto his desk. They were the final divorce filings, already bearing Eleonora's sharp signature.

Stuck to the top page was a small yellow sticky note. It read in her handwriting: Sign these and give them to your legal department. Don't drag this out.

Jaret's pupils contracted. The cold, commanding tone of the note felt like a physical slap to his face.

He thought she would panic after a night alone. Instead, she was pushing the knife in deeper.

A dark, twisting fire of humiliation burned in his chest. His arrogance completely hijacked his brain.

"You want to play chicken?" Jaret muttered, a twisted sneer forming on his lips. "Fine. Let's play."

He grabbed the heavy Montblanc fountain pen sitting on his desk. He ripped the cap off.

He didn't read a single line of the property waivers. Fueled by pure, reckless spite, he flipped through the pages, slashing his signature onto every required line.

He pressed the pen down so hard the nib nearly tore through the thick paper.

He slammed the pen down. The loud clack echoed in the large office.

He hit the intercom button. "Get Martin Fletcher in here. Now."

A minute later, Martin, the Chief Legal Officer, stepped into the room. He took one look at the scattered legal documents and tensed.

Jaret shoved the stack of papers across the desk. "File these uncontested divorce papers. Today."

Martin glanced at the top page. His eyes widened. "Jaret, this is a massive step. You need to review this with personal counsel-"

"Do exactly what I said!" Jaret roared, slamming his fist on the desk. "Push it through the courts. Fast-track it!"

Jaret was absolutely convinced that the moment the court sent the official notice, Eleonora would realize it was real and come crying back to stop it.

Martin swallowed hard. He gathered the papers, nodded stiffly, and walked out.

The office fell silent again. Jaret leaned back in his leather chair. He yanked at his tie, trying to relieve the sudden tightness in his throat.

He stared at the empty space on his desk where the papers had been. A cold, creeping dread started to pool in the bottom of his stomach, but he aggressively pushed it down.