At some point in the dead of night, she must have dragged herself from the cold tiles to the even colder sheets of their bed, because sunlight hit Elle's face like a physical blow. She blinked, her eyelids heavy and swollen. The bed beside her was empty, the sheets cool to the touch.

She sat up, wincing as a dull ache radiated through her lower back. The memories of the previous night rushed back-the grinding noise of the disposal, the cold marble, the way Hunt had looked at her. Like he owned her.

A sound came from the walk-in closet. The slide of a hanger against a metal rod.

Elle wrapped the duvet around herself and walked to the closet door. Her bare feet sank into the plush carpet.

Hunt stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror. He was fastening his cufflinks-gold ones, not the sapphires she had destroyed. He saw her reflection in the glass. His eyes were cold, detached.

"You're awake," he said.

Elle leaned against the doorframe for support. "Are you going to explain last night?"

Hunt didn't turn. He adjusted his collar with precise, jerky movements. "Explain what? My schedule isn't something I need to run by you."

"I'm not talking about your schedule."

He paused. For a second, his shoulders tensed. Then he resumed fixing his tie. "You were making a scene. I calmed you down."

"Is that what you call it?" Elle asked. Her voice was raspy. She took a step into the closet. "If I went to the Polo Club with another man, would you be this calm?"

Hunt spun around. The movement was so fast she flinched. He closed the distance between them and grabbed her waist, pulling her flush against his suit.

"You dare," he hissed. The possessiveness in his voice was thick, suffocating.

Elle looked up at him, searching his grey eyes for anything that resembled love. She found only anger and a terrifying need for control.

"Preston says my contract is up for renewal," she said, testing the waters. "Maybe I should find a new sponsor. Someone who doesn't make me feel like a whore."

Hunt's fingers dug into her hip. He grabbed her chin with his free hand, forcing her to look at him.

"In this town," he said softly, "nobody can afford you but me. You're an expensive habit, Elle. Without me, you're nothing but a pretty face in a sea of pretty faces."

The words struck her hard. They confirmed her worst fear: that to him, she was just an asset. An acquisition.

The light in Elle's eyes dimmed. She stopped resisting his grip. She just stood there, defeated.

Hunt seemed to sense the shift. His grip on her chin loosened. His thumb brushed over her lower lip, a ghost of a caress. It was gentle, confusingly tender, completely at odds with his cruel words.

He stared at her mouth, his pupils dilating. For a second, he looked like he wanted to apologize. Or kiss her.

Then he pulled his hand away as if burned. He checked his watch.

"The Gala is tonight," he said, his voice flat again. "Carlyn is bringing your dress. Be ready at seven."

Elle looked down at the floor. "Am I going as your date? Or as a Noble Media employee?"

"As the obedient partner who doesn't cause scenes," Hunt said. He grabbed his briefcase. "Don't embarrass me."

He walked out. The front door slammed, the vibration rattling the crystal chandelier in the hallway.

Elle sank onto the floor of the closet. She touched her neck, where a faint bruise was forming.

Her phone rang. It was her father's assistant.

"Ms. Allison," the voice was crisp, professional. "Mr. Allison wanted to remind you that the family dinner is next week. He insists you come alone. No... guests."

Meaning no Hunt. Her father hated Hunt, not because he treated Elle badly, but because Hunt was more powerful than the Allison family.

"I know," Elle said. She hung up.

She needed to breathe. She walked to the spare room she used as a studio. It was the only room in the penthouse Hunt rarely entered.

She pulled the sheet off the easel. The smell of oil paint and turpentine calmed her instantly.

The canvas showed a profile. A boy bathed in sunlight, his messy hair catching the light. His face was blurred, unfinished, more a feeling than a person.

Elle picked up a brush. Her hand hovered over the canvas. She tried to recall the curve of his jaw, the exact shade of his eyes.

Nothing. Just a blank space in her mind where the memory should be.

Her hand trembled. The brush slipped, leaving a jagged smear of ochre across the background.

"Damn it." She threw the brush across the room. It hit the wall with a clatter.

Hunt was erasing her. He was filling up every corner of her mind with his coldness, pushing out the few fragments of herself she had left.

Her phone buzzed again. A text from Carlyn.

Wear red tonight. Burn the bitch down.

Elle stared at the message. Burn it down.

She typed back: Okay.

She walked to the bathroom and turned on the shower. Tonight was the Gala. The biggest social event of the season.

She would give Hunt one last chance. One final, desperate attempt to bridge the gap between his wallet and his heart.

And if he failed?

She would burn it all down.

The flashbulbs were blinding. A wall of white light erupted as soon as the limousine door opened.

Elle stepped onto the red carpet. The dress Carlyn had chosen was a weapon. Deep crimson silk, backless, with a plunging neckline that stopped just short of scandal. It clung to her like a second skin.

Hunt stepped out behind her. His hand settled on the small of her back. It felt heavy, possessive.

"It's too low," he muttered in her ear, his voice tight.

He shifted his stance, angling his body to block the photographers from getting a side view of her chest.

"Smile," Elle whispered through gritted teeth.

A woman approached them. She was tall, blonde, and carried a glass of champagne like a scepter. The woman from the photo.

"Hunt," the woman cooed. She ignored Elle completely. "I didn't think you'd make it after our late night."

Elle felt Hunt's hand twitch against her back.

"Business doesn't stop for sleep, Allegra," Hunt said smoothly.

Allegra turned her gaze to Elle. Her eyes raked over the red dress. "A daring choice. Very... Hollywood."

"Thank you," Elle said. "It takes confidence to wear red."

Hunt didn't defend her. He didn't tighten his grip or pull her closer. He just checked his watch. "We should go inside. The board members are waiting."

He steered Elle away, leaving Allegra smirking in their wake.

Inside, the ballroom was a sea of tuxedos and designer gowns. Elle felt like a prop. A shiny hood ornament on Hunt's expensive life.

"I need air," she said.

Hunt frowned. "We just got here."

"I need air, Hunt."

She walked toward the terrace doors without waiting for him.

The night air was crisp, carrying the metallic scent of the city. Elle walked to the stone railing and looked out at the Manhattan skyline. The lights blurred into streaks of gold and white.

Footsteps crunched behind her. The smell of cigarette smoke drifted over.

"You're being dramatic," Hunt said. The click of his lighter was sharp in the quiet.

Elle turned. He was leaning against the wall, smoking. He looked tired.

"Hunt," she said. Her voice shook. "Let's get married."

Hunt froze. The flame of his lighter flickered and died. He slowly lowered the cigarette, staring at her as if she had started speaking a foreign language.

"You've had too much champagne," he said.

"I'm sober. I'm serious." Elle took a step toward him. "Three years, Hunt. We live together. We sleep together. Don't you think it's time?"

Hunt dropped the cigarette and crushed it under the heel of his shoe. He let out a short, incredulous laugh.

"Time for what? A contract negotiation?"

"For a commitment."

He pushed off the wall and walked toward her, towering over her. "Elle, don't mistake my generosity for weakness. Marriage is a merger of assets. It's business."

He looked down at her, his eyes cold and calculating. "What collateral do you bring to the table? Your failed acting career? Your family's debt?"

The words were physical blows. They punched the air out of her lungs.

"Is that all I am?" she whispered. "A bad investment?"

Hunt's jaw tightened. "You're the one trying to change the terms of the deal. If you want more money, tell Preston. Don't try to trap me with sentimental garbage."

He checked his watch again. "I have a meeting with the senator in five minutes. Go home. Driver is waiting."

He turned his back on her.

Elle stood there, the wind whipping the hem of her red dress around her legs. She watched him walk away, watched the broad set of his shoulders, the arrogant tilt of his head.

She didn't cry. The tears had dried up somewhere between the "merger of assets" and "failed career."

She reached into her clutch and pulled out her phone. She typed a message to Carlyn.

Initiate Plan B.

Then she dialed a number.

"Preston," she said when the assistant answered. "I need to see you tomorrow morning. At the office."

"Ms. Allison?" Preston sounded confused. "Mr. Noble already instructed me to draft the renewal papers for the apartment lease..."

"Not the lease," Elle cut him off. "The separation. I want to discuss the termination of my contract."

"Oh." Preston paused. "I... I see. I'll clear the schedule."

Elle hung up.

Inside the ballroom, Hunt sat in the back of his town car. He loosened his tie, his chest feeling tight.

He reached into his jacket pocket. His fingers brushed against a small, velvet box. It wasn't an engagement ring. It was a diamond tennis bracelet. A beautiful, expensive leash. Something to quiet her down for another few months.

He had planned to give it to her tonight.

But she had pushed him. She had tried to corner him.

He slammed the partition shut. "Drive."

On the terrace, Elle finished her champagne in one gulp. She set the glass on the railing.

She adjusted her strap, lifted her chin, and walked back into the party. She smiled at the cameras. It was the best performance of her life.

The conference room at Noble Media was suspended in the sky, glass walls offering a panoramic view of a city that looked like a circuit board.

Elle sat at the head of the long mahogany table. She wore sunglasses, hiding the shadows under her eyes. Carlyn sat next to her, tapping her foot nervously.

Opposite them sat Preston and two corporate lawyers.

Preston slid a thick folder across the polished wood. It was a contingency plan Hunt had ordered drafted six months ago, a golden parachute designed to look like a favor but feel like a dismissal. "Mr. Noble has authorized this. It's... generous."

Elle didn't open it. "Summary."

"It's a global brand ambassador contract for the new jewelry line," Preston said, his voice wavering slightly. "Three years. Thirty million dollars."

Carlyn inhaled sharply. She grabbed Elle's thigh under the table, squeezing hard. Thirty million. That was A-list money. That was freedom.

Elle took off her sunglasses. Her eyes were dry, flat. "And the catch?"

"A Non-Disclosure Agreement," the lawyer on the right said. "Strict. You cannot discuss your personal relationship with Mr. Noble. No interviews, no memoirs, no social media posts referencing him. Complete silence."

Elle smiled. It didn't reach her eyes. "Hush money. How classic."

"It's a standard protection of assets," the lawyer corrected.

"Give me the pen."

Preston blinked. He had expected tears. He had expected screaming. He had expected her to demand to see Hunt.

Elle took the heavy fountain pen. She flipped to the last page and signed her name with a flourish. Elle Allison.

She capped the pen and pushed the folder back. "Tell him the transaction is complete."

"That's it?" Carlyn whispered. "You're not going to fight?"

"For what?" Elle stood up. She smoothed the skirt of her dress. "Bree is waiting. We're going to The Vault tonight."

Preston stood up, looking flustered. "Ms. Allison, what about the apartment keys?"

Elle reached into her purse. She pulled out the heavy key ring with the Noble crest on the fob.

She tossed it.

The keys skittered across the mahogany table, the metal screeching against the wood. They spun and came to a stop right in front of Preston.

"My things are already gone," she said. "There's nothing left of me in that place."

She turned and walked out, her heels clicking a sharp rhythm on the floor. Carlyn scrambled to follow her.

In his office on the floor above, Hunt watched the security feed on his monitor.

He saw the keys slide across the table. He saw the straight line of her back as she walked out.

He snapped the pen in his hand. Ink bled onto his fingers, black and permanent.

She took the money.

He had told himself that was what she wanted. That she was just like everyone else-greedy, transactional. But seeing her sign that paper without a moment's hesitation made his chest ache with a hollow, burning sensation.

He pressed the intercom. "Preston."

"Yes, sir?"

"Where is she going?"

"Uh... I heard them mention The Vault, sir. To... celebrate."

"Celebrate," Hunt repeated. The word tasted like bile.

She was celebrating leaving him.

He stood up and grabbed his jacket. "Cancel my afternoon. And get the car."

"Sir?"

"I said get the car."

Down on the street, the air tasted sweet. Elle took a deep breath.

"Are you okay?" Carlyn asked, watching her closely.

"I have thirty million dollars and I'm single," Elle said. She put her sunglasses back on. "I've never been better."

But as she walked toward the waiting Uber, her hand drifted to her chest, pressing against the spot where her heart beat a frantic, painful rhythm.