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.

The apartment was small, cramped, and smelled of dust. It was Elle's old place, the one she had kept but never visited in three years. Boxes were stacked floor to ceiling.

Bree kicked the door open, holding two bottles of champagne like grenades.

"Freedom!" she screamed.

Elle laughed. It sounded a little rusty. She took a bottle.

"Let's get wasted," she said.

For the next two hours, the three of them-Elle, Carlyn, and Bree-turned the tiny living room into a dressing room. Clothes flew through the air.

Bree held up a dress. It was silver, short, and consisted mostly of fringe and bad intentions.

"This one," Bree said. "It'll blind them."

Elle hesitated. Hunt hated short dresses. He said they lacked class.

She grabbed the silver dress. "Why not?"

She pulled it on. The fringe shimmied with every movement. In the mirror, with her dark smoky eye makeup and the glittering dress, she didn't look like Hunt Noble's girlfriend. She looked dangerous.

Her phone buzzed. A notification from her bank. The transfer from Noble Media had cleared.

Thirty million dollars.

She stared at the number. It felt like monopoly money. It felt like the price tag on her dignity.

She opened her email and sent a message to the gallery owner in SoHo regarding a painting she had admired years ago. An abstract piece, chaotic and colorful. The kind of art Hunt called "messy."

I'll take it, she typed.

"Uber's here!" Carlyn yelled.

They piled into the car, a tangle of limbs and perfume.

"What if he's there?" Bree asked from the front seat. "The Vault is his turf."

"New York is a big city," Elle said, staring out the window. "What are the odds?"

The odds, as it turned out, were one hundred percent.

The Vault was dark, loud, and vibrated with bass that rattled the teeth. But up in the VIP mezzanine, it was a different world.

Hunt sat in the shadows of the private booth. A glass of whiskey sat untouched in his hand. Across from him, three investment bankers were talking about mergers.

"So regarding the acquisition..." one of them droned.

"Hmm," Hunt grunted. His eyes were fixed on the entrance downstairs.

He was waiting. He hated himself for it, but he was waiting.

Preston stood in the corner, looking like he wanted to be anywhere else.

The velvet ropes downstairs parted.

Elle walked in.

The disco lights hit her dress and she exploded into sparks. Silver fire. She threw her head back and laughed at something Bree said, her neck long and exposed.

Hunt's hand tightened around his glass until he feared it might shatter.

Lance Ford, a man Hunt had tolerated only because of his family's oil money, leaned over the railing.

"Whoa," Lance whistled. "Is that Elle Allison? Look at that."

Hunt turned his head slowly. He fixed Lance with a stare that could freeze magma.

"Don't," Hunt said.

Lance laughed, oblivious. "She's single now, right? Fair game."

"She's not game," Hunt said, his voice low.

"Relax, Noble. You threw her out. One man's trash..."

Hunt stood up. The chair scraped loudly against the floor. The bankers stopped talking.

Lance held up his hands. "Kidding. I'm going to get a drink."

He winked and headed for the stairs.

Hunt watched him go. Then he looked back at Elle. She was moving toward the dance floor, a beacon of light in the darkness.

She looked happy.

The sight made Hunt feel violent.