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.

The bass thumped in Elle's chest, syncing with her heartbeat. She danced, letting the music wash away the thinking part of her brain. Men approached, drawn like moths to the silver flame of her dress. She pushed them away with a smile, spinning out of reach.

She felt free. Or at least, she was acting free.

Up on the mezzanine, Hunt hadn't blinked in five minutes. He tracked her movement through the crowd.

He saw Lance Ford weaving through the dancers, two cocktails in his hands.

Hunt set his glass down on the table with a thack.

Lance intercepted Elle near the edge of the dance floor. He said something. Elle shook her head, turning away.

Lance persisted. He stepped into her path. As a waiter squeezed past them with a tray of sparklers, creating a distraction, Lance's hand hovered over the drink in his left hand.

It was a subtle movement. A flick of the wrist. A pinch of white powder falling into the glass.

From the floor, it was invisible.

From the balcony, it was clear as day.

Hunt's blood turned to ice. He shoved the table aside, ignoring the crash of glassware.

"Noble?" one of the bankers shouted.

Hunt vaulted over the back of the booth and sprinted for the stairs.

Downstairs, Elle was thirsty. The dancing had left her parched.

Lance smiled apologetically. "My bad. Just let me buy you a water. Or this... lemonade?"

He held out the drink.

Elle hesitated. She looked for Bree, but the crowd had swallowed her. She was hot, tired, and her throat was dry.

"Fine," she said. "Thanks."

She took the glass. She drank half of it in one long swallow.

Three minutes later, the world tilted.

The lights started to smear, turning into long, neon ribbons. Her knees felt like they were made of cotton.

"Whoa there," Lance's voice sounded distorted, like he was speaking underwater. He wrapped an arm around her waist. "You had too much. Let's get you some air."

"No," Elle mumbled. Her tongue felt too big for her mouth. "Bree..."

"Bree's outside," Lance lied smoothly. He started dragging her toward the side exit, the one that led to the attached hotel elevators.

Elle tried to dig her heels in, but her legs wouldn't obey. Panic flared in her chest, cold and sharp, but she couldn't scream. Her voice was a whisper.

"Stop..."

Lance pushed the door open. The hallway was quieter. The elevator bank was just ahead.

"Almost there, sweetheart," Lance grunted, shifting his grip to haul her dead weight.

He reached for the elevator button.

A hand clamped onto his wrist. A hand that felt like a steel vice.

Lance spun around.

Hunt Noble stood there. His chest was heaving, his tie gone, his eyes black holes of rage.

"Let. Her. Go."

Lance tried to laugh, but it came out as a squeak. "Hunt? Hey. She's wasted. She asked me to take her upstairs. Don't be a cockblock."

Elle lifted her head. Through the blur, she saw a dark figure. A familiar scent-sandalwood and cold air-hit her.

"Help..." she whimpered.

The sound snapped the last thread of Hunt's control.

He didn't speak. He pulled back his fist and drove it into the center of Lance's face.

There was a wet, sickening crunch of cartilage.

Lance dropped Elle. He flew backward, slamming into the elevator doors, blood exploding from his nose.