Waiters in crisp black tailcoats moved silently around the long dining table. They carried heavy silver trays, serving the first course.

A waiter stopped next to Aubree. He carefully placed a deep bone-china bowl in front of her. It was filled to the brim with boiling hot lobster bisque. Thick steam rose from the orange liquid, carrying the rich scent of butter and cream.

The dining room was dead quiet, save for the faint clinking of silver spoons against porcelain.

Allyson picked up her crystal wine glass. She held it up, looking across the table at Aubree with a sickly sweet smile. "To new beginnings," she said.

Aubree placed her silver spoon down on the table. Courtesy demanded she return the gesture. She reached her right hand out toward her water goblet.

Suddenly, Allyson stood up. She leaned her upper body across the table, pretending to reach for the silver salt shaker near the centerpiece. But instead of grabbing the silver, Allyson faked a sudden, clumsy stumble. She let out a soft gasp, her arm flailing outward to catch her balance. As she moved, her elbow swung hard and fast, slamming directly into the heavy china bowl sitting precariously close to the table's edge.

The heavy china tipped over instantly.

The entire bowl of boiling, thick bisque poured off the edge of the table. The scalding liquid crashed directly onto Aubree's lap.

The heavy tweed fabric of her dress absorbed the boiling soup immediately, trapping the extreme heat directly against the sensitive skin of her thighs.

Aubree shot up from her chair. The heavy wooden chair tipped backward and crashed onto the hardwood floor with a deafening bang.

She opened her mouth wide, her facial muscles contorting in absolute agony. But her paralyzed vocal cords failed her. No sound came out. She could only gasp violently, her chest heaving as the skin on her legs began to blister and burn.

At that exact second, Allyson let out a piercing, blood-curdling scream.

Allyson grabbed her own right hand, clutching it to her chest. A few tiny drops of the soup had splashed onto the back of her knuckles.

Godfrey dropped his napkin. He shoved his chair back so hard it scraped against the floor. He rushed around the table and grabbed Allyson by the shoulders.

"Let me see," he demanded, his voice thick with panic. He gently pulled her hand away from her chest, staring at the small red spots on her skin.

Genevieve jumped up from her seat. "Call a doctor! Get the car!" she screamed at the butler.

Aubree fell to her knees on the floor. Her hands shook violently as she tried to pull the boiling, sticky fabric away from her skin. The pain was blinding, a white-hot fire eating through her flesh. Cold sweat poured down her forehead.

She lifted her head, her vision completely blurred by tears of pure agony. She looked at Godfrey.

Godfrey did not look at her. He did not even glance in her direction.

He bent down, scooped Allyson up into his arms, and turned toward the door. "Tell the driver to pull up to the front!" he roared at the staff.

He ran out of the dining room, carrying Allyson like a fragile piece of glass.

Genevieve ran after them, turning her head back just long enough to sneer at Aubree. "You clumsy, stupid girl!"

The heavy dining room doors swung shut.

The massive room was suddenly empty, except for Augusta sitting frozen at the head of the table, and Aubree kneeling in a puddle of soup.

Fiona, the head housekeeper, rushed into the room carrying a stack of wet, ice-cold towels. She dropped to her knees beside Aubree and began pressing the towels against the ruined dress.

Aubree stared at the closed wooden doors. She listened to the distant roar of the Maybach's engine starting up and speeding down the driveway.

The burning pain in her legs slowly started to turn into a dull, throbbing numbness. Inside her chest, the last remaining piece of her heart cracked completely in half.

She reached out and pushed Fiona's hands away. She grabbed the edge of the table and pulled herself up. Her legs shook violently, but her eyes were completely dry and hollow.

Aubree locked the door to the guest bathroom. She refused Fiona's offer to call a local doctor.

She sat on the cold edge of the porcelain bathtub. She reached down and turned the faucet, letting the freezing cold water blast out of the showerhead. She dragged her legs under the stream.

The icy water hit the massive, angry red blisters covering her thighs. The temperature shock was brutal, sending violent shivers down her spine, but it slowly pulled the heat out of her burned flesh.

She grabbed a thick cotton towel and bit down on it hard, muffling her own ragged breathing as the pain radiated through her nervous system.

An hour later, Fiona knocked softly and handed a medical kit through the cracked door. Aubree sat on the small guest bed, her hands trembling as she smeared thick, white burn ointment over the raw skin. Every touch felt like a knife slicing through her nerves.

Once her legs were wrapped in loose gauze, she collapsed back onto the pillows. She felt completely drained, a hollow shell of a human being.

Outside the window, the estate was pitch black. The Maybach had not returned.

She rolled her head to the side. Her cell phone lit up on the nightstand.

A news notification popped up on the screen. The bold black letters of the headline burned into her retinas.

Wall Street Titan Rushes Blonde Beauty to Hamptons Private ER Midnight Visit.

Aubree reached out and tapped the screen. A high-definition paparazzi photo loaded.

It showed Godfrey walking out of the hospital sliding doors. His arm was wrapped tightly around Allyson's shoulders, pulling her into his chest to shield her from the camera flashes. The look on his face was one of absolute, protective terror.

Aubree's eyes darted to the sub-headline beneath the glaring photo. It mentioned that the exclusive photos were obtained via an anonymous tip from a 'close family associate.' The realization settled over her like a heavy blanket of snow. In the dead of night, at a highly secured private clinic, paparazzi didn't just happen to be waiting. Allyson or Genevieve had deliberately called the press, orchestrating the spectacle to ensure the entire world saw exactly who truly held Godfrey's heart and who the real Mrs. Valentine was.

Aubree stared at the photo. She did not cry. Her tear ducts felt completely dried out.

She realized in that exact moment that she was nothing. In this marriage, she was lower than dirt.

She closed the browser. She opened her text messages and scrolled down until she found the name Cleo Blum, her best friend from college.

Cleo, Aubree typed, her thumbs moving quickly over the glass. Is that pop-up dessert stand idea still on the table?

The three grey dots appeared immediately. Cleo replied seconds later.

Yes! Did you finally wake up?

Aubree stared at the ceiling, feeling the dull throb of the burns on her legs.

Yes. I need money. I need my own life.

Cleo sent back a string of heart emojis. Let's do it.

Aubree opened her notes app and began typing out a list of bulk baking supplies. Flour, sugar, vanilla extract, packaging boxes. She looked down at her hands. They were slightly rough from years of doing chores Godfrey's staff refused to do for her. She clenched her fists, feeling a new, solid weight settling in her chest.

The sun began to rise, casting a pale grey light through the curtains.

Downstairs, the heavy front door opened, and footsteps echoed in the foyer. They were back.

Aubree did not move from the bed. She kept her eyes on her tablet, designing a simple logo for a bakery box.

One week later.

The morning air in Brooklyn was crisp and cool. Aubree stood behind a folding table on a crowded street in Williamsburg. She wore a pair of faded blue jeans and a simple canvas apron.

Cleo placed a large metal tray of freshly baked red velvet cupcakes onto the table.

Aubree took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the smell of sugar and roasted coffee from the neighboring stalls. For the first time in three years, the tight band around her chest loosened. She smiled.

The Williamsburg street market was packed with bodies. The bright morning sun reflected off the colorful canvas tents lining the sidewalk.

Aubree reached for a small, brown cardboard box. She carefully picked up a lemon tart with a pair of silver tongs and placed it inside. She folded the lid shut and handed it across the table to a young college student wearing a backwards baseball cap.

She smiled brightly, her eyes crinkling at the corners, and raised her hands to sign, Thank you. Have a great day.

Cleo stood next to her, taking a five-dollar bill from the boy. "She says thanks, enjoy!" Cleo translated loudly over the noise of the crowd.

Aubree wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead with the back of her wrist. The thick gauze wrapped around her thighs rubbed uncomfortably against her jeans, sending dull spikes of pain up her legs, but she ignored it. Her chest felt light.

At the far end of the street, the crowd began to part.

A line of heavy, black SUVs slowly rolled down the narrow, congested road. In the center of the convoy was a massive black Maybach with a vanity license plate.

Inside the Maybach, the air conditioning blasted silently. Godfrey leaned his head back against the leather headrest, his eyes closed, rubbing his temples.

In the front passenger seat, Miles Mercer looked out the window at the market stalls. He suddenly stiffened.

Miles turned his head slowly. "Boss," he said, his voice low and cautious. "I believe that is Mrs. Valentine on the sidewalk."

Godfrey's eyes snapped open. His dark eyebrows pulled together in a hard line.

He reached out and pressed a silver button on the door panel. The thick, tinted window rolled down halfway, letting the loud noise of the street flood into the quiet cabin.

His eyes scanned the crowd and instantly locked onto the small folding table.

He saw Aubree. She was wearing a cheap, stained apron. She was handing a box to a young man, and she was smiling.

It was a massive, genuine smile. Her teeth were showing, her face glowing with a vibrant energy he had never seen inside their penthouse.

A sharp, violent spike of irritation stabbed Godfrey right in the center of his chest. The muscle in his jaw began to tick rapidly.

He watched as she raised her hands and signed to the crowd. People were pointing at her, whispering.

To Godfrey's warped, manic brain, she was putting herself on display like a circus animal. She was dragging the Valentine name through the mud on a dirty Brooklyn street.

His breathing turned shallow and fast. He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a heavy metal Zippo lighter, flipping the lid open and shut with his thumb. Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

"Do you want me to stop the car, sir? Have her get in?" Miles asked, watching Godfrey's knuckles turn white around the lighter.

Godfrey let out a dark, cruel laugh. His eyes were entirely black.

"No," Godfrey spat. "Let her keep selling smiles on the street. I want to see exactly how cheap she is willing to make herself."

On the sidewalk, the hair on the back of Aubree's neck suddenly stood up. She felt a heavy physical weight pressing against her skin.

She looked past the customer and stared straight at the street.

She saw the Maybach. She saw the half-open window. And she saw Godfrey's eyes staring directly at her, filled with pure, unadulterated rage.

The smile fell off her face instantly. Her fingers went numb, and she nearly dropped the stack of empty pastry boxes.

They stared at each other across fifteen feet of crowded asphalt.

Godfrey did not blink. He slowly pressed the button, and the tinted glass rolled up, cutting off his face.

The Maybach accelerated slightly, rolling past the stall and disappearing down the street like a massive black shadow.

Cleo bumped her shoulder. "Hey, you okay? You look like you just saw a ghost."

Aubree's stomach tied itself into a painful knot. She shook her head quickly, forcing herself to look down at the table, her hands trembling as she rearranged the cupcakes.