The screen of my phone cast a harsh blue glow across the dark sheets of the bed.

I refreshed the browser.

"The Midnight Kiss" held the number one spot on the trending list. Forty-two million views. It was barely two in the morning.

I scrolled down to the top comment.

*I cried when she smiled and said Happy New Year.*

A notification popped up at the top of the screen. Damon, again. Thirty missed calls. Forty-seven text messages. I swiped them away without reading a single word.

I stood and walked into the walk-in closet. I pulled my silver carry-on from the top shelf and opened it on the island counter.

My hands didn't shake. My eyes remained completely dry.

I tossed in my passport. I grabbed the external hard drive containing my master files. I folded the three endorsement contracts I had signed yesterday, tucking them into the front pocket. Finally, I unclasped my mother’s gold pendant from my neck and dropped it into a velvet pouch.

"Wren, please!" Damon’s voice came muffled through the heavy oak door. His fists pounded a relentless rhythm against the wood. "Open the door! We can fix this."

I grabbed two cashmere sweaters and shoved them into the suitcase.

"It’s not what you think!" he shouted, his voice cracking. "That was Cressida Lin. She’s my agency’s new client. I had too much scotch at the mixer, Wren. I don't even know how it happened. I swear to you!"

"She threw herself at me," Damon continued, his tone desperate. "I tried to push her away. You have to believe me. Wren, say something!"

I paused, staring at the zipper of my bag.

Cressida Lin. So that was the name of the stranger who'd had her legs wrapped around my husband.

He'd just handed it to me himself, panicking, not even realizing the internet had already pulled her face from the stream and tagged her in under an hour. Or maybe he was just that drunk.

"Wren, talk to me!" Damon pleaded, his tone dropping from frantic to a pathetic whine. "I love you. You know I love you."

I grabbed the metal tab and pulled it all the way to the end. The sharp zip sliced through his apologies.

I gripped the handle of my luggage and unlocked the bedroom door.

Damon practically fell forward as the door swung inward. He lunged, his fingers grasping for my left wrist.

I shifted my weight, stepping back just enough that his hand caught empty air.

"Don't touch me," I said.

I didn't look at his face. I didn't need to see the red-rimmed eyes or the panic setting into his jaw. I kept my gaze fixed straight ahead, walking into the living room.

Cressida Lin sat perched on the edge of my white sectional sofa. She had her arms wrapped around her chest. Her blonde hair was a tangled mess, and she stared at the floor, refusing to meet my eyes.

"Wren, where are you going?" Damon asked, scrambling to his feet to follow me. "You can't leave. The press is already gathering downstairs in the lobby. We need a unified front."

I stopped directly in front of the coffee table.

"A unified front?" I asked.

"We release a statement," he said quickly, stepping into my peripheral vision. "We say it was a misunderstanding. A stunt. A promotional teaser for a new project. Something. Anything!"

"A promotional teaser for infidelity?" I asked.

"We can spin it!" Damon insisted, reaching for my arm again. "My PR team is already drafting a press release. Just stay here. Don't walk out that door."

I turned my head and looked down at Cressida. She flinched.

"Cressida," I said, my voice perfectly even.

She slowly raised her head. Mascara stained her cheeks.

"I hope the new representation contract was worth the public debut," I told her. "Make sure you ask Damon for the premium package. You've earned it. Happy New Year."

Cressida let out a sharp sob and buried her face in her hands.

"Wren, stop!" Damon yelled. "You're humiliating her!"

I gripped my suitcase handle tighter. "I haven't done a thing. You both managed that entirely on your own."

I turned toward the private elevator. I pressed the button for the underground garage.

"You walk out those doors, and we lose everything!" Damon shouted, stepping in front of the elevator panel. "The sponsors will drop us. The whole empire goes up in smoke."

"Move, Damon."

"I made a mistake!" he roared.

"Move."

The elevator dinged. The doors slid open. I pushed past his shoulder, rolling my bag into the steel cabin, and hit the button for the basement.

Damon slammed his hand against the closing doors, but they clamped shut, sealing him on the other side.

The garage was freezing. Concrete pillars stretched out into the shadows.

I walked toward my black SUV, the wheels of my luggage rumbling against the pavement.

"Wren! Wait!"

I stopped by the trunk. Maren came sprinting out of the stairwell, her phone clutched to her chest. Her eyes were red, and she was panting heavily.

"Maren," I said. "Go home. Get some sleep."

"How can I sleep?" she cried, closing the distance between us. "My phone hasn't stopped ringing for two hours. The PR agencies are losing their minds. The New Year’s brand deals..." She choked on a sob. "Are they all ruined? Did we just lose every single contract?"

I popped the trunk and hoisted my suitcase inside. The heavy thud echoed off the concrete walls.

"No," I said.

Maren wiped her nose with the back of her sleeve. "What do you mean, no? The 'Power Couple' image is dead, Wren. They paid for the perfect marriage."

I closed the trunk and turned to face her.

"They paid for attention, Maren," I said. "And right now, we have all of it."

She stared at me, her mouth slightly open. "So... what do I tell the sponsors?"

"Tell them all current contracts are void," I instructed, pulling my car keys from my pocket. "From today on, every single brand deal gets repriced."

"Repriced?" Maren whispered. "Wren, they're going to demand refunds. They sponsored a happily married couple."

"They sponsored a narrative," I corrected her, opening the driver's side door. "The narrative just evolved. My value just changed. I'm no longer half of a perfect couple. I'm the woman who smiled while her world burned. That’s a survivor story, Maren. Women buy survivor stories."

Maren stopped crying. She stared at me, the gears turning in her head.

"Cancel my morning meetings," I told her. "I'll call you at noon."

I slid into the leather seat and pulled the door shut.

I pressed the ignition button. The engine roared to life.

The digital clock on the dashboard read 4:17 AM.

I picked up my phone from the passenger seat and checked the screen one last time.

The livestream clip had just crossed ninety million views.

I shifted the car into drive and pulled out of the parking space. As I drove up the ramp toward the exit, I caught sight of the penthouse windows in my rearview mirror.

A solitary figure stood silhouetted against the glass, staring down at the street. Damon.

I didn't look up.

I pressed my foot onto the gas pedal, the tires gripping the asphalt as I sped into the dark city streets. The empire wasn't gone. It was just mine now. But building the next chapter required a stop I hadn't planned on making.

The pounding rattled the heavy brass hinges of the hotel suite door. I threw off the crisp white duvet, my bare feet hitting the hardwood floor.

"Open up!" Sloane Beckett shouted from the hallway.

I undid the deadbolt. My agent stormed past me, ignoring my unbrushed hair and silk sleepwear. She dropped her silver laptop onto the glass dining table with a loud smack.

"Seventeen," Sloane announced. She tapped the screen with a scarlet fingernail. "Look at the inbox."

I tied the belt of my robe. "Good morning to you, too, Sloane."

"Forget morning. Look at the names."

I leaned over the glowing screen. Prada. Cartier. La Mer. The three luxury holdouts who had ignored my introductory emails for two years.

"They want you," Sloane said, pulling out a chair and sitting down. "All of them. Exclusive contracts. Seven-figure advances."

"Yesterday, Cartier told us I was too 'suburban wife' for their new campaign."

"Yesterday, you were a suburban wife. Today, you are the Ice Queen of Manhattan." Sloane spun the laptop toward me. A video looped on an endless feed. It was my face from last night. The exact fraction of a second before I spoke the words.

"They are calling it the Calloway Pause," Sloane explained, her voice vibrating with aggressive excitement. "The internet is dissecting that micro-expression. You didn't break. You didn't scream. You smiled. They don't want the victim, Wren. They want the woman who watched her husband burn his life down and just wished the world a Happy New Year."

"I wasn't trying to make a statement," I said, walking toward the window. The morning sun glared off the neighboring skyscrapers. "I just wanted the camera off."

"It doesn't matter what you wanted," Sloane argued, following me. "It matters what they saw. Prada wants you to front their new line. Cartier is offering a bespoke diamond collection named after you. They see power, Wren. We need to strike while the iron is blindingly hot."

I turned away from the window and walked into the bathroom. I braced my hands on the cold marble sink.

The mirror reflected a stranger. My eyes were bloodshot. The skin around them was puffy and bruised with exhaustion. But my cheeks were completely dry. Not a single tear track broke the surface of my skin.

Sloane leaned against the bathroom doorframe, crossing her arms. "Damon called me."

I turned the brass faucet. Cold water rushed over the porcelain. "Did he?"

"Three times since sunrise. He wants your room number. He says he needs to explain."

I splashed the freezing water onto my face, the shock waking my nerves. I reached for a thick white towel. "I'll do the meetings. I'll sign the contracts. But I have one condition."

"Name it."

"No one asks about my husband," I said, patting my skin dry. "No interviewers. No brand reps. The topic of Damon Vance is dead."

Sloane nodded, already typing frantically on her phone. "Done. What about Damon?"

"Tell him to save his breath," I replied, tossing the damp towel onto the counter. "From today on, he talks to my lawyer."

***

Thirty minutes later, the espresso machine hissed in the corner of the lobby cafe. The scent of roasted beans filled the air.

Adrian Hale sat in a secluded booth, a leather briefcase resting beside his polished oxfords. I slid into the green velvet seat opposite him.

"Adrian."

"Wren." He pulled a manila folder from his bag and slid it across the polished wood table. "I drafted the preliminary asset division. Considering the highly public nature of his infidelity, we have immense leverage. I listed everything."

I opened the folder. Three pages of dense spreadsheets stared back at me.

"The Tribeca penthouse," Adrian pointed to the top line. "The Hamptons estate. Fifty percent of his talent agency equity. The joint investment accounts. And the jewelry."

I pulled a black fountain pen from my purse.

"He will fight the agency equity," Adrian warned, watching my hand carefully. "But we can force a settlement if we threaten a prolonged discovery phase. We can subpoena his communications with Cressida Lin."

I pressed the pen tip to the paper.

I drew a thick, aggressive line through 'Tribeca Penthouse'.

Adrian frowned, sitting up straighter. "Wren?"

I moved down the page. A sharp slash through 'Hamptons Estate'. Another heavy stroke through 'Agency Equity'. I didn't stop until I crossed out the jewelry collection and the offshore investment accounts.

"What are you doing?" Adrian asked. His professional calm cracked, replaced by genuine alarm.

I flipped to the second page and crossed out two more commercial properties.

"I don't want his money," I said, my voice entirely flat. "I don't want the houses."

"You are entitled to half of the marital estate. He humiliated you."

"He humiliated himself." I found the bottom of the third page. One single line item remained untouched. I circled it twice, pressing hard enough to indent the paper.

I closed the folder and pushed it back across the table.

Adrian opened it. His eyes scanned the ruined spreadsheets, tracking the black lines until they hit the bottom of the final page. He stared at the circled text. His jaw tightened, then unclenched.

"Are you serious?" he asked, looking up at me in disbelief. "You're walking away from at least forty million dollars for... this?"

"I am entirely serious."

"Wren, this is highly unusual. A judge might even question it. People don't trade generational wealth for this kind of asset. You built that empire with him. You deserve the capital."

"Capital can be rebuilt," I countered, leaning forward. "If I take his money, the narrative becomes about a scorned wife getting a massive payout. I become a cliche. I lose the leverage Sloane is currently using to secure my new contracts."

"So you want to bankrupt him in a different way," Adrian observed, a hint of respect entering his tone.

"Make it happen, Adrian."

"He won't give this up easily," Adrian cautioned, tapping the circled word with his index finger. "He values this more than the real estate. It's his pride. It's the cornerstone of his entire public identity."

"I know what he values." I picked up my ceramic mug and took a sip of black coffee. "That's exactly why I want it."

A sharp crash shattered the quiet hum of the cafe.

A busboy had dropped a tray of water glasses near the entrance, but my attention snapped past the mess.

Beyond the glass double doors of the hotel lobby, a crowd of paparazzi pressed against the velvet barricades. Flashbulbs strobed like a violent lightning storm, illuminating the dim morning light.

Standing in the center of the chaos, shoving a photographer's heavy camera lens out of his face, was Damon.

His designer suit was severely wrinkled. His dark hair stood up at odd angles. He looked frantic, his chest heaving as his eyes scanned the expansive lobby.

Then, he turned his head toward the cafe.

His gaze locked onto mine through the thick glass.

Damon froze. The desperate anger in his expression morphed into something brittle and dangerous. His eyes dropped to the table, landing squarely on Adrian Hale.

Adrian followed my line of sight and shifted in his velvet seat. "Is that him?"

Damon planted his hand flat against the glass door, his knuckles turning stark white as he shoved it open.