The hospital room smelled like bleach and stale coffee. Morning light cut through the plastic blinds, casting sharp, bright squares onto the linoleum floor. I sat on the edge of the bed. The IV was out, leaving a purple and green bruise on the back of my hand. I stared at it. It throbbed slightly, a dull reminder of the chaos from the night before.
The heavy door clicked open. Dr. Ophelia Mitchell walked in. She didn't wear a white doctor’s coat. She wore her usual beige trench coat and a calm, unreadable expression. She didn't carry a clipboard or a notepad. She never did. She believed notes created a wall, and she never wanted walls between us.
She pulled up the chair Julien had used just hours ago. She sat down and crossed her legs. She didn't ask how I felt. She didn't offer a pitying smile. She just looked at my face, studying the stiff, defensive set of my shoulders.
“He called me unstable,” I said quietly. My voice sounded hollow in the sterile room. “He stood right there and told me I was embarrassing him.”
Dr. Mitchell rested her hands in her lap. “And what did you tell him?”
“Nothing.”
“Good.” She leaned forward slightly. Her dark eyes locked onto mine. “You didn't break because you're weak, Indie. You broke because you were strong for too long, for someone who didn't deserve it.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. I let out a breath I didn't even know I was holding. The tight, suffocating knot in my chest suddenly loosened. For years, I thought my mind was the problem. I thought my bipolar disorder was a personal failure. But it wasn't. It was a war wound. It was the heavy price of building Gavin's empire from the ground up.
I looked down at my bare ring finger. I had taken off my diamond wedding band in the ambulance. It now sat abandoned on the cheap plastic bedside table.
“I’m divorcing him,” I said. The words tasted clean. There was no hesitation.
Dr. Mitchell gave a single, firm nod. “Then it's time to wake up.”
An hour later, the discharge nurse stood by my bed. She was not happy. She handed me the Against Medical Advice forms with a tight, disapproving frown. “Dr. Evans strongly advised three more days of observation, Mrs. Edwards. Your cortisol levels are erratic.”
“I have a company to run,” I replied flatly. I took the pen and signed my name on the dotted line. The ink was black and bold.
I walked into the small hospital bathroom. My assistant, Kelly, had dropped off a garment bag earlier that morning. I unzipped it and pulled out my charcoal gray Tom Ford suit. I put it on. The structured shoulders felt like armor. I buttoned the crisp white silk blouse. I slipped my feet into my black stilettos. I looked in the mirror. My skin was pale, but my eyes were sharp and clear. The fog was gone. The broken, crying wife from last night was dead.
My phone buzzed on the sink. Three new text messages lit up the screen. They were all from Gavin.
*Are you done throwing your tantrum?*
*I'm going to the office. Don't call me.*
*Call my assistant if you need a ride home.*
Call his assistant. Call Salma.
I didn't reply. I didn't even flinch. I turned off the screen, dropped the phone into my leather tote, and walked out of the room.
I hailed a cab outside Mount Sinai. The tires hissed against the damp New York pavement. I stared out the window as we drove downtown. Edwards & Co. was located in a sleek, towering glass building in Midtown Manhattan. I paid the lease on that building. I negotiated the brutal terms with the landlords. I built the financial foundation that Gavin stood on to give his flashy speeches.
The cab pulled up to the curb. I paid the driver and stepped out. The crisp autumn air hit my face. I walked through the revolving glass doors and into the grand lobby.
The space was busy. Phones rang in the distance. Heels clicked on the polished marble floor. The head receptionist, Sarah, looked up from her computer screen. Her jaw literally dropped.
“Mrs. Edwards?” she stammered. Her eyes darted to my face, then to my sharp suit. “We... we thought you were on medical leave.”
“I'm feeling much better, Sarah,” I said smoothly. I didn't stop walking.
I swiped my keycard at the private executive elevator. The light flashed green. The heavy metal doors slid shut, cutting off the shocked whispers behind me. I pressed the button for the fiftieth floor. My heart beat a steady, rhythmic drum against my ribs. I wasn't shaking. I wasn't anxious. I was completely, terrifyingly focused.
The elevator chimed. The doors opened to the executive suite.
It smelled different. The subtle scent of espresso and lemon polish was gone. Instead, the air was thick with a heavy, sickly-sweet floral perfume. Salma’s perfume.
I walked down the long hallway. Employees froze in their tracks. A junior analyst dropped a stack of manila folders. They scattered across the carpet, but he didn't bend down to pick them up. He just stared at me. I ignored the stares. I kept my eyes fixed on the heavy oak door at the end of the hall. My office. The Chief Financial Officer suite.
I reached the door and pushed it open.
I stopped dead in the doorway. My fingers tightened around the brass handle until my knuckles turned white.
My mahogany desk was gone. My leather chairs were gone. The vintage globe my father gave me for my graduation was missing.
Instead, the room looked like a teenage girl's fantasy of power. Two blush pink velvet chairs sat in front of a cheap white lacquer desk. A fluffy pink rug covered the expensive hardwood floor. A monogrammed acrylic nameplate sat right in the center of the desk. It read: *Salma Boyd. Executive Assistant to the CEO.*
My eyes moved to the wall behind the desk. My framed Wharton degree used to hang there. Now, it was a gallery wall of photos. Salma and Gavin at a charity gala. Salma and Gavin clinking champagne glasses. Salma pouting at the camera, wearing the limited-edition Cartier necklace.
A hot wave of pure anger flared in my chest. But I pushed it down instantly. I turned it into solid ice. She didn't just sleep with my husband. She had moved into my space. She had erased my history from the company I built.
A voice came from the hallway behind me. It was high-pitched, nasal, and deeply annoyed.
“Who left the door open? I told maintenance not to touch my office!”
I turned around slowly.
Salma stood there. She held an iced matcha latte in one hand. She wore a tight red dress that belonged in a nightclub, not a corporate boardroom. Around her neck sat the Cartier necklace, sparkling under the fluorescent lights.
She saw me, and the color completely drained from her face.
