The next morning, the apartment was silent.
Isidora had placed a formal copy of the divorce papers, which she'd printed from the file on her laptop, on the entry table-right where Cash dropped his keys. It was a physical obstruction. He would have to touch it to leave.
She heard his footsteps on the stairs. Heavy. Confident.
Cash descended, wearing a navy suit that cost more than her foster father made in a year. Gavin was trailing behind him, reading from a tablet.
Cash walked past the table. He stepped over the document folder as if it were a piece of trash that had fallen from the ceiling.
Isidora stood at the bottom of the stairs. "Cash. You need to sign that. My lawyer is coming at noon."
Cash stopped. He turned to her, a look of pity on his face. He reached out, his fingers grazing her cheek.
Isidora flinched, pulling her head back.
Cash's hand froze in mid-air. His eyes hardened. "Stop this, Isi. I'm going to London for the roadshow. I don't have time for your little games."
"It's not a game," she said.
"Gavin," Cash said, not looking away from her. "Is the chopper ready?"
"Waiting on the pad, sir," Gavin said, staring at his shoes.
Cash straightened his tie. "I'll be back in a week. If you're still pouting when I get back, buy yourself a new bag. Or a car. Whatever fixes this."
He walked out the door. The heavy click of the lock resonated through the foyer.
Isidora stood there, feeling the absurdity of it. He hadn't even engaged. He had simply dismissed her existence as an inconvenience.
It was worse than anger. It was erasure.
She turned and walked to the closet. She bypassed the designer luggage. She reached to the top shelf and pulled out a battered canvas duffel bag. It was the bag she had brought with her when she moved in.
She packed efficiently. Jeans. Two hoodies from college. A photo of her mother. And a pair of worn-out ballet flats.
She looked at her left hand. The five-carat diamond weighed down her finger. It was cold and sharp.
She pulled it off.
She placed the ring on the nightstand next to the bed. It looked small and insignificant against the dark wood.
She zipped the bag. She slung it over her shoulder and walked to the elevator.
She pressed the call button. Nothing happened. The light didn't turn on.
She pressed it again. Harder.
"Mrs. Ferguson," a voice came over the intercom. It was Mrs. Higgins, the house manager. Her voice was metallic and clipped.
"The elevator isn't working," Isidora said.
"Mr. Ferguson gave instructions," Mrs. Higgins said. "No assets are to be removed from the premises until his return. The security system is in lockdown mode."
Isidora stared at the speaker. "I am not an asset. I am a person."
"The protocols are automated, ma'am. I cannot override them."
The line went dead.
Isidora felt a surge of cold fury, not the hot rush of panic. He hadn't just locked her in. He had reclassified her from 'wife' to 'disputed property.' He was treating her like a rogue employee stealing office supplies.
She looked at the elevator doors. Then she turned to the service door at the end of the hall.
The fire exit.
She pushed the heavy bar. The door groaned open. The stairwell was concrete, cold, and smelled of dust.
Forty floors.
Isidora stepped onto the landing. She paused on the first landing, kicking off the useless silk slippers and pulling on the flats from her bag. Practicality over comfort. Always. She gripped the canvas strap of her bag.
She began to walk down.
One flight. Two flights. Her knees began to ache by the twentieth floor. Her breath came in short gasps. But with every step down, the suffocating pressure of the penthouse lifted.
She wasn't descending. She was escaping.
