It was 2:00 AM in London.
Cash sat in his hotel suite, a tumbler of scotch in his hand. The IPO roadshow had been a success. The investors were eating out of his hand.
Chante was asleep in the bedroom, wrapped in 800-thread-count sheets.
Cash looked at his phone. No texts. No "Goodnight, I miss you." No "Did you eat?"
Isidora always texted.
The silence on his screen was an insult.
The alcohol buzzed in his head, making him reckless. He pulled up the number for Harper's landline-information his private investigator had scraped from the web hours ago.
In Brooklyn, the phone rang. It was a shrill, mechanical sound that cut through the loft.
Isidora was awake, sitting at Harper's desk, outlining the structure of a short-selling report. She stared at the phone.
She picked it up. "Hello?"
"Isi?" Cash's voice was slurred, thick with scotch and arrogance. "How's the squatting going? Enjoying the cockroaches?"
Isidora felt her fingers turn to ice. She gripped the receiver. "Mr. Ferguson. If this is about the divorce, call my lawyer."
Cash laughed. It was a wet, ugly sound. "Lawyer? With what money? I cut you off, Isidora. You can't even buy tampons right now."
The crudeness of it made her stomach churn. He was trying to humiliate her into submission.
"Is that what you think this is about?" she asked quietly. "Money?"
"Come home," Cash said, his voice shifting to a mock-soothing tone. "Apologize. We can talk about... the kid. I don't mind supporting you. I can afford a pet."
Isidora closed her eyes. "A pet."
"You're an orphan, Isidora," Cash spat, the venom surfacing. "You have no one. I gave you a life. I gave you a name."
"You stole my life," she said. Her voice didn't shake. "And now I'm taking it back."
"You have nothing!" Cash shouted.
"I have the truth," Isidora said.
She slammed the phone down. Then she reached behind the base station and yanked the cord out of the wall.
In London, Cash stared at his phone. The line was dead.
He roared, a sound of pure, frustrated rage, and hurled his scotch glass across the room. It shattered against the wall, amber liquid dripping down the silk wallpaper.
Chante appeared in the doorway, rubbing her eyes. "Cash? What's wrong?"
Cash looked at her. Her hair was messy. She looked needy.
He felt a sudden wave of revulsion. He pushed past her into the bathroom and locked the door.
In Brooklyn, Isidora stared at the disconnected phone. Her heart was racing, but her mind was clear.
She turned back to the computer. She typed the header of her document: Project Icarus: The Sun is Melting.
The next morning, Isidora put on Harper's leather jacket. It was too big in the shoulders, but it made her feel armored.
"We're not going to Tate's house yet," she told Harper. "I checked the pawn records online last night."
Harper blinked over her coffee. "You hacked the pawn shops?"
"Public records, if you know where to look," Isidora said grimly. "Frank sold the brooch three years ago. It ended up at L'Eclat."
"That bastard," Harper hissed.
"I need to see if it's still there," Isidora said. "I can't buy it. But I need to know it exists."
She walked out into the Brooklyn sunlight. She wasn't the wife anymore. She was the hunter.
In London, Cash woke up with a pounding headache. He remembered the phone call. He remembered the feeling of losing control.
He needed to reassert dominance. He needed to prove he didn't care.
He picked up his phone and called his personal shopper in New York.
"Go to L'Eclat," he rasped. "Buy something expensive. The most expensive vintage piece they have. Send it to Chante's apartment."
"Yes, Mr. Ferguson."
Cash hung up. He rubbed his temples. He would buy his way out of this feeling. He always did.
