Eloise bypassed Moira in the penthouse foyer, ignoring the housekeeper's fake, polite greeting. She marched straight into the master closet.
She ignored the racks of Chanel, Dior, and custom gowns Bronson had bought her. She pulled out a battered, scuffed suitcase from the very back-the one she had brought with her from Los Angeles three years ago. She threw in jeans, plain sweaters, and basic toiletries.
As she dragged the suitcase toward the bedroom door, Moira stepped into the frame, blocking her path.
"Mrs. Ortega," Moira said, her tone perfectly even but laced with a hard edge. "Mr. Ortega has not authorized your departure."
Eloise stopped. She looked at the woman who had pretended to care for her for years. "Move, Moira. Or I will call the NYPD right now and report you for false imprisonment."
Eloise's eyes were feral. Moira swallowed hard, intimidated by the sudden shift in the docile wife. She took a half-step back.
Eloise pushed past her, dragging the wheels of the suitcase over the marble floor, and rode the elevator down to the garage.
Miles away, in the Ortega Technologies tower, Bronson sat in his leather chair. He listened to Moira's report over the phone.
"Let her go," Bronson said, his eyes fixed on the city skyline. He hung up and pressed the intercom. "Alex. Get in here."
Alex rushed in.
"Freeze every credit card attached to her name," Bronson ordered, his voice devoid of emotion.
Alex hesitated. "Sir, she doesn't carry cash. She'll be on the street."
Bronson smirked. "She's too fragile for the street. She'll last forty-eight hours before she's crying on her knees in this office. Next, call CAA, WME, and every major casting director in Hollywood. Tell them if Eloise Mendoza gets so much as an audition, Ortega Tech pulls all funding from their studios."
He leaned back in his chair. He was going to cut off her air supply.
In Midtown Manhattan, the sky broke open. Freezing rain poured down on the concrete.
Eloise dragged her suitcase into the lobby of a mid-tier chain hotel, her hair plastered to her face. She walked up to the front desk and handed the clerk her black Amex.
"One room, please," she said, her teeth chattering.
The clerk swiped the card. The machine beeped aggressively. "I'm sorry, ma'am. This card is declined."
Eloise frowned. "Try this one." She handed over a Visa.
Declined.
She handed over a Mastercard.
Declined. Account frozen.
The people in line behind her began to sigh and mutter. Heat rushed to Eloise's cheeks. A crushing wave of humiliation washed over her. She grabbed her cards, mumbled an apology, and walked back out into the freezing rain.
She stood on the curb, the cold seeping into her bones. A sharp cramp hit her lower abdomen. She pressed her hand against her stomach, terror gripping her. The baby. She couldn't freeze out here.
She ripped open her wallet. Tucked in the back were a few crumpled hundred-dollar bills-tip money she kept for valets.
She flagged down a beat-up yellow cab. "Queens," she told the driver. "The cheapest motel you can find."
