After an unknown amount of time, the tears finally stopped.
Breanna stood up, walked to the living room, and stood at the window. The storm had weakened to a drizzle, Manhattan's lights smearing through the wet glass like watercolors.
She opened the balcony door.
The October wind cut through her damp dress, rain misting her face. She gripped the metal railing and looked down-fifteen stories to the street below.
It was Hartwell's Maybach. It hadn't left. It was parked two blocks away, just outside the halo of a streetlight, its engine off. A silent black shape in the wet gloom. She watched the car for a full five minutes, until the engine roared to life, headlights cutting through the night, and the vehicle disappeared around the corner.
She closed the balcony door. Her teeth chattered slightly.
The shower burned, water as hot as she could stand, pounding her shoulders until the skin pinked. She stood under the spray and saw his face alternating in her mind-the contempt in the study. Something didn't fit.
He's lying.
She dressed in cashmere and cotton and walked to the dining table. The torn settlement papers lay where she'd left them. She smoothed them flat, read the terms again, and felt something shift in her chest.
Not acceptance. Not resignation.
Rage. Directed, purposeful, finally hers.
Morning arrived gray and clean, storm-washed. Breanna sat on the sofa with her phone, scrolling through contacts she hadn't used in years. Hartwell's name appeared at the top. She kept scrolling.
Colton Harvey. Chief of Staff. The man who booked Hartwell's flights, managed his calendar, knew all his secrets.
Her thumb hovered over the name. For a moment, her breath caught. It had been months since she'd initiated a call to anyone but a concierge or a reservation line. Her world had become so small. The thought almost made her drop the phone. But then the image of the torn papers, of his cold eyes, flashed in her mind. The hesitation vanished, replaced by a cold resolve. She pressed the call button.
Three rings. Four.
"Mrs. Rogers." Colton's voice carried the particular caution of a man who'd heard rumors. "Good morning."
"Colton." She made her voice steel, the way Hartwell had taught her, back when he'd loved her ambition. "Blue Bottle Coffee. Central Park West. Ten o'clock." She paused, let the silence stretch. "Don't tell my husband."
The line hummed with his hesitation. "Mrs. Rogers, I don't think-"
"Ten o'clock, Colton. Or my next call is to the New York Post's gossip columnist. I'm sure they'd love to hear about Hartwell's three-month 'business' trip to Paris right before filing for a surprise divorce."
She ended the call.
