The hallway was quiet, but the air inside the penthouse felt charged, like the atmosphere before a lightning strike.
Boston and Genevieve scrambled into the elevator. Boston was still clutching the front of his trousers, his face a mask of purple rage. Genevieve was muttering curses, fixing her pearls with trembling hands.
Florrie stood in the doorway, Buster at her side, watching them retreat.
Just as the elevator doors began to slide shut, Florrie remembered.
"The key card!" she shouted.
Boston looked up. His eyes met hers through the narrowing gap. The hate in them was pure, distilled.
He reached into his wet pocket. He pulled out the black access card to her building.
He didn't hand it over. He threw it.
It clattered onto the marble floor of the hallway, sliding to a stop near Florrie's feet.
"Keep your damn fortress," he spat.
The doors closed. The numbers above the elevator began to descend. PH... 40... 39...
Florrie stared at the digital display until it hit L.
Then, her legs gave out.
She sank to the floor, the adrenaline crashing out of her system all at once. Her hands, which had been so steady holding the pen, began to shake violently.
"Miss Jefferson!" Cherry came running from the kitchen.
Florrie waved her away. "I'm fine. I'm fine."
She wasn't fine. She felt hollowed out. She wrapped her arms around Buster's neck, burying her face in his thick, warm fur. He smelled like dog shampoo and safety.
She stayed there for a minute, just breathing. Inhale. Exhale. You survived. You won.
But it didn't feel like a victory. It felt like an amputation.
She lifted her head. The hallway was empty. The Settlement Agreement was on the table. She had the house. She had her mother's trust back.
But she didn't have her dignity. Not completely. Not while her dress was currently being fitted onto Asia's body. Not while her engagement ring was still in her jewelry box, a heavy, glittering lie.
She stood up. The shaking stopped. A new resolve hardened in her eyes.
"Cherry," she said, her voice crisp again. "Call the building management. Tell them to change the penthouse codes immediately. And put the entire Travis family-Boston, Genevieve, his sister Brittnie-on the permanent ban list. If they step foot in the lobby, I want them arrested for trespassing."
"Yes, ma'am," Cherry said, already dialing.
Florrie walked into her bedroom. She went to the safe.
She took out the engagement ring box. She opened it. The emerald stared back at her, cold and green.
She went to her jewelry armoire. She swept everything Boston had ever given her into a pile. The diamond tennis bracelet. The Cartier love bangle. The pearl earrings.
They were beautiful. They were expensive.
They were garbage.
She grabbed a plain brown paper grocery bag from the kitchen. She shoved the jewelry inside. No velvet pouches. No boxes. Just loose diamonds rattling against cheap paper.
"Where are you going?" Cherry asked, hanging up the phone.
"To the hospital," Florrie said. She pulled on a pair of heavy combat boots. She traded her suit jacket for a leather trench coat.
"Florrie, no," Cherry pleaded. "Don't go there. It's a shark tank. They'll eat you alive."
"Let them try," Florrie said.
She walked to the storage closet near the entrance. It was filled with leftover party supplies from the engagement party she had hosted last month.
Her eyes landed on a box of long, sparkler candles. The kind meant for champagne bottles. The kind that burned hot and bright.
She grabbed a handful. She shoved them into her coat pocket along with a silver lighter.
The cold metal wires in her pocket didn't feel like whimsical toys. They felt like fuses.
"Why do you need those?" Cherry asked, eyeing the sparklers warily.
"For a celebration," Florrie said. A dark, reckless smile touched her lips. "If they want a wedding, I'll give them fireworks."
"Florrie, please..."
"Stay here with Buster," Florrie ordered.
She walked out the door. She didn't look back.
The elevator ride down was smooth. The mirrored walls reflected a woman who looked like she was going to war.
Outside, the sky had turned a bruised purple. Thunder rumbled in the distance. The storm was coming.
Florrie stepped out into the humid air. She hailed a cab.
"Mount Sinai Hospital," she told the driver. "And step on it."
As the city blurred past the window, Florrie touched the sparklers in her pocket.
She wasn't just going to return the ring. She was going to burn the bridge so thoroughly that even the ashes wouldn't be able to find their way back.
