Beatrix locked the bathroom door.
The click of the deadbolt was the only sound in the room, loud and final.
She leaned back against the wood, sliding down until she hit the cold floor.
Her heart was doing acrobatics in her chest, thumping a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
He touched me.
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to banish the sensation of his hand on her wrist, the heat of his chest against her cheek.
It meant nothing.
It was a reflex.
He was just protecting his property value-didn't want a lawsuit if she cracked her head open.
She stripped off the heavy, sodden clothes, leaving them in a pile in the corner.
She dried herself with a towel that was fluffier than any blanket she owned.
She found a spare bathrobe in the cabinet-simple, white waffle-weave.
It was huge on her.
She rolled up the sleeves and cinched the belt tight, checking the mirror.
Her eyes were red-rimmed. Her skin was pale.
She looked like a ghost haunting a palace.
She unlocked the door and stepped out.
The bedroom was empty.
But the scent of cigar smoke lingered in the air, fresh and pungent.
He had been here.
Waiting?
Watching?
She hurried to the guest room down the hall, the one she had been assigned three years ago on their wedding night.
She closed the door and grabbed her phone from her purse.
A notification blinked on the screen.
It was from Jenny, her one friend left from college who hadn't abandoned her when the scandal broke.
Link attached: Page Six Exclusive.
Beatrix's stomach dropped.
She tapped the link.
"Wedding Bells Ringing? Carlyle Spears and Gene Golden Spotted at Vera Wang."
The photo was grainy, taken from across the street.
It showed Carlyle holding a door open.
Gene was stepping out, beaming, looking like a literal angel in cream cashmere.
The caption read: Sources say the ink won't even be dry on the Spears divorce before the new Mrs. Spears is crowned.
Beatrix stared at the photo.
She zoomed in on Carlyle's face.
He wasn't smiling.
He looked... intense. Focused.
"So that's why," she whispered to the empty room.
That's why he needed the divorce done now.
That's why he was so agitated.
He was in a rush to replace her.
A fresh wave of nausea hit her, but this time it wasn't from the bathwater.
It was pure, distilled heartbreak.
She couldn't stay here.
Not tonight.
Not with him just down the hall, smelling like her favorite bath salts and planning a wedding with another woman.
She opened her laptop and checked her email.
A message from the hospice administrator sat at the top.
RE: Overnight Accommodations.
Ms. Anderson, a family suite has opened up on the third floor. You are welcome to stay near your mother.
It was a sign.
She threw her toiletries into her bag.
She changed into dry clothes-leggings and an oversized sweater.
She grabbed the handle of her suitcase.
She moved quietly, like a thief in the night.
She opened the guest room door and crept down the hallway.
The living room was dimly lit by the city lights flooding in through the glass walls.
Carlyle was standing by the window, his back to her.
He was on the phone.
"...I don't care what the zoning laws say, just buy the building next to it," he was saying, his voice low and dangerous.
Beatrix tried to glide past the entrance to the foyer.
The wheels of her suitcase squeaked.
Carlyle spun around.
He saw her.
He saw the bag.
He hung up the phone without saying goodbye, tossing it onto the sofa.
"Going somewhere?"
Beatrix stopped.
"I'm leaving," she said, gripping the handle.
"We agreed you'd stay until the gala."
"I changed my mind."
Carlyle walked toward her, emerging from the shadows like a predator.
"You don't get to change your mind, Beatrix. You signed a contract."
"I saw the news, Carlyle," she snapped, her control slipping. "I saw the pictures. You and Gene."
Carlyle stopped.
His expression didn't change, but his shoulders tensed.
"And?"
"And I'm not going to sleep under the same roof as you while you plan your wedding to her. I have some dignity left."
"Dignity," he scoffed. "Is that what we're calling it?"
He gestured to a stack of architectural magazines on the coffee table.
"Gene has specific tastes. She wants to renovate. I asked her to wait until you were gone."
He was doing it on purpose.
He was twisting the knife.
"I'm happy for you," Beatrix lied, her voice trembling. "Now let me leave."
She moved toward the elevator.
Carlyle moved faster.
He stepped in front of the elevator doors, blocking the panel.
He crossed his arms over his chest.
"No."
"What do you mean, no?"
"I mean you're not leaving this apartment tonight."
"You can't keep me here! That's kidnapping!"
"It's spousal protection," he countered smoothly. "There are paparazzi downstairs. They're waiting for a shot of the scorned ex-wife fleeing in the middle of the night. It looks bad for the stock price."
"I don't care about your stock price!"
"I do."
He took a step toward her, forcing her to step back.
"And frankly, Beatrix, you look like hell. I'm not having the press say I starved you."
"You want me to stay?" she asked, incredulous. "You hate me."
"I tolerate you," he corrected. "And right now, tolerating you in the guest room is cheaper than a PR crisis."
He leaned down, his face inches from hers.
"Go to bed. If you try to leave, I'll have security disable the elevators."
Beatrix stared at him, her chest heaving.
He was a monster.
A beautiful, controlling, terrified monster.
"Fine," she hissed. "But don't expect me to play happy family."
"I expect you to be silent," he said. "That's what you're best at, isn't it?"
