The doorbell rang at 7:00 AM.
It wasn't a polite ring. It was a persistent, entitled buzzing that drilled into Beatrix's skull.
She had slept on the guest room sofa, fully clothed, afraid that if she got under the covers, she would never want to get up.
She stumbled to the door, rubbing her eyes.
She opened it.
Gene Golden stood there.
She looked like a sunrise in a Chanel tweed suit.
Her hair was a perfect blonde cascade. Her makeup was flawless.
She held a cardboard tray with four coffees.
"Good morning!" Gene chirped, her voice sickeningly sweet.
She pushed past Beatrix before she could even say hello. Beatrix frowned, wondering how she'd gotten up to the penthouse. Alfred must have granted her access from the lobby. A courtesy Carlyle must have approved.
"Is Carly up?"
Carly.
Beatrix winced.
Only Gene called him that.
"Kitchen," Beatrix mumbled, closing the door.
Carlyle emerged from the hallway.
He was wearing running shorts and a tight technical t-shirt that clung to his chest.
He was sweating.
He had been on the treadmill.
Gene squealed and launched herself at him.
"Carly!"
She threw her arms around his neck.
Beatrix watched, waiting for the flinch.
Carlyle's posture went rigid, but it was a practiced, almost imperceptible tension that a stranger wouldn't notice. His hands landed on her back with the careful precision of a surgeon, his fingers stiff, not relaxed. He endured the embrace.
He saw her watching.
He held the hug for a beat longer, a challenge in his eyes, before gently disengaging.
"Gene," he said. "You're early."
"I brought coffee!" She pulled back, beaming. "And breakfast. I thought we could celebrate."
She turned to Beatrix, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.
"Oh, Beatrix. You're still here? I thought you'd be... gone."
"Packing takes time," Beatrix said, leaning against the wall.
"Well, come sit!" Gene gestured to the dining table like she owned it. "We have plenty."
It was a trap.
Beatrix knew she should retreat. The gray rock method demanded it. But looking at Gene's triumphant smile, something inside her snapped. The rock cracked.
She walked to the table and sat opposite them.
Gene sat next to Carlyle, moving her chair so close their knees touched.
Carlyle shifted his leg away.
"So," Gene said, unpacking bagels. "Did you see the news, Bea? About the dress?"
"I saw it," Beatrix said, taking a plain black coffee. "Congratulations."
"It's not official yet," Carlyle muttered, looking at his phone.
"Oh, stop being so modest," Gene giggled, slapping his arm playfully. "Everyone knows it's happening the second the papers are filed."
She looked at Beatrix with wide, innocent eyes.
"So, what about you, Bea? What's your plan? I heard... rumors."
Beatrix paused, the cup halfway to her mouth. "Rumors?"
"That you're seeing someone," Gene lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Someone from your university days?"
Carlyle's head snapped up.
His phone clattered to the table.
His gaze drilled into Beatrix. It was cold, sharp, and lethal.
"Is that true?" he demanded.
Beatrix looked at Gene.
Gene was smiling. She had planted this. She wanted Carlyle to think Beatrix was cheating so he wouldn't feel guilty about kicking her out.
Beatrix looked at Carlyle.
He looked furious.
Why?
He was divorcing her. He was marrying Gene. Why did he care?
Unless...
Beatrix made a split-second decision.
If he thought she was moving on, maybe he would let her go faster. She decided to fight fire with fire.
"Yes," she lied smoothly. "His name is Mark. He was a senior when I was a freshman."
"What does he do?" Carlyle asked, his voice tight.
"Finance," she invented. "Hedge funds."
Carlyle's hand clenched around his coffee cup. The cardboard crumpled.
"A finance bro," he sneered. "How original."
"He treats me well," Beatrix said, twisting the knife. "He likes to hold my hand."
Carlyle slammed his fist onto the table.
The coffee cups jumped.
"Enough," he growled.
Gene looked delighted, but then she saw the vein throbbing in Carlyle's temple.
She realized he wasn't just angry. He was jealous.
She clutched her chest suddenly, letting out a small gasp.
"Carly..." she whined. "My heart... it's fluttering again."
She slumped against him.
Carlyle's attention snapped to her.
"Gene?"
"I think I need my pills," she whispered, looking frail. "They're in the car."
Carlyle stood up immediately.
"I'll take you to the hospital."
"No, just... drive me home," she said weakly.
Carlyle helped her up.
He looked back at Beatrix.
His eyes were full of hate.
"We have dinner at the Estate tonight," he said coldly. "Grandmother insists."
"I can't go," Beatrix said. "Mark is-"
"Cancel on Mark," Carlyle barked. "You are still my wife on paper. You will be there."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then I'll freeze your accounts," he said. "Every single one. Let's see how much Mark likes you when you can't pay for your own dinner."
He walked Gene to the door.
Gene looked back over Carlyle's shoulder.
She winked.
The door slammed.
Beatrix sat alone in the silence.
Her phone buzzed.
A text from her bank.
Alert: Your transaction for $4,500 to Sloan Kettering Hospice was declined.
He hadn't waited.
He had frozen the accounts already.
Beatrix stared at the message, her vision blurring.
That was her mother's medication money.
She grabbed the bagel Gene had left and threw it across the room.
It hit the pristine glass wall with a dull thud, leaving a smear of cream cheese.
