The clock on the wall ticked past 2:00 AM. The house was finally quiet. Georgina had left an hour ago, and Eleanor had retired to her wing.
Althea sat in the leather armchair in Easton's study, the only light coming from a small desk lamp. The folder containing the divorce papers sat in the center of the mahogany desk.
The door handle turned.
Easton walked in. He smelled of scotch and Georgina's cloying vanilla perfume. He loosened his tie-the blue one-and tossed it onto a chair. He startled when he saw Althea sitting in the shadows.
"Jesus, Althea," he snapped, rubbing his temples. "What are you doing sitting in the dark? Trying to creep me out?"
He walked to the wet bar and poured himself another drink. "If you're waiting for an apology, you're going to be waiting a long time. You embarrassed me tonight. Holt is confused. You need to get your act together."
"I have," Althea said. Her voice was steady.
She pushed the folder across the desk. "Sign it."
Easton frowned. He picked up his glass and walked over, glancing down at the paperwork. He read the header: Dissolution of Marriage.
He threw his head back and laughed. It was a harsh, barking sound.
"This again?" He tossed the folder back onto the desk without opening it. It slid across the polished wood and nearly fell off the edge. "Is this your new negotiation tactic? Threaten to leave so I buy you more jewelry? Or is this about attention?"
"I don't want jewelry, Easton. I want out."
Easton leaned against the desk, crossing his arms. He looked at her with a mix of pity and amusement. "Althea, be realistic. You have no job. You have no money. You haven't worked a day in five years. You're a glorified housewife. Where would you go? A motel?"
He took a sip of his drink, his eyes gleaming with arrogance. "You won't last a week without the Harrington trust fund. You'll be back begging Eleanor for grocery money by Friday."
Althea stood up. She smoothed the front of her jeans-she had changed out of the gown.
"I'm not asking for money," she said. "Check the terms. I'm walking away with nothing."
Easton paused. For a second, a flicker of uncertainty crossed his face. But he squashed it down instantly.
"Right. The martyr act." He stepped closer, invading her personal space. He smelled like expensive alcohol and entitlement. "Stop playing games. Go upstairs, take a bath, and we'll forget this happened. I have a board meeting tomorrow and I need my gray suit pressed."
Althea looked at him. Really looked at him. She saw the lines of stress around his eyes, the slight bloat in his face from the drinking. She looked for the man she had fallen in love with in a hospital room five years ago.
He wasn't there. Maybe he never had been.
"Goodbye, Easton," she said.
She turned and walked out of the study.
"If you walk out that door," Easton shouted after her, his voice echoing in the hallway, "I'm cutting off your credit cards! Don't think I won't do it!"
Althea didn't stop. She walked to the front door where her small carry-on suitcase was waiting. She had packed it hours ago. No designer bags. No jewelry. Just her clothes, her passport, and her degree certificate.
She paused by the console table in the foyer. She took the keys to the Mercedes SUV he had bought her for her birthday-the one that was technically in the company's name-and placed them in the silver bowl. beside them, she placed her black Amex card.
She opened the heavy oak door. The night air rushed in, crisp and clean.
A black sedan was waiting at the curb. Not a town car. An Uber.
Althea walked down the steps. She didn't look back at the looming mansion that had been her prison. She got into the back seat.
"Where to, ma'am?" the driver asked.
Althea looked at the dark windows of the house one last time.
"The Morrison Institute for Biomedical Research," she said. "And please, drive fast."
