Christen pulled the door of the black Lincoln Uber open and threw herself into the backseat. She slammed the door shut, cutting off the damp garage air and the suffocating presence of her husband.
She sank into the leather seat and closed her eyes. Her entire body felt bruised, though no one had hit her.
She reached into her clutch to find her phone. Her fingertips brushed against something cold and stiff.
She frowned, pulling it out.
It was a matte black card with thick, dark gold edges. There was no company logo. No title. Just two words printed in sleek, embossed lettering: Kile Barrett. And a private phone number beneath it.
Her breath caught. She remembered the moment in the booth when Kile had leaned in close, his chest pressing against hers. He had slipped it into her open bag without her even noticing, his long fingers brushing the inner lining with a deliberate, lingering touch that she now realized was far too calculated.
The card felt heavy in her hand, radiating danger. Her heart rate spiked again. She shoved the card deep into the bottom zipper pocket of her clutch, wishing she could erase the memory of his mocking eyes.
Thirty minutes later, the car pulled up to the curb of a luxury high-rise on the Upper East Side.
Christen swiped her key fob in the private elevator. She watched the numbers climb, feeling a deep, physical revulsion toward the place she was supposed to call home.
The doors opened directly into the penthouse foyer. The apartment was pitch black. The only light came from the city neon bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
She didn't turn on the lights. She kicked off her heels, her bare feet hitting the freezing marble floor.
She walked past the massive, empty living room and went straight into the master bedroom's walk-in closet.
She pulled the string for the overhead light. Rows of seasonal haute couture gowns and velvet display cases filled with diamonds stared back at her. A bitter taste coated her tongue. These weren't hers. They were props. Costumes Brendon bought to maintain his image of the generous, perfect husband.
She walked past the silk and cashmere, heading to the very back corner. She dragged out a faded black canvas duffel bag. It was the bag she had brought from her adoptive parents' house three years ago.
She unzipped it and started throwing things inside. Plain cotton t-shirts. A pair of jeans. Her toothbrush. Her passport and birth certificate.
She had spent nearly an hour sitting on the closet floor, staring at the empty walls, letting the shock completely wear off before she finally started packing. Suddenly, the electronic lock on the front door beeped. Heavy, uneven footsteps echoed in the foyer. Christen's hands stopped moving. Brendon was home early. "I called you ten times!" his voice boomed from the hallway, laced with irritation.
The bedroom door swung open. Brendon stood in the frame, smelling of expensive scotch and stale perfume. His tie was loosened, his face tight with irritation.
He flipped the light switch. The sudden brightness made Christen squint. Brendon's eyes immediately locked onto the canvas bag on the floor.
His jaw clenched. He crossed the room in three long strides.
"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded.
Christen didn't look at him. She grabbed a gray sweater and shoved it into the bag. "I'm going to stay at my father's house for a few days."
Brendon's hand shot out. His fingers clamped around her wrist like an iron cuff. He squeezed hard enough to make her gasp in pain, jerking her hand away from the bag.
"Stop throwing a tantrum," he warned, his voice low and threatening. "We have the family charity brunch tomorrow. You are expected to be there."
The word family made the acid in her stomach churn again. She yanked her arm with all her strength, breaking his grip.
She lifted her chin and stared straight into his eyes.
"I am not your puppet, Brendon."
Brendon blinked, caught off guard by the raw disgust in her eyes. He defaulted to his usual tactic. His face softened into a mask of fake patience. He reached out, his fingers aiming to stroke her cheek.
Christen snapped her head to the side, dodging his hand as if it were covered in acid.
"Don't touch me," she said, her voice dropping to a dead, icy whisper.
Brendon's hand froze in mid-air. The fake softness vanished from his face, replaced by a dark, ugly flush. He realized, in that second, that she wasn't just pouting. She was slipping out of his control.
Christen zipped up the duffel bag. She grabbed the handles, hoisted it over her shoulder, and walked right past him toward the bedroom door.
