The plastic wheels of Faith's suitcase ground heavily against the plush Persian runner as she walked down the long corridor.
She reached the massive double doors of the entryway and stopped.
She let go of the suitcase handle and turned to face the marble console table.
Faith took a deep breath. She raised her left hand. With her right thumb and index finger, she gripped the platinum band of her wedding ring.
It was a flawless, five-carat emerald-cut diamond. Heavy. Cold.
She pulled it over her knuckle. It slid off, leaving behind a pale, indented ring of skin at the base of her finger-a physical scar of six years of walking on eggshells.
She placed the ring down on the marble.
Clink.
The sharp sound of metal hitting stone echoed in the quiet foyer.
Hartwell stood twenty feet away, half-swallowed by the shadows of the hallway. His eyes were locked onto her hands.
The moment the ring left her finger, Hartwell's heart seized. It felt as if a massive, invisible fist had punched straight through his ribs and crushed his lungs. He couldn't draw a breath.
His jaw locked. He refused to show her the sudden, violent terror ripping through his nervous system.
"When you walk out that door," Hartwell yelled, his voice echoing with vicious malice, "don't ever think about coming back here crying to me."
Faith didn't even turn her head.
She reached out and wrapped her fingers around the heavy brass door handle. She pressed down.
The heavy door swung open. A rush of cold hallway air swept into the stifling heat of the penthouse.
Faith stepped over the threshold, pulling her suitcase behind her. She reached back and pulled the door shut.
Slam.
The heavy thud severed the connection between them with terrifying finality.
The hallway plunged into a dead, ringing silence.
Hartwell stood perfectly still. His eyes were glued to the solid wood of the door. He waited for it to open. He waited for her to realize she had no money, nowhere to go, and come crawling back.
Ten seconds passed. Nothing.
Hartwell forced his legs to move. He walked slowly toward the entryway. He stopped in front of the console table.
The five-carat diamond sat there, abandoned. The overhead lights caught the facets, shooting blinding, mocking sparks of light into his eyes.
A wave of intense dizziness washed over him.
He spun around, his chest heaving. He practically ran to the living room bar.
He grabbed a heavy crystal decanter filled with aged whiskey. He didn't bother with ice. He poured the amber liquid into a thick crystal tumbler until it nearly spilled over the edge.
He threw his head back and swallowed the liquor in three massive gulps.
The alcohol burned a fiery trail down his throat, but it did nothing to numb the sudden, agonizing stabbing pain in his chest.
He wanted to feel victorious. He had finally gotten rid of the woman who trapped him.
But all he could see was her face, staring at him with absolute, horrifying indifference.
He slammed the empty glass down on the marble counter. His chest heaved as his eyes fell upon the thick stack of the Marital Settlement Agreement she had just signed. The black ink of her signature mocked him, finalizing the severance he had demanded. But instead of relief, a sudden, violent surge of revulsion and panic clawed up his throat. He lunged forward, his massive hands grabbing the painstakingly drafted documents. With a guttural, furious sound, Hartwell ripped the thick stack of papers in half. The sound of tearing paper echoed sharply in the cavernous room. He tore them again, and again, shredding the multi-million dollar agreement into unrecognizable confetti, hurling the pieces across the pristine floor.
Irving Gardner, who had been packing his briefcase, gasped in pure shock.
"Mr. Ware!" The lawyer shrank back, his eyes darting to the ruined papers. "Those were the final copies! I'll need to-"
Hartwell lunged. He snatched the remaining folder out of Irving's hand and hurled it at the floor.
"Draft a new one!" Hartwell roared, his eyes pitch black, wild, and completely unhinged. "Call her right now! Tell her the terms are unacceptable! Make her come back here and renegotiate!"
Irving stood frozen, terrified by the sudden psychotic break of his usually icy boss.
"Get out," Hartwell snarled, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper.
Down on the street level, Faith pushed through the revolving doors of the building.
The freezing wind whipped her hair across her face. She took a deep breath of the polluted, freezing Manhattan air.
For the first time in six years, her chest didn't feel like it was bound in iron chains. She felt light.
A black SUV screeched to a halt at the curb. The passenger window rolled down.
Quinn Baxter peered out from behind oversized Celine sunglasses. She let out a loud, piercing whistle.
Quinn threw the car into park, jumped out, and grabbed Faith's suitcase, tossing it into the trunk. She turned and wrapped Faith in a bone-crushing hug.
"Welcome back to the land of the living, babe," Quinn whispered fiercely.
Faith climbed into the passenger seat. She looked at the side mirror, watching the towering Ware Group residential building shrink into the distance.
A profound sense of relief washed over her.
Quinn cranked the steering wheel, merging into traffic. "To celebrate your newfound freedom, we are going to that new French Bistro in Soho tonight. We are getting blackout drunk."
Faith leaned her head against the cold window. She was exhausted, but looking at Quinn's fiercely protective face, she managed a small, genuine smile.
"Okay," Faith said softly.
The SUV sped toward Brooklyn, carrying Faith toward her new life.
