Ainsley spent the night counting the tiles on the ceiling. One hundred and forty-four. Each one a marker of time, a breath in a carefully constructed prison of her own design.
When morning broke, it brought gray light and a man in a suit who looked like he was carved out of shark cartilage.
He knocked once and entered before Ainsley could speak. He carried a leather briefcase and an air of absolute authority. Behind him trailed a young woman with red-rimmed eyes, clutching a tablet like a shield. Annie. Ainsley's one internal asset. Her fear was palpable.
"Mrs. Eaton," the man said. He didn't sit. He stood at the foot of the bed. "I'm Preston. We need to expedite this."
The girl behind him tried to step forward. "Ainsley, are you okay?"
Preston held up a hand. He didn't look at her. He just silenced her with the gesture. She shrank back into the corner.
He opened the briefcase and slapped a thick stack of documents onto the bedside table. The sound was loud in the quiet room.
SEPARATION AGREEMENT.
"Based on the events of Tuesday night," Preston said, his voice smooth and devoid of empathy, "Carson is invoking the morality clause in your prenup. You are to be removed from the estate immediately upon discharge."
"Morality clause?" Ainsley asked. Her head was still throbbing. She let her voice sound weak, confused. "I don't remember signing a prenup. I don't remember a wedding."
Preston smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. "Convenient. But the ink is dry. Infidelity. Public intoxication. Endangerment of the family reputation."
He tossed a few photos onto the sheets. Grainy images. A woman who looked like Ainsley, leaning close to a man in a dark booth. His hand was on her thigh.
Ainsley picked up the photo. It felt dirty. "Who is this?"
"Julian," Preston said. "Don't pretend you don't know his name."
He uncapped a fountain pen and held it out. "Sign. If you sign now, the family agrees not to pursue criminal charges for the DUI. We'll give you a one-way ticket to Europe and a small stipend to get lost."
Ainsley looked at the pen. It was heavy, black, expensive.
"Ainsley, don't!" the girl in the corner squeaked.
Preston whipped his head around. "One more word, Annie, and you'll never work in this city again."
Annie flinched. She looked terrified. Not just worried-terrified.
Something clicked in Ainsley's brain. A genuine spark of anger amidst the cold calculation. She looked at Annie's trembling hands. She looked at Preston's arrogant jaw.
He was bullying her. He was bullying Ainsley.
Ainsley hated bullies.
She took the pen. Preston's shoulders relaxed. He thought he had won.
Ainsley looked at the document. Legalese. Dense. Predatory.
"My head hurts," Ainsley whispered, pressing her fingers to her temple.
Preston scoffed. "A headache won't get you out of this."
"I... I can't read this," Ainsley said, pushing the papers away weakly. "The words are swimming."
"You have no leverage, Ainsley. You have no money. You have nothing."
"I feel sick," Ainsley said, her voice catching. "I think I need the doctor. Everything is blurry. I don't know what this is. I don't know who you are." She let a tear roll down her cheek, a perfect, crystalline drop of manipulation.
Preston went still. He stared at Ainsley, really looked at her, for the first time. He was searching for the lie, but her performance was seamless.
"If you want me to sign," Ainsley said, leaning back against the pillows, her voice a fragile whisper, "I want to see Carson."
"Carson doesn't want to see you."
"Then I guess we're at an impasse. Please... just get out of my room. My head is killing me."
Preston snatched the papers up. His face was red. "You're making a mistake. A very expensive one."
"Get out," Ainsley repeated, this time with a sob.
He stormed out. The door didn't slam, but the air pressure in the room changed.
Annie rushed to the bed. She grabbed Ainsley's hand. "Oh my god. I thought you were going to do it."
"Who is Julian?" Ainsley asked her, her voice instantly clear and sharp, the weakness gone.
Annie bit her lip. She looked at the door. "He's... he's a friend of Kirstie's."
"Kirstie?"
"Your cousin. Or... she says she is."
Ainsley filed the name away. Kirstie. The center of the web.
"I need to get out of here, Annie," Ainsley said. "I need to see my husband."
