Three days later.
The showerhead blasted freezing cold water against Aubree's bare back.
She had spent the last seventy-two hours in a hellish fever dream, surviving only on ibuprofen and pure rage. The fever finally broke.
She reached out and twisted the metal handle, shutting off the water. She wiped the steam from the mirror. The woman looking back at her was pale, but her eyes were sharp and lethal.
She walked into the massive walk-in closet. She grabbed the white silk loungewear she used to wear for Eli and threw it into the trash can.
She reached into the back of the closet and pulled out a sharply tailored, jet-black designer suit. She put it on. The sharp lines of the blazer made her look like a weapon.
She walked into the living room and stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows. She looked down at the Manhattan traffic. She felt absolutely nothing.
She sat at the heavy oak desk and opened her MacBook. She typed in a complex password and logged into a hidden cloud server.
She selected every single photo, video, and message involving Eli Wolfe. She clicked delete. She emptied the trash bin.
Next, she opened a hidden compartment in the desk drawer. She pulled out a stack of highly confidential design sketches-the early, unreleased works of "Madame Lan." She didn't dare take them with her into the impending warzone. Instead, she fed them one by one into the heavy-duty cross-cut shredder beneath the desk, having already uploaded the encrypted high-resolution scans to a secure offshore server. She then grabbed a stack of useless, decoy fashion magazines and slid them into a sleek black leather briefcase.
The private elevator dinged.
Eli stepped out. He wore a dark grey tailored suit. His face was hard. His chief assistant, Leland Finch, walked beside him.
Behind them walked four men in expensive suits carrying briefcases. The Wolfe family's elite divorce lawyers.
Two bodyguards stayed by the elevator, blocking the only exit.
Eli walked into the living room. He expected to see Aubree crying on the floor. He stopped in his tracks.
Aubree sat on the Italian leather sofa. She wore a black suit. Her spine was perfectly straight. Her eyes were cold and indifferent.
Eli felt a strange, irritating itch in his chest. He had never seen her look like this.
Aubree didn't stand up. She tilted her chin up and gestured to the sofa opposite her.
Eli clenched his jaw. He sat down and crossed his legs, trying to maintain his dominance.
Leland looked at Aubree with a hint of pity. He pushed a thick stack of documents across the glass coffee table.
The lead lawyer spoke in a robotic voice. "This is the final divorce settlement. Because you signed the confession, you forfeit all equity clauses in the prenuptial agreement."
Aubree stared at the lawyer. She didn't even glance at the paper.
Eli stared at her face, searching for a crack in her mask. He wanted to see her beg.
Aubree cut the lawyer off. "Give me the number. How much?"
Eli's eyes narrowed. He let out a harsh, mocking laugh. "There it is. The mask comes off."
Leland cleared his throat. "Fifty million dollars. A lump sum payment."
For a three-year marriage to a billionaire, it was an insulting amount.
"The condition," the lawyer added, "is that you vacate this penthouse today and never contact Mr. Wolfe again."
Aubree's lips curved into a cold, arrogant smirk. She looked at Leland and held out her hand. "Give me the pen."
