"Garold, please, I don't know what to do..." Jenilee's voice was audible even from where Felicity stood. It was a weeping, breathless sound, perfectly pitched for sympathy.
Garold's shoulders dropped. He glared at Felicity one last time, mouthed Stay here, and then turned on his heel. He walked rapidly to the elevator, pressing the button with unnecessary force. The doors slid open, he stepped in, and they closed, swallowing him and his mistress's drama.
Felicity was alone.
She exhaled a long breath, her shoulders sagging. The adrenaline that had fueled her confrontation drained away, leaving her exhausted.
She didn't waste time. She walked into the master bedroom. She pulled her old suitcase from the back of the closet-the battered Samsonite she'd had since college.
She packed efficiently. She took the clothes she had bought herself before the marriage. Jeans, t-shirts, comfortable sweaters. She left the couture gowns, the silk blouses, the uncomfortable lingerie Garold liked. She packed her sketchbooks, the heavy, bound volumes filled with charcoal drawings she hadn't shown anyone in years.
She stood by the dresser. The velvet jewelry box sat there. She opened it. Diamonds, emeralds, pearls. Gifts for birthdays, anniversaries, apologies. She closed the lid.
She took the black Amex card from her wallet and placed it on the mahogany surface. Beside it, she placed the keys to the Mercedes.
Finally, she twisted the platinum band off her finger. It left a pale indentation on her skin. She set it on top of the divorce papers she had retrieved from the living room and placed on his nightstand.
She zipped the suitcase. It was light.
She took the service elevator. It smelled of cleaning fluid and garbage, but it meant she didn't have to pass the doorman who would inevitably call Garold.
Evening came, bringing shadows back to the penthouse.
Garold returned. He was tired, his tie gone, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar. Dealing with Jenilee had been exhausting-a false alarm, she claimed, just stress.
"Felicity?" he called out.
Silence.
"Felicity, stop hiding. We need to discuss the gala."
He walked into the living room. Empty. Kitchen. Empty.
He stormed into the bedroom. "I'm not in the mood for games-"
He stopped. The closet door was open. Her side was... sparse. The racks of designer clothes were still there, but the shelves where she kept her personal things, her journals, her comfortable clothes-they were bare.
He looked at the nightstand.
The divorce papers sat there. And on top of them, catching the dim light, was the ring.
He walked over and picked it up. The metal was cold. It felt heavy in his palm. A surge of irrational anger blinded him. She actually left. She dared to leave him.
He grabbed the papers. He didn't read them. He marched into his home office, shoved the thick stack of documents into the shredder, and hit the button. The machine whirred and ground, chewing the legal text into confetti.
"You don't get to leave until I say so," he muttered to the empty room.
His private line rang. He looked at the caller ID. Grandmother Rose.
He took a breath, composing himself. "Hello, Grandmother."
"Where is your wife?" Rose Chandler's voice was sharp, crackling with static and authority.
"She's... resting," Garold lied.
"Well, wake her up. The Family Gala is next week. I expect her to be there, and I expect her to look presentable. And Garold? I've decided she needs a real job. The Foundation needs a new director. It will keep her busy and stop her from moping."
Garold rubbed his temple. "I'll tell her."
"See that you do." The line went dead.
Garold stared at the phone. He needed her. He needed her to play the part for Rose, or his inheritance of the remaining shares would be in jeopardy.
He dialed Felicity's number.
It rang once. Then straight to voicemail.
He threw the phone onto the leather couch. It bounced and landed on the rug.
