Hunger woke her up.
It was a sharp, twisting pain in her stomach. The morning sun was assaulting the room through the curtainless windows. Alessandra sat up, her body aching from the wooden slats.
She walked out into the main living area. It was empty. Florian was gone.
The silence in the apartment was heavy.
She walked to the kitchen. It was a chef's kitchen, gleaming with stainless steel. She found the refrigerator. It was a massive, industrial-sized unit.
She pulled the heavy door open.
Light flooded out. And illuminated... nothing.
Rows and rows of Evian water in glass bottles. Six bottles of Dom Perignon. A jar of olives.
That was it.
Alessandra stared. It was a joke. It had to be a joke.
She closed the fridge. Her stomach growled, a loud, embarrassing sound in the quiet room.
She saw a touchscreen on the wall labeled Delivery. Hope surged. She tapped it.
Please enter Administrator Password.
She tried 1-2-3-4.
Access Denied.
She tried 0-0-0-0.
Access Denied. System Locked.
She slammed her hand against the screen. The glass didn't break, but her palm stung. She slid down the wall, sitting on the cold marble floor. She was a billionaire's wife, and she was starving to death.
The elevator chimed.
Alessandra didn't move. She didn't have the energy.
Cohen walked in, balancing a tray of coffees and a stack of binders. He was talking into a headset.
"Yes, the merger documents are-"
He stopped. He saw Alessandra slumped on the kitchen floor, looking like a discarded rag doll.
His phone slipped from his hand and clattered onto the floor.
"Holy sh-" Cohen rushed over. "Mrs. Mercado? Are you... are you alive?"
Alessandra lifted her head. She looked at him with hollow eyes. She pointed a shaking finger at the fridge. Then she pointed to her open mouth.
Cohen looked at the fridge. He opened it. He saw the water and the champagne.
"Oh my god," he whispered. "He didn't leave you food."
He looked back at her. "You haven't eaten?"
Alessandra shook her head.
"Boss locked the delivery system?"
She nodded.
Cohen swore under his breath. He dropped his bag and dug through it. He pulled out a protein bar-chocolate and peanut butter.
"Here." He tore the wrapper open.
Alessandra didn't care about dignity. She took it and ate. It was dry and chalky, but it tasted like salvation.
Cohen picked up his phone. He dialed a number. His face was grim.
In the boardroom of Mercado Group, Florian was tearing a product manager apart.
"The latency is unacceptable," Florian said, his voice ice. "Fix it or you're fired."
His phone buzzed on the table. Cohen.
Florian frowned. Cohen knew never to interrupt a meeting. He picked it up.
"This better be good."
"Boss," Cohen's voice was shaky but firm. "Your wife is on the kitchen floor. She's hypoglycemic. And... she doesn't know how to use the coffee machine because it requires voice authentication."
Florian paused. He blinked.
He had forgotten.
He had genuinely, completely forgotten that there was a human being in his apartment. He treated the marriage like a file he had stored in a cabinet.
"She's hungry?" Florian asked, the concept seeming foreign to him.
"She's starving, Florian," Cohen snapped, dropping the formal title. "If she passes out, it's negligence. The press will eat you alive before the merger even starts."
Florian felt a prick of annoyance. Not guilt. Just annoyance that his asset required maintenance.
"Order her food," Florian said. "Get her whatever she wants."
"I can't," Cohen said. "I don't have admin privileges for the house. Only you do."
Florian pinched the bridge of his nose. He looked at the room full of terrified executives.
"Meeting adjourned," he said.
He grabbed his jacket. He had to go home and feed his wife.
