The morning sun hit the crystal vase on the breakfast table, scattering rainbows across the white tablecloth. Dennie placed a cup of black coffee next to Holmes's right hand. She didn't spill a drop.
He was reading the Wall Street Journal. He sliced into his eggs with surgical precision. The suspicion from last night seemed to have evaporated with the alcohol.
Felix walked into the dining room. He wasn't in the office. He was here. And he was holding a blue folder.
Holmes wiped his mouth with a linen napkin. He nodded at Felix.
Felix slid the folder across the table toward Dennie.
She opened it. The bold letters at the top made her heart hammer against her ribs. Dissolution of Marriage Agreement.
She forced a sharp intake of breath. She put a hand to her chest. "Holmes?"
"The contract is up, Dennie," Holmes said without looking up from his paper. "The board is stable. The merger in Singapore requires a different kind of... leverage. A single CEO is more appealing right now."
Her mind raced. This wasn't the agreement she was waiting for. The clause that was supposed to trigger tomorrow was ironclad, a dead man's switch of its own negotiated by her former lawyers. This new document was his move, a preemptive strike to invalidate the old one, to offer her less, to control the narrative.
"Is this... final?" she asked, her voice trembling.
"Twenty million dollars severance," he said. "And you can keep the house for thirty days while you transition."
She lowered her head to hide the flash of pure, unadulterated joy that threatened to light up her face. Twenty million. That was ten million more than she needed to disappear. It wasn't the full settlement she was owed, but it was a clean break, offered on a platter. A trap? Maybe. But a trap that led to freedom was still a way out.
"I understand," she said, making her voice sound thick with unshed tears.
She picked up the pen. She signed it. She signed it fast. Too fast.
Holmes frowned. He looked at her hand, then at her face. "You're taking this well."
"I know my place, Holmes," she said. "I always have."
He stood up, buttoning his jacket. "Processing will take a week. Keep a low profile until then."
He walked out. Felix followed. The heavy front door slammed shut.
Dennie sat there in the silence. She listened to the engine of the Maybach fade down the driveway.
She didn't cry. She picked up a piece of bacon and ate it. It tasted like freedom.
She pulled out her phone. Change of plans, Sarah. The Obsidian Lounge. Tonight. I have the black card.
She spent the afternoon packing. Not the clothes he bought her. Just the essentials. Her passport. Her cash. The drive.
At 9:00 PM, Dennie Wilson died.
Dennie stood in front of the mirror. The conservative wife was gone. She wore a black dress that was little more than silk held together by gravity. It exposed her back, her arms, her legs. She painted her lips a dark, bruised plum. She lined her eyes with kohl until they looked dangerous.
She walked out of the manor. She didn't take the town car. She called an Uber Black.
The Obsidian Lounge was a cavern of bass and expensive perfume. It was where the city's elite went to sin.
Sarah was waiting by the velvet rope. Her jaw dropped when she saw Dennie. "Holy shit, Dennie. Who are you?"
"I'm the ex-wife," Dennie said, grinning.
They pushed inside. The music thumped in Dennie's chest. They ordered a bottle of Krug at the bar. Dennie drank it like water.
"To freedom," Sarah screamed over the noise.
"To twenty million," Dennie screamed back.
A group of men near the VIP section were watching them. Dennie felt their eyes. It was a physical sensation, like a bug crawling on her skin. One of them, a guy in a loud suit, detached himself from the pack. Keith Tucker. Trust fund brat.
He zeroed in on Sarah.
Dennie tensed. Her back muscles locked.
High above them, behind a wall of one-way glass in the VIP mezzanine, Holmes Wilson swirled his scotch. He was bored. He looked down at the writhing mass of people on the dance floor. His eyes swept over the crowd, indifferent.
Then they stopped.
