The cafe in Greenwich Village was a world away from the sterile penthouse on Fifth Avenue. It smelled of roasted beans and old wood. Chloe sat across from Briana, her hands wrapped around a warm mug, trying to stop the tremors.
Briana looked impeccable as always in a tailored Armani pantsuit. She slid a thick manila folder across the scarred wooden table. "This is the draft of the divorce petition."
Chloe opened it. The language was dense, legal, and brutal. She scanned the terms. She would walk away with nothing. No alimony. No share of the Morrow assets. Just her freedom.
"It's harsh," Briana warned, watching Chloe's face. "He'll think it's a bluff. But if you sign this, you're out. No safety net."
"I don't want his money," Chloe said, her jaw tight. "I just want out."
Briana sighed, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. "I know you don't. But as your lawyer, I have to advise you to take something. You spent three years building a life with him."
"I spent three years building a cage," Chloe corrected. "And I'm the one who locked the door."
Briana studied her for a moment, then nodded. She reached into her briefcase and pulled out a second, thinner folder. This one had a strange logo on the cover-a geometric pattern that looked like an eye. "Speaking of doors, I have something else for you."
Chloe opened it. Inside was a non-disclosure agreement and a single sheet of paper outlining a project. "What is this?"
"A sovereign wealth fund from the Middle East," Briana said, lowering her voice. "They're looking for a lead architect for a private island development. It's massive. Conceptual stage only right now. They need someone with vision, someone who isn't afraid to break the mold."
Chloe's eyes scanned the page. The budget was astronomical. The scope was unprecedented. A spark flickered in her chest-the same spark she used to feel when she sat at her drafting table.
"It's a long shot," Briana continued. "The investor is Dimitrios Morales. He's notoriously private and avoids the press like the plague. Photos of him are rare and usually outdated, he insists on handling major deals in person. He's loaded, and he's picky. You'd have to do a pitch. In person."
Chloe closed the folder, the spark dying as quickly as it had come. "I can't. Bentley watches my schedule. If I disappear for a meeting like this, he'll know. And the Morrow family... they won't let me take on a project this big."
"Since when do you ask the Morrow family for permission?" Briana shot back, her eyes flashing. "You're an architect, Chloe. A damn good one. You're not just Bentley's wife."
Chloe looked away, staring out the window at the rain-slicked street. "I don't even know if I can hold a pencil steady anymore."
Briana reached across the table and pushed a business card into Chloe's hand. "Dr. Keegan Meadows. Best therapist in the city. If you need to talk to someone, call him. But Chloe, you need this project. You need something that belongs to you."
Chloe looked at the card. Dr. Keegan Meadows, MD. She slipped it into her pocket, not committing, but not throwing it away either.
She picked up the project folder again. She read the requirements. Sustainable. Isolated. A sanctuary. Her mind started working, sketching lines in the air. She could see it. A structure that breathed with the ocean.
"I'll do the pitch," Chloe said quietly. "But you have to make sure Bentley doesn't find out."
Briana smiled, a fierce, triumphant look. "That's my girl."
Chloe left the cafe feeling lighter than she had in weeks. The cold wind bit at her cheeks, but it felt cleansing. She walked past an art supply store and stopped. She stared at the display in the window-rows of pristine X-Acto knives and heavy sketchpads.
She walked in and bought the most expensive knife they had, along with a pad of vellum. It was a small rebellion, but it felt monumental.
When she returned to the penthouse, Maura was waiting. "Mr. Morrow called. He won't be home for dinner."
"Of course he won't," Chloe muttered. She didn't feel the usual sting. She walked straight into her studio and locked the door.
She set the new knife on the table. She unwrapped her left hand. The stitches were angry red, but the swelling had gone down. She picked up the knife, her fingers closing around the metal barrel. It felt right. It felt like an extension of her arm.
She pressed the blade to a piece of scrap wood and sliced. The cut was clean. Perfect. Her hand was steady.
A smile broke across her face. It was the first real smile she had worn in months. She could still do this. She was still an architect.
She spent the next three hours pulling out old sketches from the bottom drawers-designs Bentley had dismissed as "too aggressive" or "not fitting the Morrow image." They were brilliant. They were hers.
She was so engrossed she didn't hear the phone ring until the voicemail picked up. Then the intercom buzzed.
"Mrs. Morrow?" Maura's voice crackled over the speaker. "It's Mrs. Genevieve Morrow on the line."
Chloe's stomach dropped. Bentley's grandmother. The matriarch. The dragon.
Chloe picked up the phone. "Hello, Genevieve."
"Chloe." The old woman's voice was like dry ice. "I expect to see you at the Met Gala this weekend. It is a family obligation. And while we're on the subject of family, I understand you haven't seen Dr. Meadows yet about the other issue. We need an heir, Chloe. This delay is unacceptable."
Chloe gripped the phone cord until her knuckles turned white. "I'll be at the Gala."
"See that you are. And take care of the other matter. Goodbye."
The line went dead. Chloe slammed the phone down. An heir. They wanted her to produce a child to carry on the Morrow legacy. A child with a man who whispered another woman's name in his sleep.
She looked at the sketches spread across her desk. The island project. Her way out.
She was going to the Met Gala. But it wasn't going to be the performance Genevieve expected.
