The pain started during a meeting I wasn't supposed to be at.
Wednesday afternoon. I was sitting in the back of a charity gala planning session at the Burke Group headquarters, the kind of thing where wives smile and nod and write checks. Patricia Burke was at the head of the table in her pearls, talking about floral arrangements.
The ulcer twisted like a fist under my ribs.
I'd had it since college. Stress, the doctor said. Manage your anxiety, he said. I'd managed it fine for six years by pretending I didn't have it.
I made it to the bathroom before I threw up. When I came out, Patricia was standing by the sinks, reapplying her lipstick.
"You look pale," she said to my reflection.
"I'm fine."
She capped the lipstick. "Colson mentioned you've been spending quite a bit lately."
I turned on the faucet. Washed my hands. The soap smelled like lavender.
"Did he."
"The black card charges. Hotels. Consultants." She dropped the lipstick into her purse. "I hope everything is all right."
I dried my hands on the thick cotton towel. "Everything's perfect, Patricia."
She smiled. It didn't move past her mouth.
By seven, I couldn't stand up straight. I called a car from the bathroom stall. I did not call Colson. I did not call Kyra. I gave the driver the address of Lenox Hill Hospital and checked in under Freeman, not Burke.
The nurse who took my vitals had kind eyes. She started the IV herself, taped it down gently.
"Someone coming for you, honey?"
"No," I said. "Just me."
She patted my hand and left.
The room was small and white and quiet. The IV drip was cold going in. I watched the bag slowly empty and thought about nothing at all.
Two hours in, I heard his voice in the hallway.
I went very still.
"—just down here. They said it's nothing serious, but she was shaken up—"
Colson. That boardroom voice, warm at the edges.
I turned my head toward the door. It was cracked open about four inches. I could see a slice of the hallway. Fluorescent lights. Linoleum.
He walked past. Dark suit, no tie. His hand was on someone's back.
Leighton.
She was in a cashmere sweater and jeans, her hair loose. She had one hand pressed to her stomach. He was guiding her, his palm flat between her shoulder blades, the way you steer someone fragile.
They stopped three doors down. A nurse opened the door for them. Colson said something I couldn't hear and Leighton nodded. He followed her inside.
The door closed.
I looked at the IV in my arm. The clear tube. The needle taped down with white medical tape.
I pulled it out.
It bled a little. I pressed gauze against it and held it there while I stood up. My stomach screamed but I ignored it. I pulled my coat on over the hospital gown. The sleeves covered my hands.
I walked down the hall in my socks. The floor was cold.
I stopped outside the room. Through the window I could see Leighton on the bed, Colson standing beside her. A doctor was talking, gesturing. Leighton's hand was on her stomach again. Colson's hand was on her shoulder.
I knocked.
The doctor looked up first. Then Colson.
He opened the door. His face did something fast—surprise, then recognition, then something I couldn't name.
"Anaya. What are you—"
I held out my hand. Palm up. I did not look past him into the room.
"Your black card," I said. "No limit. I need it for the month."
He stared at me. Behind him, Leighton shifted on the bed.
"What?"
I took my phone out of my coat pocket with my other hand. Opened the voice recorder. Hit record. Held it up between us.
"Your black Amex. The one with no spending limit. I'm asking for access to it for thirty days. Say yes."
"Anaya, you're in a hospital gown—"
"Say yes, Colson."
His jaw worked. I watched a muscle jump near his ear. He looked back at Leighton, then at me.
He reached into his jacket. Pulled out his wallet. Slid the black card free and put it in my hand.
"Yes," he said. "Thirty days."
I stopped the recording. Pocketed the phone and the card.
"Thank you," I said.
I turned and walked back down the hall. I did not look back. I heard him say my name once, but I kept walking.
I went back to my room. Put the IV back in myself. The nurse came in ten minutes later and scolded me, but she didn't ask questions.
I was discharged at midnight.
I took a car home. The penthouse was dark. Colson wasn't back yet.
I sat at the kitchen island and opened my laptop. The black card sat beside it, matte and heavy.
I started with the Ritz-Carlton. A suite for two weeks, full rate, refundable cancellation. Booked. Cancelled six hours later for an eighty percent refund to my private account.
Then the St. Regis. Then the Four Seasons.
A lawyer in Tribeca who specialized in asset protection. Five-thousand-dollar retainer. Paid.
A private investigator Kyra's brother recommended. Ten thousand upfront. Paid.
A financial consultant on the Upper East Side who taught women how to hide money in plain sight. Fifteen thousand for a three-hour session. Paid.
I worked until four in the morning. My stomach hurt but I didn't stop.
When I finally closed the laptop, I had spent seventy-three thousand dollars.
Every receipt was in a folder on my desktop labeled *Spring Cleaning*.
I went upstairs. Colson was asleep in our bed, still in his dress shirt.
I stood in the doorway and looked at him for a long time.
Then I went to the guest room and locked the door.
