Chapter 2 2

The door to the study opened with a soft click.

Darius Brandt stepped out. He was still wearing his three-piece suit, though the jacket was unbuttoned and his tie was loosened at the collar. He looked like a man who had spent the day moving millions of dollars across continents, which he probably had. In his right hand, he held a crystal tumbler of amber liquid.

He didn't look toward the dark corner of the living room. He walked straight to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked Central Park, turning his back to the room. He took a sip of whiskey, his posture rigid, his shoulders tense.

Alessandra reached out and clicked on the standing lamp beside her.

The sudden pool of yellow light carved her out of the darkness. She stood there, dripping wet, hair plastered to her face, clutching the manila folder like a shield.

Darius turned slowly. He didn't jump. He didn't gasp. His blue eyes swept over her, taking in the water pooling around her feet, the wild look in her eyes. His expression didn't soften. It tightened.

"You're dripping on the Persian silk," he said. His voice was a low baritone, smooth and devoid of jagged edges.

He walked over to the coffee table, set down his drink, and pulled a thick document from his briefcase. He tossed it onto the glass surface. It landed with a heavy thud.

"Divorce agreement," he stated, as if ordering coffee. "Ten million. The apartment on 5th Avenue. Full custody of... well, that point is moot now." He paused, adjusting his cufflink. "There is a non-disclosure agreement regarding the medical procedures. Standard practice."

Alessandra didn't look at the papers. She stared at his throat, at the pulse beating steadily beneath his skin.

"Was she awake?" she asked. Her voice was small, like a child's.

Darius frowned, a microscopic crease between his eyebrows. "What?"

"When the doctors told her," Alessandra said, stepping closer. "That the kidney she was waiting for was going to your mistress's son. Did Estella understand?"

Darius didn't flinch. He didn't deny it. He took another sip of his drink, his eyes cold and pragmatic. "The doctors handled it. It was a necessary reallocation of resources. The Walton merger secures our European distribution network. Estella's prognosis was... unfavorable."

He spoke about her like a failing stock. Like a subsidiary that needed to be liquidated.

Alessandra set the folder down gently on the dining table. Next to it sat a small chocolate cake she had bought earlier that day from a bakery in Queens. It had three unlit candles stuck into the frosting.

"Today is her birthday," Alessandra said.

She took a lighter from her pocket. The flame flickered, reflecting in her dark eyes. She lit the first candle. Then the second. Then the third.

"Alessandra, stop this," Darius said, his tone shifting from indifferent to annoyed. "Sign the papers. Ilene's son is still in recovery. We need to minimize press exposure. I don't have time for your theatrics."

Ilene.

The name snapped the last thread holding Alessandra's mind together.

She picked up the heavy crystal decanter of whiskey from the table.

"You don't have time?" she whispered.

She hurled the bottle.

It smashed at Darius's feet, exploding in a shower of glass and alcohol. The amber liquid splashed onto his trousers and the expensive rug.

Darius jumped back, shock finally cracking his composure. "Have you lost your mind?"

Alessandra didn't answer. She flicked the lighter again. She walked over to the heavy velvet curtains that framed the window-the curtains Darius had imported from Italy, the ones he loved more than he had ever loved his daughter.

She touched the flame to the tassel.

The dry, heavy fabric caught instantly. Fire raced up the hem, hungry and fast.

"Alessandra!" Darius shouted. He lunged toward the kitchen, presumably to get the fire extinguisher, but the fire alarm was already screaming, a piercing shriek that vibrated in the teeth.

Alessandra didn't run. She walked back to the table. She sat down in the chair facing the burning window. She picked up a knife and cut a slice of cake. She placed it on a napkin in front of the folder.

"Happy birthday to you," she sang softly. Her voice was steady.

The sprinklers didn't go off. She knew they wouldn't. The maintenance crew had been working on the water pressure all week.

Smoke began to fill the room, thick and acrid. The fire had jumped from the curtains to the rug, feeding on the spilled whiskey. The heat was intense, pressing against her skin like a physical weight.

Darius came running back, coughing, his eyes watering. He saw her sitting there, singing to a file of papers.

"Get up!" he roared. He grabbed her wrist, his grip bruising. "We have to go!" He wasn't concerned for her; he was terrified of the scandal. A fire in the Brandt penthouse, his estranged wife dead inside? The stock would plummet.

Alessandra looked at him. She saw the fear in his eyes. It was fear of the scandal. Fear of the loss of control.

She grabbed the silver eyebrow razor she had slipped into her sleeve earlier. With a swift, violent motion, she slashed it across the back of his hand.

Darius yelled, releasing her. Blood welled up, bright red, dripping onto the divorce papers on the table.

"I'm not going anywhere," she said. She looked him dead in the eye. "I'll see you in hell, Darius."

Above them, the heat shattered the crystal chandelier. Shards of glass rained down like diamonds. A beam groaned, the sound of wood surrendering to flame.

Darius stumbled back, clutching his bleeding hand. The smoke was too thick now. He couldn't breathe. He looked at her one last time-a woman made of grief and fire-and then he turned and ran toward the door.

Alessandra didn't watch him leave. She wrapped her arms around the folder. She rested her cheek against the cool paper.

The fire roared around her, consuming the oxygen, consuming the lies. She closed her eyes. She expected pain. But as the darkness closed in, all she felt was a strange, quiet relief.