Chapter 4

The gray, muted light of the New York morning bled through the horizontal blinds, casting thin shadows across the hospital bed.

Alaya was already out of the hospital gown. She sat on the leather sofa, wearing a sharp, tailored black blazer and matching trousers she had ordered the hospital concierge to fetch. Her posture was rigidly straight.

The heavy door clicked open. Agnes, the nanny, walked in carrying a high-end insulated thermos. She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw Alaya fully dressed.

Agnes forced a nervous smile. She unscrewed the lid of the thermos and poured steaming, golden organic chicken soup into a porcelain bowl.

"You need to keep your strength up, sweetheart," Agnes said softly, walking over and offering the bowl. "You should call Mr. Suarez. Just... soften your tone a little. Men have so much pressure at work. When a woman loses a child, she needs to show her gentle side to pull her husband's heart back home."

Alaya did not reach for the bowl. She stared at the steam rising from the hot liquid. Her eyes were completely dead.

"Pull his heart back?" Alaya asked. Her voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried a razor-sharp edge. "Pull it back from where, Agnes? From the slums of Brooklyn?"

Agnes's hand jerked violently.

Hot soup sloshed over the rim of the porcelain bowl and splashed directly onto the back of the older woman's hand. Agnes gasped, her eyes darting away in sheer panic. She grabbed a napkin and began scrubbing at her skin, refusing to look Alaya in the eye.

Alaya watched the nanny's frantic movements. A sickening realization settled heavily in her stomach. Agnes knew. This woman, who had practically raised her, had known about Kelsi Warner and chose to protect the illusion of a perfect marriage over Alaya's dignity.

The betrayal felt like a physical blow to the ribs.

Alaya stood up abruptly. She swung her arm out and slapped the porcelain bowl out of Agnes's hands.

The bowl shattered against the marble floor. Hot soup and shards of ceramic exploded across the tiles.

"Save your disgusting, submissive housewife lectures," Alaya hissed, stepping closer to the trembling nanny. "I don't need to beg anyone for scraps."

She pulled her phone from her pocket and dialed her personal wealth manager.

"Initiate a preliminary audit for asset division," Alaya commanded into the phone, her eyes locked on Agnes's pale face. "Separate all pre-marital holdings immediately."

Agnes's face drained of all color. She waved her hands frantically, shaking her head. Alaya silenced her with a single, lethal glare that pinned the older woman to the floor.

Alaya ended the call. She walked to the small hospital closet and pulled out her Hermes travel bag. She began shoving her personal toiletries and chargers into the leather holdall with violent, jerky movements.

"You can't leave!" Agnes cried out, stepping forward. "The doctors haven't cleared you! You can't just run away from your home!"

Alaya grabbed Agnes's wrist and shoved her arm away. "I am leaving this hospital today. And I am never stepping foot in that Manhattan penthouse again."

She hit the call button. When the head nurse arrived, Alaya demanded the AMA-Against Medical Advice-forms. She signed the legal waiver with sharp, aggressive strokes of the pen, tearing the paper slightly at the end of her signature.

Thirty minutes later, the Hewitt family's armored Rolls-Royce idled at the VIP exit.

Alaya slid into the back seat, hiding her pale, exhausted face behind massive black sunglasses. Two bodyguards flanked the vehicle.

"Don't go to the manor," Alaya ordered the driver. "Take me to the penthouse."

When the elevator doors opened directly into the sprawling Manhattan penthouse, the silence of the massive space hit her like a physical weight. Everywhere she looked, there were traces of their fake, perfect life.

She looked down at the entryway mat. A pair of custom-made cashmere slippers Hardy had ordered specifically for her sat neatly by the door.

She kicked them hard. They flew across the hardwood floor and bounced off the trash can.

She marched down the long hallway into the master bedroom. She dragged three massive Rimowa suitcases from the storage room and threw them open on the floor.

She walked into the walk-in closet. She moved like a machine. She grabbed her pre-wedding clothes, her family heirlooms, her personal documents. Anything Hardy had bought her-the diamond necklaces, the designer gowns, the expensive watches-she didn't even touch. She left them hanging there like dead skin.

She walked over to the vanity. A silver framed photo of them on their honeymoon in Lake Como sat next to her perfume.

Alaya picked it up. She didn't look at the smiling faces. She slammed it face-down onto the glass tabletop.

She called a premium moving service. Within two hours, every trace of "Alaya Hewitt" was surgically removed from the apartment.

Before she walked out the door, she stood in the center of the massive, empty living room. She reached down to her left hand.

She gripped the massive, flawless diamond engagement ring. She pulled it over her knuckle. The metal scraped against her skin.

She walked back into the master bedroom, opened his bedside drawer, and dropped the ring inside, right next to his custom cufflinks. It landed with a sharp, high-pitched clink against the wood-a final, cold severance.

She turned around and walked to the elevator. Her heels clicked sharply against the floor. She did not look back.

The metal doors slid shut, sealing the penthouse. It was no longer a home. It was a perfectly preserved tomb.