The heavy oak door of the Manhattan villa slammed open, rattling the frosted glass in the foyer.

Chloe marched inside, tossing her designer coat onto my velvet armchair. Martha, my housekeeper, shrank back against the wall, her hands trembling as she clutched a silver polishing cloth.

"You can leave, Martha," I said, descending the curved staircase.

"Don't go anywhere," Chloe snapped, pointing a manicured finger at the older woman. "She needs to see how pathetic her boss really is."

I stopped on the bottom step. "Get out of my house, Chloe."

"Your house?" Chloe laughed, a sharp, grating sound that echoed in the high-ceilinged room. She stepped closer, invading my personal space. "Nothing here belongs to you. Not the walls, not the furniture, and definitely not the man."

"It's past midnight. You're drunk."

"I'm perfectly sober." She held up her left wrist, letting the chandelier light catch the heavy diamonds there. "Do you like it? Lucas picked it out this afternoon. He said the jeweler designed it specifically for me."

I stared at the bracelet. My chest tightened, but I kept my voice flat. "Congratulations. Now leave."

"Why are you pretending you don't care?" Chloe leaned in, her perfume thick and suffocating. "You sit in this massive, dead mansion every single night. You wear the title of Mrs. Mercer, but what does it actually get you? He hasn't touched you in months."

"My marriage is none of your business."

"I am his business." Chloe smirked, crossing her arms. "He spent the entire weekend with me in the Hamptons. Did he tell you he was at a conference? We didn't leave the hotel room for two days."

I kept my expression blank. "Are you done?"

"I'm just getting started." She paced in front of the staircase, her stilettos snapping against the marble. "Do you even know what his favorite drink is anymore? Or what he likes to do on Sunday mornings? Because I do. He told me you just lie there. Cold. Unresponsive. He said being married to you is like living in a museum."

"If you're so secure in your position, why are you breaking into my home at midnight to brag?"

Her smile faltered. A flash of genuine irritation crossed her features. "Because I want you to file for divorce. I'm tired of sharing him."

"I'm not sharing anything. You're taking his scraps."

Chloe raised her hand, ready to slap me.

Before she could swing, the front door swung open again.

Lucas stepped inside, shedding his tailored jacket. He paused, taking in the scene.

Instantly, Chloe dropped her hand. Her face crumpled into a mask of pure terror. She rushed toward him, burying her face against his chest.

"Lucas," she whimpered, her voice entirely devoid of the venom from seconds ago. "I just came to drop off the files you left in my car, and she attacked me."

He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close. His dark eyes locked onto mine, cold and unforgiving.

"What the hell is going on here, Ivy?" he demanded.

"She forced her way inside," I replied, keeping my posture straight. "And she was just about to hit me."

"Liar!" Chloe sobbed into his shirt. "She told me I was a cheap whore. She told Martha to throw me out on the street like trash."

Lucas stroked Chloe's hair, then glared at me. "Are you out of your mind?"

"Ask Martha," I said, gesturing to the housekeeper who still cowered in the corner.

"I don't need to ask the help," Lucas snapped. "Chloe is innocent. She has no reason to lie. You, on the other hand, have been acting like a paranoid lunatic for weeks. You've been impossible to deal with lately. Everything is an argument. Chloe is a colleague and a friend, and you treat her like dirt."

"A colleague?" A dry chuckle escaped my throat. "She's wearing the diamond bracelet you bought her today."

Lucas didn't even blink. "I bought it to thank her for her hard work on the merger. You're making a massive issue out of a simple gift. Stop being so damn narrow-minded."

"Narrow-minded. Right."

"Apologize to her," he ordered.

The words hung in the air. The absolute absurdity of his demand settled over me like a heavy blanket.

"Excuse me?" I asked.

"You heard me." Lucas tightened his grip on Chloe. "Tell Martha to brew some chamomile tea. Chloe is shaking. Then you are going to apologize for treating a guest in our home this way."

"You want me to apologize to the woman who broke into my house and insulted me in front of my staff?"

"I want you to stop acting like a jealous shrew," Lucas shot back, his voice rising. "Chloe came here to do me a favor. You decided to corner her and bully her because you're insecure. It's pathetic, Ivy. Grow up."

Chloe peeked out from his embrace, shooting me a triumphant smirk.

For three years, I had swallowed my pride. I had endured his late nights, his sudden business trips, the smell of foreign perfume on his collars. I had justified his coldness, telling myself he was just stressed, that he would eventually come back to me.

I had fought for a ghost.

The anger that had been simmering in my veins suddenly evaporated. The desperate need to make him understand, to make him choose me, vanished completely.

I felt nothing but a profound, hollow exhaustion.

"You're right," I said quietly.

Lucas frowned. He opened his mouth to speak, likely to issue another reprimand, but I didn't give him the chance.

I turned my back on them and walked across the foyer to the mahogany console table. My movements were brisk. I pulled open the top drawer and retrieved the manila folder I had hidden there three days ago.

I walked back to the center of the room.

"Ivy, what are you doing?" Lucas asked, impatience lacing his tone.

I tossed the folder onto the glass coffee table. It landed with a soft smack.

"I'm taking your advice," I said, my voice steady. "I'm growing up."

Lucas stared at the folder. "What is this?"

"Open it."

He released Chloe and stepped forward. He flipped the cover open.

His eyes scanned the first page, and the color drained from his face.

"Divorce agreement?" He read the words aloud as if they were written in a foreign language. His head snapped up, his jaw clenched tight. "Is this some kind of sick joke?"

"I've already signed it," I told him, pointing to the bottom of the page. "I don't want the house. I don't want your money. I just want out."

Chloe gasped in the background, though I couldn't tell if it was fake or genuine shock.

"You're throwing a tantrum," Lucas growled, picking up the papers. He waved them in the air. "You think you can use this to manipulate me into sending Chloe away? It won't work. I'm not playing these childish games, Ivy."

"It's not a game." I met his furious gaze without flinching. "My lawyer drafted those yesterday. The terms are simple. You keep your shares, I keep my dignity."

"Dignity?" He scoffed. "You're walking away from a life most women would kill for."

"Then let Chloe have it." I gestured to the woman standing behind him. "Marry her. Buy her a hundred bracelets. Move her into the master bedroom tonight. None of it matters to me anymore."

"Ivy—"

"Sign the papers, Lucas."

I turned toward the staircase, my spine rigid, refusing to let him see the final, pathetic tear that threatened to spill.

"If you walk up those stairs, we are done," he shouted, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. "I won't let you come crawling back tomorrow when you realize what you've thrown away!"

I paused on the first step.

"I threw it away a long time ago," I whispered, loud enough for him to hear.

I climbed the stairs, leaving them in the silence of the foyer.

But as I reached the landing, the sound of tearing paper ripped through the quiet house.

I zipped my suitcase. The metal fastener snapped shut with a sharp, final sound.

Sunlight poured into the master bedroom, but the space felt entirely dead.

I grabbed the handle and rolled my luggage into the hallway.

Downstairs, the torn shreds of my divorce agreement still littered the foyer. I stepped right over them.

I pulled a fresh copy from my purse, signed the bottom line, and dropped it onto the glass coffee table.

My phone buzzed in my coat pocket.

An unknown number flashed on the screen.

"Hello?" I answered.

"Is this Mrs. Ivy Mercer?" a woman asked, her tone rushed. "I am calling from New York Presbyterian Hospital."

"Yes."

"Your husband was involved in a severe high-speed collision on the interstate. He is in critical condition."

A dry, hollow laugh scraped its way up my throat.

Silence stretched on the other end of the line.

"Mrs. Mercer? Did you hear me? He just got out of emergency surgery. He barely survived."

"I heard you," I replied, keeping my voice flat.

"You need to come immediately."

I stared at the fresh divorce papers resting on the table. "I will be there."

I walked into the ICU wing an hour later. The sterile smell of iodine burned my nose.

"Room 412," the head nurse told me, pointing down the hall. "But stay outside. He just woke up, and he is highly agitated."

I stopped a few feet from the open doorway, hiding in the shadow of the alcove.

Through the glass panel, I saw him.

Bandages wrapped around his head. A massive bruise darkened his jaw. Tubes snaked from his arms to a wall of monitors.

Dr. Evans stood over him, shining a penlight into his eyes.

Lucas swatted the doctor's hand away.

"Stop shining that damn light," Lucas croaked.

"Mr. Mercer, you suffered massive trauma. You need to stay calm."

"Where is she?" Lucas demanded.

"Who?"

"My wife!" Lucas roared, his voice tearing at the end. "Where is Ivy?"

I pressed my spine against the corridor wall. My stomach twisted into a tight knot.

"Your wife was notified," Dr. Evans said gently. "Please, your heart rate is spiking."

"I do not care about my heart rate!" Lucas grabbed the bedrails, trying to haul himself up.

The monitors shrieked a high-pitched warning.

"Bring her to me," Lucas gasped, his face contorting in agony. "I need Ivy. Now."

Why was he screaming for me? Less than ten hours ago, he had chosen his mistress.

The elevator doors at the end of the hall slid open.

Chloe sprinted out.

She wore a pristine white designer dress. Her makeup was flawless, though she forced a dramatic sob for the nurses to see.

She ignored the shadows where I stood. She shoved past the orderlies and burst into Room 412.

"Lucas!" Chloe wailed, rushing toward his bed.

I shifted closer to the doorframe, watching the scene unfold.

Chloe reached out to grab his uninjured hand. "Oh, my poor darling. I came as soon as I heard."

Lucas ripped his arm away as if she had burned him.

"Do not touch me," he snarled.

Chloe froze, her fake tears stalling on her cheeks. "Lucas? It is me."

He squinted, scanning her face with absolute revulsion. "Who the hell are you?"

"It is Chloe," she stammered, her voice dropping its theatrical pitch. "We work together. We were together last night."

"I have no idea who you are," Lucas spat.

"You are confused," Chloe insisted, stepping closer. "The crash must have rattled you. I am your—"

"Get away from me!"

His shout echoed down the hallway.

"You reek of cheap perfume and desperation," Lucas growled, his eyes narrowing. "Why is a stranger in my room crying fake tears?"

"Fake?" Chloe's jaw dropped. "Lucas, I love you. You bought me this bracelet yesterday!"

She held up her wrist, flashing the heavy diamonds.

Lucas stared at the jewelry, utterly blank. "I would never buy something so tacky. Where is my wife?"

"I am the one you want!" Chloe yelled, losing her temper. "Ivy is a cold bitch! You hate her!"

Lucas lunged forward.

The IV needle ripped from his vein. Blood splattered across the white sheets.

"Security!" Lucas bellowed, ignoring the crimson stain spreading over his arm. "Get this lunatic out of my sight!"

"Lucas, no!" Chloe shrieked as two large guards rushed into the room.

They grabbed her arms, hauling her backward.

"Release me! You are making a mistake! He loves me!" she screamed.

The guards dragged her out of the room, her shoes sliding uselessly against the floor tiles. She thrashed and cursed, all her elegant pretense entirely destroyed.

I watched them haul her into the elevator.

She was gone.

Inside the room, Dr. Evans rushed to compress Lucas's bleeding arm.

"You tore your stitches, Mr. Mercer. You have traumatic selective amnesia. Your brain is protecting itself by blocking recent memories."

"I remember my wife," Lucas gritted out, wincing as the doctor applied pressure. "I remember Ivy."

Mark, Lucas's executive assistant, jogged into the room, out of breath.

"Mr. Mercer, I am here."

"Mark," Lucas snapped, his gaze burning with feverish intensity. "Find Ivy."

"Sir, we called the house. The housekeeper said she packed a bag and left."

"Then track her phone."

"She turned it off. Her signal is dead."

Lucas shoved the doctor aside again, sitting up fully despite the fresh blood soaking his bandages.

"I do not pay you to make excuses!" Lucas shouted.

"Sir, you need surgery on that arm—"

"I need my wife!" Lucas's voice broke, vibrating with a raw, desperate panic I had never heard before. "Call the police. Call the mayor. Hire every private investigator in the state."

"Mr. Mercer, that will cost millions. The board will—"

"I do not care about the board!" Lucas grabbed a metal tray from the bedside table and hurled it across the room.

It smashed against the wall, sending medical supplies flying.

Mark flinched.

"Hack the city grids," Lucas ordered, his chest heaving. "Pull every traffic camera. Put a bounty on the wire. Nobody sleeps until Ivy is standing in this room."

"Understood, sir," Mark said, pulling out his phone immediately.

"Find her," Lucas whispered, his head falling back against the pillows, tears mixing with the sweat on his face. "Please find her."

I stepped away from the door.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

He did not remember his betrayal. He did not remember the divorce papers. He only remembered me.

But I remembered everything.

I turned and walked quietly down the corridor, slipping out the emergency exit before anyone could spot me.

I hailed a cab outside.

"JFK Airport," I told the driver.

As the car merged onto the highway, my new burner phone lit up with a breaking news alert.

MERCER ENTERPRISES OFFERS $5 MILLION REWARD FOR INFORMATION ON CEO'S MISSING WIFE.

I stared at the glowing screen. The hunt had just begun.

The airport terminal buzzed with the low hum of rolling luggage and overlapping announcements. I sat at a small metal table near Gate 42, staring at the digital departure board.

My new burner phone vibrated against the plastic surface.

An unknown number flashed on the screen.

I picked it up. "Hello."

"Mrs. Mercer. Please do not hang up."

"Your tech department works incredibly fast, Mark."

"They pulled the cab's license plate from the street cameras," the assistant said, his voice completely breathless. "You have to turn around. Mr. Mercer just tore out his IV lines again."

"Tell the nurses to strap him to the bed."

"He broke an orderly's nose! He is completely unhinged. He keeps screaming that he needs to explain something about your honeymoon in Paris. He thinks it is three years ago."

I took a slow sip of my black coffee. The liquid was lukewarm and bitter.

"That sounds like a neurological issue. I am not a neurologist."

"You are his wife! He is bleeding all over the floor, Ivy. He refuses to let the surgeons near him."

"I left the signed divorce papers on the foyer table. Have the legal department file them on Monday."

"He will never sign them. If you do not come back, he is going to kill himself fighting the staff."

"Then let him fight."

"The board of directors is threatening to step in," Mark pleaded, shifting his tactics. "If the shareholders find out the CEO is having a psychotic break in the ICU, the stock will plummet. You have to come calm him down."

"Sell your shares, Mark. The price is about to drop."

"Ivy, I know he treated you poorly lately. But his brain wiped all of that away. He only remembers loving you."

"His amnesia does not erase my memory. Do not call this number again."

I tapped the red icon on the screen.

Two minutes later, the phone vibrated again.

Caller ID: Julian. Lucas's best friend.

"Ivy, what the hell are you doing?" Julian demanded the second I answered.

"Waiting for my flight."

"I am standing outside the ICU. Lucas is sobbing. I have known him for twenty years, and I have never seen him shed a single tear."

"Take a picture, Julian. You can frame it for his office."

"Are you insane? He is broken! He keeps grabbing my shirt, asking why his chest hurts so much. He says he feels like he lost half his soul. He is begging for you."

"He is begging for a version of me he slowly murdered over three years."

"He has three broken ribs and a severe concussion," Julian pushed, his tone growing desperate. "His left arm is shredded from the windshield glass. And he is fighting the doctors so hard he is tearing his own flesh. Do you really want his blood on your hands?"

"It washes off."

"You have to forgive him. He is a clean slate right now. You can start over. Be the couple you used to be."

"I do not want a clean slate. I want an exit."

"He will hunt you down. You know how obsessive he is. If you leave, he will tear New York apart looking for you."

"Then New York will burn."

I ended the call.

The phone buzzed immediately. Another unknown number.

"Ivy Mercer. You get back to this hospital right this instant."

"Hello, Eleanor."

"Do not use that tone with me," my mother-in-law snapped. "My son is fighting for his life, and you abandon him? What kind of monster are you?"

"The kind who walked in on his mistress wearing diamonds bought with our joint account."

"That tramp means nothing! He chased her out! He only wants you. He is screaming your name so loudly his throat is tearing."

"Have Dr. Evans prescribe a throat spray."

"You cruel, heartless girl. He loves you!"

"He loves the convenience of my silence. My silence is no longer available."

"I will transfer the Hamptons estate into your name," Eleanor offered, dropping her anger for a frantic bargain. "I will buy you that gallery in Soho you always wanted. Just come to the hospital and sit by his bed until he falls asleep."

"Keep the estate. I prefer hotels."

"If you do not turn around, I will freeze your trust fund. I will ruin your family's business."

"The trust fund is untouched. My family sold their shares last year. You have absolutely no leverage over me anymore. Goodbye, Eleanor."

I watched the digital departure board flip. My flight to London was boarding in ten minutes.

The burner phone rang one last time.

I almost ignored it. But I needed to sever the final thread.

"Stop calling," I said.

"Ivy?"

The voice was ragged. Torn to shreds. Barely human.

"Lucas."

"You are there. You are actually there." A wet, choking sound came through the speaker. "Baby, please. Please come get me."

"I am not coming."

"Why? Did I do something wrong? I am sorry. I do not know what I did, but I am so sorry. My head is splitting open. Everything is dark in here."

"It will pass."

"It won't! I cannot breathe without you. The doctors keep looking at me with pity. Where are you? Tell me where you are, I will crawl there. I swear to God, I will crawl."

"You do not have to crawl anywhere. You just have to stay right there and forget me completely."

"I will give you anything," Lucas begged, his voice cracking. "Whatever I did, I will fix it. I will buy you the world, Ivy. Just tell me what you want."

"I want you to sign the papers on the table."

"No! Do not say that! You are my wife! You are my whole life!"

"I was a museum exhibit. You said so yourself."

"I never said that! I would never say that!" He sobbed, a loud, ugly, desperate sound. "Ivy, please. I am scared. I am so fucking scared."

"I was scared every night I waited up for you, smelling her perfume on your collars. You survived that. You will survive this."

"Who? I do not know who you are talking about! I only want you!"

"My boarding call is starting."

"Ivy, wait! I will die if you hang up! I will rip these tubes out of my neck right now! I swear it!"

"Go ahead."

I pressed the end button.

I peeled the plastic back off the phone. I plucked the tiny SIM card from its slot.

I snapped the chip in half.

I dropped the broken pieces into the nearest trash bin.

Total numbness settled over my skin. No pain. No regret. Just the cold, sterile air of the terminal.

I grabbed my suitcase handle and joined the first-class line.

I handed my boarding pass to the gate agent.

She scanned the barcode. The machine flashed a bright red light. It emitted a harsh, rejecting beep.

The agent frowned, typing rapidly on her keyboard.

"I am sorry, Mrs. Mercer," she said, her voice tight.

"Is there a problem with my ticket?"

Two men in dark suits stepped out from behind the boarding desk. They flanked the gate, blocking the jet bridge.

"Your ticket has been canceled," one of the men said, pulling a silver badge from his jacket. "And the airspace over JFK has just been locked down."