Althea sat in the empty suite for five full minutes, the silence pressing in on her. She tried to breathe, to push the events of the last hour into a box and shove it away. But the box wouldn't close.

A waiter appeared, his face a polite, impersonal mask. "Will you be needing anything else, ma'am? Shall I have this packed for you?"

She shook her head. Her stomach was a tight, aching knot. The thought of food made her want to be sick.

"No, thank you."

She gathered her small clutch and stood, her legs feeling unsteady. Leaving the hotel felt like a retreat from a battlefield where she had been thoroughly, humiliatingly defeated.

The cool night air of Madison Avenue was a slap in the face, shocking her out of her daze. She stood under the hotel's ornate awning, fumbling for her phone to order an Uber, trying to look like she belonged there.

Althea instinctively looked away, her cheeks burning. She didn't want to be seen. She wanted to be invisible.

Then, the hotel's revolving door pushed out another figure.

Damarcus.

He had put on a dark, tailored overcoat that made him look taller, more imposing. The doorman, a man with a face like a weathered map of Ireland, straightened up immediately.

"Mr. Everett. Your car is ready."

Althea's heart skipped a beat. She froze, phone in hand, praying he wouldn't see her huddled by the curb.

A car glided to a silent stop in front of him. It wasn't a black Mercedes or a Cadillac like the others lined up. It was a vintage Bentley S2 Continental, its deep, British racing green paint gleaming under the streetlights. It was a piece of art, a whisper of old-world elegance in a city of noise and steel.

Althea stopped breathing.

She knew that car.

It was a 1961 model. She had spent a year tracking it down, negotiating with a reclusive collector in Switzerland. She'd had it secretly shipped to a specialist in Connecticut and restored to perfection.

It had been his first anniversary gift.

She remembered the look on his face when she'd given him the keys. A rare, genuine flash of surprise and delight that had made her own heart ache with love.

He still had it. He was still driving it.

The thought was a physical blow, knocking the wind out of her.

His longtime driver, Frank Miller, got out and opened the rear door. Frank, who had driven them to their wedding. He saw Althea, and a complicated emotion—pity? recognition?—flickered in his eyes before he gave her a stiff, almost imperceptible nod.

Damarcus's gaze lifted, sweeping over the polished roof of the car, and landed directly on her. He had known she was there all along.

He didn't get in the car. He just stood there, the city lights glinting in his dark hair.

"Need a ride?" he asked.

His voice wasn't loud, but it carried in the cold air. The doorman heard it. Frank heard it. It was a casual question, but it felt like an offering of charity. A display of power.

Althea felt a hot flush of shame creep up her neck. She was acutely aware of the doorman's curious glance.

She forced her fingers to tap on her phone screen, to complete the Uber request. She lifted her chin, her voice miraculously steady and cool.

"No, thank you. My car is on its way."

The lie was flimsy, pathetic. She hadn't been able to afford a private car service in years.

A ghost of a smile played on Damarcus's lips. He saw right through her. Of course he did.

He didn't press. He simply gave a slight nod, then bent his tall frame and slid into the backseat of the Bentley.

The door closed with a solid, satisfying thud, sealing him away in his world of leather and wealth.

Through the rear window, Althea saw him turn and say something to the passenger seat. Tiffany hadn't left after all. She had been waiting for him. Now she was leaning toward him, her smile dazzling.

A hand squeezed Althea's heart, tight and painful.

The vintage car pulled away from the curb, its engine a low, powerful purr. It merged seamlessly into the river of headlights on Madison Avenue and disappeared.

Her phone buzzed. Your Uber is arriving now. White Toyota Camry.

She opened the door and slid onto the worn fabric seat. The car smelled faintly of air freshener and old coffee. The chasm between his world and hers had never felt so vast, so unbridgeable.

She leaned her head against the cool glass of the window, watching the glittering towers of Manhattan slide by. She felt like a ghost haunting a city that no longer belonged to her.