The wine had gone warm in my glass when Diana's message came through.

I was on the couch, feet tucked under me, half-listening to a documentary I wasn't really watching. Reid was at another late client meeting. That's what the text on my phone said an hour ago. That's what the text on my phone always said.

My screen lit up. Diana.

*Amoura. Sit down. I mean it.*

Then the photos started coming in. One. Two. Six of them. Timestamped. A parking space in our building's garage. A silver sedan. A little laminated tag on the dashboard. *Z. Park, Guest, Level B2.*

I read her message twice.

*I ran the plate. Nothing under any resident. This space has been blocked off for eight months. Look at the times, honey. Look at the times.*

I looked.

Every Tuesday. Every Thursday. Sometimes Sundays. All lined up like beads on a string with the nights Reid told me he was working late.

I set the wine glass down on the coffee table. Very carefully. As if it might tip.

I wasn't crying. That surprised me a little. My hands weren't even shaking. There was just this cold, clean feeling behind my ribs, like a room where somebody had finally opened a window.

I got up. Grabbed my keys. Rode the elevator down.

The garage was quiet the way underground places are quiet, humming faintly with fluorescent light. My heels sounded loud. I walked past our two assigned spaces, past the visitors' row, all the way to the corner.

There it was.

Silver sedan. Little laminated tag on the dash. *Z. Park.* Cute.

I took out my phone and photographed the tag. The plate. The wide angle. The security camera mounted on the concrete beam above. The timestamp on the corner of my screen.

Then I walked to the guard's booth and knocked on the glass.

The night guard blinked up from his crossword. Older man. Rodriguez, according to the name patch. I'd said good morning to him for six years.

"Mrs. Willis. Everything all right?"

"I need the access logs for the last thirty days." I kept my voice level. Almost warm. "Whatever your system exports. Email is fine."

He hesitated. "Ma'am, that's usually a request from—"

"From the primary resident. That's me." I tilted my head, just slightly. "My name's on the deed, Mr. Rodriguez. The email's the one you have on file."

Whatever he saw in my face, it decided him. He turned to his monitor.

"Give me five minutes, ma'am."

I went back upstairs. Sat at the kitchen island. Didn't turn on the light.

The skyline was still doing its thing out the window. Blinking, patient, indifferent. I pulled up my contacts and scrolled to *Marcus Webb*.

He picked up on the second ring. He always does.

"Amoura. It's late."

"I know." I could hear him sitting up. "Marcus, I need you tomorrow. First thing. Bring the intellectual property file on Angel's Wings."

A beat.

"Tell me what happened."

"He's been parking her in our garage."

Another beat. Longer.

"I'll clear the morning."

I didn't sleep. I made coffee at four. I put on the charcoal blazer, the one with the clean shoulders, and I sat by the window and watched the sky go from black to bruised.

At five-forty, I went back down.

I stood behind a concrete pillar with my hands in my coat pockets. Not hiding. Just waiting.

The elevator dinged at five-fifty-three.

Reid stepped out first. Phone in one hand, keys in the other, still doing that little half-jog he does when he thinks he's running late. Behind him, a woman. Young. Dark hair loose around her shoulders. A tan coat pulled tight over something the color of a peony petal.

I knew that color.

I knew that hem.

The little embroidered vine along the bottom, silk on silk, so soft it slipped through your fingers. He gave it to me for our fifth anniversary. He'd made a whole thing of it.

She was wearing it under her coat.

I stepped out from the pillar.

Reid stopped dead. His whole body did. Keys froze mid-swing.

"Amoura."

The woman looked up. She blinked at me like I was a mailbox in a wrong location. Then, slowly, she figured it out. Her chin lifted. That little defensive flick.

I let the silence do some work.

I looked at her first. Head to hem. Then back up.

"You've been riding in the back of my life long enough," I said. My voice sounded like somebody else's. Calm. Almost polite. "You might as well sit in the back seat and get comfortable."

Her mouth opened. Nothing came out.

I turned to Reid.

"My attorney will be in touch before lunch." I studied his face. He was already reaching for his tie. Adjusting it. I almost smiled. "I know everything, Reid. I've known longer than you'd like."

"Amoura, wait—"

I was already walking. The elevator doors opened for me on the first try, the way they do when the building thinks you deserve it.

Marcus's office at nine sharp. Twenty-fifth floor. The receptionist offered me water. I said no.

I laid it all across his desk. The photos. The logs Rodriguez had emailed at 6:12 a.m. A yellow legal pad in my own handwriting—every canceled dinner, every business trip that didn't quite land, every night I'd told myself I was being paranoid.

Marcus read for eleven minutes without speaking. Then he set the pages down and folded his hands.

"Angel's Wings is yours," he said. "Clean. The filings are watertight. We extract, we notify, we walk."

"How fast."

"Days. Not weeks."

I asked him three questions. He answered all of them. I said yes.

On my way out I stopped at the lobby mirror. My reflection looked back at me steady. I straightened my lapel. Not because it needed it.

Just to feel my own hand doing it.

Reid came home at seven. I heard his keys in the lock, the familiar rhythm of him dropping his bag by the door, the soft thud of his shoes hitting the mat.

I was at the stove. Pasta. Simple. The kind we used to eat when we were young and broke and still told each other everything.

He stopped in the doorway. I could feel him looking at me.

"Amoura."

I didn't turn around. I stirred the sauce. Added a pinch of salt.

"I know this looks bad," he said. His voice had that practiced smoothness to it. The one he used with investors. "But we should talk. Calmly."

I plated the pasta. Two servings. Set them on the table. Sat down.

He watched me for a second, then pulled out his chair and sat across from me. He picked up his fork. Put it down. Reached for his wine glass instead.

I took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed.

Then I looked at him.

"How long?"

His hand tightened on the glass. "Amoura—"

"How long, Reid."

He set the glass down. Ran a hand through his hair. That gesture. The one that used to make me soften.

"It's not what you think," he said. "She's just—it's complicated. You've been so focused on the project, and I didn't want to add pressure—"

I unlocked my phone. Opened the folder. Set it face-up on the table between us.

The garage photos. Six of them. Timestamped.

His face went white. Then red. Then something in between.

"Amoura, listen—"

"How long."

He looked at the photos. At me. Back at the photos.

"Eight months," he said quietly.

I picked up my fork. Took another bite. The pasta tasted like nothing.

Reid leaned forward. His voice dropped into that softer register. The one he thought was intimate.

"I made a mistake," he said. "I know that. But we can fix this. We've been through worse. We've built so much together—"

I set my fork down. Very carefully.

"I'll be staying in the guest room," I said. "Until the paperwork is finalized."

His mouth opened. Closed.

I stood up. Took my plate to the sink. Rinsed it. Set it in the rack.

When I walked past him, he reached for my wrist.

I stopped. Looked down at his hand. Then at his face.

He let go.

I didn't sleep that night either. I lay in the guest bed and stared at the ceiling and listened to him pacing in the hallway outside the door.

At two a.m., he knocked.

"Amoura. Please."

I didn't answer.

At four a.m., the pacing stopped.

The next afternoon, my phone buzzed. A credit card alert. Joint account. Two first-class tickets to Maui. A resort booking. Seven nights.

I stared at the screen.

Then another text came through. Reid.

*We'll talk when I'm back. Don't do anything dramatic.*

I took a screenshot. Sent it to Marcus. Deleted the message.

Then I opened my laptop.

The email took me twenty minutes to write. I rewrote the subject line four times. Kept it simple in the end.

*Re: Angel's Wings — Transition Inquiry*

Dear Gabriel,

I am writing to inform you that I am departing Burke Enterprises, effective immediately. The "Angel's Wings" project is my original intellectual property, fully protected under the terms I established at inception. All documentation is in order.

I believe Starlight Corporation is the right home for its development.

If you are available to discuss next steps, I would appreciate the opportunity to meet at your earliest convenience.

Best,

Amoura Willis

I read it twice. Then I hit send.

I closed the laptop. Poured myself a glass of water. Stood at the window and watched the city lights blink on one by one.

My phone buzzed at 6:47 a.m.

Gabriel.

*I'll clear my schedule. Name the time.*

I sat down on the edge of the bed. Read the message again.

Then I typed back.

*Tomorrow. 10 a.m. Your office.*

His reply came in less than a minute.

*I'll be ready.*

I set the phone down. My hands were steady.

Outside, the sky was starting to bruise into morning. I stood up. Pulled the curtain back all the way. Let the light in.

Somewhere over the Pacific, Reid was ordering champagne and telling Zora she looked beautiful in a nightgown that used to be mine.

I didn't feel angry anymore.

I felt clear.

The photo came through at seven in the morning.

I was already awake. Coffee in hand. Laptop open on the kitchen island. Marcus's team had sent the extraction checklist at midnight. I'd been working through it line by line.

My phone buzzed. Instagram notification. Zora's account.

I don't know why I opened it. Maybe I needed to see it. Maybe I just wanted to confirm what I already knew.

There she was. Balcony. Ocean behind her. Hair loose and perfect. The blush-pink nightgown catching the light like it was made for her.

The caption: *Chosen life ✨*

I stared at it for five seconds. Then I set the phone face-down and went back to the checklist.

Client correspondence. Check. Concept documents. Check. Proprietary development notes, all three versions. Check.

I copied everything onto the encrypted drive Marcus had couriered over. Every file that had my name on it. Every email thread where I'd solved a problem Reid couldn't. Every contract I'd negotiated while he was in meetings that ran long for reasons I now understood.

The timestamps auto-generated as I worked. Legal. Airtight. Mine.

At noon, I called Marcus.

"It's done," I said.

"Good." I could hear him typing. "I'll have the formal notice drafted by end of day. Burke Enterprises will receive it Monday morning."

"Thank you."

"Amoura." He paused. "You're doing the right thing."

I hung up. Looked around the apartment. Our apartment. The couch we'd picked out together. The art on the walls. The kitchen where I'd made pasta two nights ago and asked a question I already knew the answer to.

It didn't feel like mine anymore.

I booked a flight to New York. Red-eye. Left that night.

The restaurant Gabriel chose was quiet. Midtown. The kind of place where the lighting was low and the tables were spaced far enough apart that you could actually talk.

He stood when I arrived. Dark suit. No tie. He looked the same as he always did—steady, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world.

"Amoura."

"Gabriel."

We sat. He didn't ask how I was. He didn't do the small talk thing. He just waited.

I opened my portfolio. Slid the project summary across the table.

"Angel's Wings," I said. "Two hundred million in projected value. Full concept documentation. Client interest already established. It's mine. Legally. Completely."

He picked up the document. Read the first page. Then the second. He didn't skim. He read every word.

When he looked up, his expression hadn't changed. But something in his eyes had.

"You've been working on this for three years," he said.

I blinked. "You remember."

"I remember everything you've told me, Amoura." He set the document down. "The initial concept. The pivot you made after the first client meeting. The risk analysis you ran last spring."

I didn't know what to say to that.

He leaned back slightly. "What do you need."

Not *what do you want*. What do you need.

I met his eyes.

"A platform," I said. "Full creative authority. The resources to do this right."

"Done."

I waited for the rest. The conditions. The caveats. The part where he explained what he'd expect in return.

He just looked at me.

"That's it?" I said.

"That's it." He paused. "Vice President. Corner office. Skyline view. You'll report directly to me, but the project is yours. I won't interfere."

I felt something loosen in my chest. Something I hadn't realized was pulled tight.

"Why," I said quietly.

He didn't answer right away. He picked up his water glass. Set it down again without drinking.

"Because you're the best person I know at what you do," he said. "And because you deserve to work somewhere that recognizes that."

I looked down at my hands. My ring finger was bare. I'd taken off the wedding band three days ago. Left it on the bathroom counter.

"Okay," I said.

Gabriel smiled. It was a small thing. Quiet. But it reached his eyes.

"Welcome to Starlight, Amoura."

We ordered dinner. He asked about the extraction process. I walked him through it. He asked about the client base. I answered. He didn't ask about Reid. He didn't ask about the divorce. He just listened.

When the check came, he didn't let me reach for it.

On the flight back to LA, I ordered beef broth noodles from the airline menu. They came in a little plastic container with a flimsy lid. Not the same as the Manhattan shop. Not even close.

But I ate the whole bowl anyway.

I looked out the window. The sky was dark. The wing lights blinked red and steady.

Somewhere below, Reid was probably waking up in Maui. Reaching for Zora. Thinking he'd gotten away with something.

He'd find out Monday.

I closed my eyes. Leaned back.

For the first time in eight months, I slept on a plane.