The morning sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting stripes of harsh, unforgiving light across the living room. It was a beautiful day for an execution.

Anabel was already dressed. A severe, charcoal-grey suit. Hair pulled back in a tight, merciless chignon. She looked less like a wife and more like a prosecutor.

Caleb was on the sofa, a mug of black coffee in his hand. He hadn't slept. There were dark circles under his eyes, and the cut on his lip from her teeth was a swollen, angry red line. He looked haggard, but his arrogance was still intact, a bespoke suit he never took off.

Anabel didn't say a word. She walked to the glass coffee table and placed a thick manila envelope on its surface. The sound was crisp, final.

The cover page was visible through the plastic sleeve.

PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE.

Caleb glanced at it, then back at his coffee. A small, humorless smile touched his lips. "A bit dramatic, even for you."

He didn't even open it.

"I know about Jodie," Anabel said, her voice devoid of all emotion. It was a statement of fact, not an accusation. "I know about the baby."

His hand, the one holding the mug, stilled. He finally looked at her, his grey eyes searching her face for a crack, a weakness. He found none.

"The child was an accident," he said, his tone dismissive, as if he were discussing a minor stock fluctuation. He leaned back against the plush cushions, the picture of unconcerned power. "It doesn't have to change anything. You are, and will remain, Mrs. Caleb Harrison. That has always been the arrangement."

The sheer, unmitigated audacity of it stole her breath. He wanted her to what? To raise his love child's half-sibling under the same roof? To smile for the cameras at galas while his mistress raised his heir?

A cold fury, sharp and clean, cut through her shock. Her hands, hidden in the pockets of her jacket, clenched into fists, her nails digging into her palms.

"I am not interested in your arrangement," she said, her voice dangerously quiet. "I am activating the divorce proceedings. Immediately."

"No," he said simply.

"You don't have a choice. I have grounds."

"Do you?" He leaned forward now, the predator scenting a challenge. "I suggest you re-read the document you were so eager to sign three years ago."

The prenup. The iron-clad, hundred-page document his army of lawyers had drafted. She had barely glanced at it, blinded by what she had mistaken for love.

She pulled her own copy from her briefcase, already opened to the relevant page. She didn't need to read it. She had spent all night memorizing it.

"Clause 17, Section B," she recited, her voice as sharp as a scalpel. "'In the event of marital misconduct, including but not limited to adultery leading to conception outside the marriage, the non-offending party is entitled to fifty percent of all liquid assets accumulated during the marital period. Furthermore, any commercial activity conducted by either party under a professional pseudonym during the marriage shall, upon dissolution, have its intellectual property rights revert solely to the originating party.'" She looked up, her eyes locking with his. "I believe a confirmed pregnancy constitutes sufficient grounds under the first clause. And as for the second-my designs remain mine."

Caleb's eyes darkened. He had forgotten that clause-both of them. Or, more likely, he never thought she would have the nerve to use them.

He stood up. A slow, deliberate movement. He walked to the coffee table, picked up her petition for divorce, and, without a word, ripped it in half. Then in quarters. He let the pieces flutter from his hand into the nearby wastebasket.

An act of such childish, theatrical dominance it was almost laughable.

"This marriage," he said, his voice a low growl as he loomed over her, "is a strategic alliance. It secures the Harrison-Roblesbusiness ties. It is not a negotiation. It is a fact. It is not ending."

Anabel rose to her feet, refusing to be intimidated by his height, by his sheer physical presence. She had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze, but her spine was steel. "The Roblesfamily is not a subsidiary of your empire, Caleb. We don't need you."

He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper, the threat now naked and ugly. "But your brother does. Marcus’s firm. What percentage of his business comes from Harrison Group retainers? Thirty percent? Forty? It would be a shame if a conflict of interest forced us to take our business elsewhere."

Her brother's name was a punch to the gut. Marcus. He had poured his life into that firm. Caleb's threat wasn't just about money; it was about destroying her brother's dream.

He saw the flicker of pain in her eyes, the momentary waver in her resolve. He mistook it for surrender.

His expression softened, the anger replaced by a patronizing tenderness that was even more insulting. He reached out, as if to stroke her cheek. "Be a good wife, Anabel. Stay in your lane. Enjoy the life I've given you."

She jerked her head back, dodging his touch as if it were a snake. The revulsion was a physical force.

"Congratulations on becoming a father, Caleb," she said, her voice dripping with ice. "But don't expect me to be your co-star in this disgusting farce."

His face hardened again, his temper flaring at her defiance. "Don't push me, Anabel. You have no idea how ugly I can make this for you."

"I'm counting on it," she said.

She turned and walked to the entryway, grabbing her handbag from the console table. Beneath it lay a folded copy of a trade magazine she'd brought back from the office weeks ago-an issue featuring a small, anonymous profile on the rise of a designer known only as "Juliet," whose latest collection had just broken auction records in Geneva. She'd meant to leave it on the coffee table for Caleb to see, a quiet bid for his attention. She left it where it was. Let the housekeepers throw it away.

"I said, don't walk away from me!" he roared from behind her.

She didn't turn around. She didn't break her stride. She pulled open the heavy apartment door and stepped into the hallway, leaving one final sentence hanging in the air behind her.

"I'll see you in court."

The elevator doors slid open, a gleaming silver sanctuary. As they closed, cutting off the sight of the apartment, she saw him through the closing gap. He swept his arm across the coffee table, sending his mug crashing against the far wall in a spray of black coffee and shattered ceramic.

The doors sealed him away.

Alone in the mirrored box, Anabel leaned against the cool metal wall. Her heart was a frantic drum against her ribs. She took a deep, shuddering breath.

Then she pulled out her phone.

She scrolled to her brother's name. Marcus Farrell.

Her thumb hovered over the call button for three long seconds. This would change everything. For the Farrells, too.

She pressed it.

The phone rang once.

"Anabel? Is everything okay?" Marcus's voice was warm, familiar, a relic from a life before Caleb Harrison.

Anabel closed her eyes.

"Marcus," she said, her voice perfectly calm, perfectly steady. "I need a lawyer. The best, most vicious divorce lawyer in New York City."