My husband slapped me in front of the whole charity gala, then wrapped his arm around his mistress and sneered, “Apologize to her, or get out.

Forty-eight hours after the gala, I stood in the center of the Fifth Avenue penthouse.

The apartment was hollow. The three-story duplex overlooking Central Park, which had once felt like an opulent prison, was now filled with the sound of packing tape ripping and moving dollies rolling across the wide-plank oak floors.

A team of bonded movers, supervised by two of Caleb’s off-duty detectives, was stripping the apartment bare.

Every painting Adrian had bought with my money—the pretentious modern abstracts he used to impress his dinner guests—had been taken down from the walls, leaving behind pale, square silhouettes against the plaster. His custom Italian furniture was being wrapped in heavy moving blankets, destined for the consignment houses Julian’s team had arranged to liquidate.

I wore a pair of dark jeans, a cream cashmere sweater, and flat leather boots. The swelling on my cheek had begun to fade into a light, yellowish bruise, easily masked by a touch of foundation. The cut on my lip had closed.

The front door opened, and Caleb stepped inside, accompanied by a young, nervous-looking man wearing a cheap polyester suit and carrying an oversized briefcase.

“Elena,” Caleb called out. “Adrian’s court-appointed attorney is here. He requested five minutes to supervise the collection of personal effects under the court order.”

The young lawyer swallowed hard, looking around the palatial apartment like he had walked into a foreign country. He extended a trembling hand. “Mrs. Vale—excuse me, Ms. Sterling. My name is Thomas Miller. I’m representing Mr. Vale for his preliminary detention hearing.”

“Mr. Miller,” I said, not taking his hand, but offering a polite nod. “You’re here for his clothing?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Miller stammered, pulling a crumpled list from his pocket. “The court permitted two suits suitable for trial appearances, five shirts, two pairs of shoes, and his personal hygiene items. Everything else has been designated as contested assets under the federal forfeiture lien.”

“The master closet is down the hall,” I told him, gesturing toward the double doors at the end of the corridor. “One of the officers will assist you. Nothing leaves this apartment without Detective Gomez checking the pockets.”

“Of course, Ms. Sterling. Thank you.” Miller hurried down the hall as if he were afraid the walls might fall on him.

I walked into Adrian’s private study.

The room smelled of stale tobacco and expensive cedar. On his massive mahogany desk sat three framed photographs. One was of him receiving an award from the Chamber of Commerce. The second was of him shaking hands with the governor.

The third was a picture of me, taken on our honeymoon in Lake Como. I was twenty-two, laughing into the wind on the deck of a wooden speedboat, looking at him with eyes full of blind, desperate adoration.

I picked up the frame. I looked at that girl for a long time.

I didn't hate her for being blind. She had been lonely. She had been grieving. She had wanted so desperately to believe that the world was gentle that she had let a wolf build a den in her home.

I took the photograph out of the frame, folded it in half, and slipped it into my pocket. The silver frame went into the trash bin beneath the desk.

My phone vibrated in my palm. It was a message from Marcus:

*Holding cell transfer approved. If you want the closure, Elena, it’s now. Caleb has the transport cleared at the Tombs.*

I stared at the screen for ten seconds.

Then I walked out of the study, past the movers carrying out Adrian’s bespoke liquor cabinet, and met Caleb at the elevator.

“Are you sure you want to see him?” Caleb asked quietly as the elevator doors slid shut. “You don’t owe him a single second of your life.”

“I don’t owe him anything, Caleb,” I said, watching the floor numbers count down to the lobby. “This isn't for him. This is for me.”

Ten minutes later, Caleb’s unmarked cruiser pulled into the secured sally port of the Manhattan Detention Complex, known to everyone in the city as the Tombs.

The air inside the concrete facility was cold, sterile, and thick with the scent of industrial floor stripper and misery. Caleb escorted me through three security checkpoints, his badge clearing every gate without a word spoken. We arrived at a private attorney-client interview room—a small, windowless box with a stainless-steel table bolted to the floor and two plastic chairs.

“I’ll be right outside the door,” Caleb said, resting his hand on my shoulder. “There’s a panic button under the table, but the two guards through the glass have orders not to take their eyes off him.”

“Thank you, Caleb.”

I stepped into the room.

A minute later, the heavy metal door on the opposite side buzzed open.

Adrian was led inside, his wrists handcuffed in front of him, linked to a heavy chain around his waist.

He looked unrecognizable. In forty-eight hours, the charming, immaculate prince of New York society had disintegrated. He was wearing an oversized orange jumpsuit that hung loosely off his shoulders. His hair was greasy and uncombed. The stubble on his cheeks was gray and patchy. But his eyes—bloodshot and hollow—still held that frantic, desperate cunning.

The guard pushed him into the chair across from me and stepped back against the wall.

Adrian leaned forward as far as the chain would allow, his breath rattling in his throat.