Nora Bennett Caruso stood beneath the crystal chandeliers of the Crown Harbor Hotel in Manhattan with the metallic taste of blood on her tongue and one hand pressed against her burning cheek.

Three hundred miles north of Manhattan, near the rugged cliffs of Rockport, Massachusetts, the ocean air smelled of salt and wild pine.

Nora sat on the wooden porch of a small, white-shingled cottage overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. The morning sun was breaking through the coastal fog, painting the sky in shades of gold and soft rose.

Inside the cottage, Eli was asleep in a sunlit bedroom, tucked under a handmade quilt.

The cottage belonged to Clara Bennett, Nora’s late maternal aunt. It was a property Dominic had never visited, a place Nora had kept quietly in her own name as a piece of her childhood memory.

Nora held a mug of hot black tea in her hands. Her ear was bandaged, and the dark purple mark on her wrist was tender to the touch, but for the first time in five years, she could breathe.

There were no servants whispering in corridors. No bodyguards standing at the gates. No demands to attend high-society galas where she had to play the docile, silent wife of a powerful man.

A silver Volvo pulled up the gravel driveway.

A tall woman with sharp blue eyes and tailored grey trousers stepped out. It was Evelyn Reed—New York’s most formidable intellectual property and family law attorney, and Nora’s closest friend from her university days in London.

Evelyn walked up the porch steps, carrying a thick leather briefcase and a box of fresh pastries. She set the pastries on the wooden table, looked at Nora’s bruised face, and let out a long, slow breath.

"That bastard," Evelyn said quietly, taking a seat opposite Nora. "I saw the headlines this morning. Page Six is calling it 'The Caruso Gala Disaster.'"

"What are they saying?" Nora asked calmly.

"Vanessa’s PR team tried to paint you as an unhinged, jealous wife," Evelyn said, pulling out a tablet. "But it backfired completely. Someone leaked a sixteen-second video from inside the ballroom to Twitter two hours ago."

Nora lifted her tea. "The slap?"

"Clear as day," Evelyn confirmed. "The internet is tearing Dominic apart. Corporate sponsors are already threatening to pull out of the winter collection. Stock in Caruso Enterprises dropped six percent at the opening bell."

Nora felt no triumph at the news. Only a dull, distant ache.

"I don't care about his stock," Nora said softly. "I want two things, Evelyn. I want sole custody of Eli. And I want my designs back."

Evelyn opened her briefcase, pulling out a stack of legal documents.

"We have a massive case for the copyright theft," Evelyn said, her eyes flashing with professional steel. "Vanessa Moretti’s 'Winter Rose' bridal collection is a ninety-percent match to your original 2022 sketchbook. We have your dated digital files, your hand-drawn watercolors, and the original physical patterns you made in your Greenwich studio before Dominic locked you out of the creative department."

"Can she prove she drew them?"

"Not a chance," Evelyn laughed coldly. "Vanessa couldn't draw a straight line with a ruler. She bought her fashion degree in Paris. When we serve Caruso Design Group with a federal injunction, they will have to pull the entire collection from the market thirty days before the spring trade show."

Nora looked out over the ocean. "Dominic will fight. He doesn't know how to lose."

"Let him fight," Evelyn said, leaning forward and placing her hand over Nora’s uninjured wrist. "He spent five years treating you like a trophy he could lock in a glass case. He forgot that before you were his wife, you were the top graduate of the Royal College of Art. It’s time to remind him who actually built the creative heart of his company."