I spent three years washing blood from his designer suits, only to hear him boast that losing me wouldn't even inconvenience his weekend.

Nico strode into the walk-in dressing room.

The automated lights flickered on, flooding the luxury boutique with warm, bright illumination.

Nico stood in the center of the room, his eyes scanning the racks with forensic, rapid-fire precision. At first glance, everything looked untouched. The silk evening gowns hung in perfect chromatic gradients; the designer coats draped from their velvet hangers; the cashmere sweaters sat stacked in neat, color-coded columns along the shelving.

Then his gaze dropped to the lower vanity drawers.

One drawer was pulled open by half an inch.

Nico walked over and pulled it fully outward. The drawer was completely empty, stripped clean of the worn cotton t-shirts, the wool socks, and the simple, unbranded clothing she had brought with her from Queens.

He spun around, his heart beginning to beat with an irregular, heavy thud against his ribs.

He looked at the sliding mirrored panel covering the wall safe. The mirror was pushed three inches to the left, exposing the digital keypad.

The safe was unlocked.

Nico stepped forward, his leather shoes clicking sharply on the hardwood, his fingers gripping the heavy steel edge of the safe door. He yanked it open.

The cool white LED strip inside illuminated the velvet shelves.

Nico stared into the compartment, his breath catching in his throat in a sharp, stunned gasp.

The cash—twenty thousand dollars in pristine, uncirculated hundred-dollar bills—sat untouched in its stack.

The jewelry—the forty-carat platinum diamond necklace, the matching earrings, the sapphire bracelet, and the emerald ring—lay glittering on their black velvet displays, catching the light like frozen tears.

And resting squarely in the center of the display, laid out with surgical, insulting precision, was the black titanium credit card bearing her name: NORAH BENNETT.

She hadn't taken a diamond.

She hadn't taken a single dollar.

She hadn't even kept the card that could have bought her an apartment, a car, or a ticket to the other side of the planet.

Nico stared at the card. In his mind, the arrogant words he had spoken in the study four hours ago echoed with the force of an executioner's bell:

“She lives under my roof, eats from my table, and spends my money. She knows where the food comes from.”

She had left every single piece of his food on the table.

She had stripped herself of every shred of his wealth, returning every cent of his gilded cage, choosing to walk out into the cold November night with nothing more than the faded clothes she had owned before she ever laid eyes on him.

Nico’s confidence—the ironclad, unshakeable arrogance that had defined his entire adult life—fractured down the center.