The bedroom door is open two inches when I push it, and for a half second I see them as a still image: Mercer's hand on Winona's bare shoulder, the sheets tangled, the bedside lamp on my side still burning. Winona Brennan — my business partner, the woman who helped me build Kessler Creative from a one-desk operation into something real — sits up and pulls the sheet to her chest. She has the kind of face people call striking: sharp cheekbones, dark eyes that always look like they're calculating something. Right now they're calculating how bad this is. Mercer Langford, my husband of four years, doesn't flinch. He never does. He's broad-shouldered and handsome in an expensive way, the kind of man who wears confidence like a second suit. He just looks at me, and I watch him decide something. "Sable," he says. Not an apology. A stage direction. I don't speak. My hand is still on the door. "You should sit down." He reaches for his phone on the nightstand. "There are things we need to discuss." "The company." I hear my own voice from very far away. Flat. Factual. He tilts his head, almost impressed. "Winona and I have been partners for eight months. The restructuring is already filed. As of Monday, Kessler Creative belongs to Langford-Brennan Group." He pauses. "It's done, Sable. Legally done." Winona doesn't look at me. I stand there for three more seconds. I count them. Then I turn and walk down the hallway to my home office, and I don't run, because running would mean this is an emergency, and I have already decided it isn't. It's a starting point. My desk is exactly as I left it this morning — laptop open, coffee mug, a scatter of contract drafts. The USB drive is sitting in the pencil cup where I always leave it. Every client file. Every contract. Every deal I ever closed, backed up the way I back everything up, because I have always known that the only person responsible for protecting what I built is me. I pick it up without thinking about it and drop it into my coat pocket. My bag is by the front door. I pick that up too. I don't take anything else. There's nothing else here that's mine anymore. Outside, the October air is cold and the street is completely ordinary — cars parked, a neighbor's dog barking two houses down. I walk to my car, start the engine, and pull away from the curb. I don't look back at the house even once. ---