The bedroom door is open two inches. That's all it takes. I push it the rest of the way and the scene arranges itself in front of me with a kind of horrible clarity — Fox, my husband of three years, and Thea Engström, my business partner of five, in our bed, in the sheets I picked out, at nine-seventeen on a Tuesday night. Nobody moves. Nobody says anything. The room smells like her perfume. I am Delilah Caine. I built a company from a rented desk and a secondhand laptop. I have sat across from men twice my age and made them blink first. I know how to hold a room. I close the bedroom door behind me and walk to my home office. Fox finds me there two minutes later. He hasn't bothered with a shirt. He stands in the doorway with his arms crossed — broad shoulders, jaw like something carved, the easy handsomeness that still worked on me until approximately nine-sixteen — and he doesn't apologize. That's when I understand the shape of what's happening. "Delilah." "I'm just getting a few things." "We should talk about the company." I look up from the desk. "The company." "It was always going to come back to me." He says it the way he says everything — smooth, patient, like he's explaining something to someone who should already know. "You were the face of it. That was your role. The infrastructure, the contracts, the real equity — that's mine. Has been for a while." I pick up a manila folder from the corner of the desk without looking at it. My handwriting is on the tab — year one notes, the kind I don't let anyone photograph. I tuck it under my arm. "Get a lawyer," Fox says. I walk past him without answering. I call Yara Sinclair from the car, sitting in my own driveway because my hands aren't ready to drive yet. Yara is my best friend, the person who talked me into starting the company in the first place, the one who has seen me at every version of myself. I don't explain. I just say her address out loud like a question. "Come," she says. "Now." I show up at her apartment forty minutes later with the folder, my laptop bag, and the clothes on my back. That is the complete inventory of my life tonight. Yara opens the door before I knock. She is small and fierce, dark eyes taking in my face and the folder and the nothing else, and she pulls me inside without a single question. ---