You’ll only embarrass me wearing that dress.

The lobby of Harrell Tower was an architectural fortress of black granite, brushed brass, and bulletproof glass. By 9:30 AM, over two hundred financial journalists, corporate executives, and broadcast cameras were packed into the three-story atrium.

Spencer Conway shoved his way through the revolving doors, his tie askew, his trench coat unbuttoned, looking like a man who had barely survived a plane crash.

"I need to see Phoebe!" Spencer yelled at the front desk, slamming his hands onto the marble counter. "I’m her husband! Spencer Conway! Tell her I’m downstairs!"

The two security guards behind the desk didn't even blink. They were both former secret service operatives, their expressions as immovable as granite.

"Mr. Conway," the chief guard said calmly, touching his earpiece. "You do not have clearance for this building. You are on the permanent trespass registry."

"I am her husband!" Spencer bellowed, his voice echoing across the crowded lobby, drawing the lenses of dozens of photographers who immediately began snapping flashes of his unhinged state. "We are legally married! You can't bar a spouse from his wife’s building!"

"Actually, Mr. Conway, we can," a cool, aristocratic voice rang out from the elevator vestibule.

The crowd parted. Julian Vance walked out, flanked by three junior attorneys holding thick leather binders.

Julian stopped three paces from Spencer, looking down at him with an expression reserved for something scraped off the bottom of an expensive shoe.

"As of 6:15 this morning, the Supreme Court of the State of New York granted an emergency temporary restraining order against you on behalf of Miss Phoebe Harrell," Julian stated, his voice flat, clear, and perfectly audible to the dozens of reporters recording every word. "You are legally required to maintain a distance of no less than five hundred feet from Miss Harrell, her residences, and her places of business."

"This is ridiculous!" Spencer shouted, his eyes darting toward the cameras. "Phoebe! I know you can hear me! Talk to me! Don't let these lawyers ruin our marriage!"

"What marriage, Spencer?"

The elevator doors chimed, opening smoothly to reveal Phoebe Harrell.

She stepped out into the lobby. The entire room went dead silent, save for the furious clatter of camera shutters. She wore the ivory suit with an aura of untouchable authority. Her gaze locked onto Spencer, and there was not a trace of warmth, nostalgic pity, or lingering affection in her eyes. She looked at him as if he were a complete stranger who had wandered into her lobby off the street.

"Phoebe," Spencer gasped, taking a desperate step forward before Julian raised a single hand, halting him in his tracks. "Phoebe, look at me. Please. I know you're angry. I know what I did at the house... what I said about the dress... it was unforgivable. But I was out of my mind! I was terrified of failing! I thought if I didn't look successful, everything would fall apart!"

"Everything *has* fallen apart, Spencer," Phoebe replied, her voice cool and steady, projecting effortlessly across the vast lobby. "Not because you weren't successful, but because you were hollow. You believed that cruelty was strength. You believed that discarding the person who built you was proof of your elevation."

"You built me?" Spencer said, his pride flaring for a fraction of a second, an instinctive defensive reflex even in the middle of his ruin. "Phoebe, I worked eighty hours a week! I pitched those clients! I gave the presentations!"

"You read the scripts I wrote for you," Phoebe answered, stepping forward until she stood just behind Julian’s shoulder. "Every market analysis Conway Strategy published was researched by me while you were at executive lunches. Every pricing model that won you enterprise retainers was calculated on my laptop while you were out buying sports cars. You took the credit because I wanted you to shine. But you forgot that a shadow cannot exist without the light."

A murmur went through the gathered press corps. Several financial columnists were furiously typing notes onto their smartphones.

At that moment, the revolving doors spun again, and Paisley Daley rushed into the lobby.

Paisley was frantic. Her hair was disheveled, her designer sunglasses were crooked, and she was clutching her luxury handbag like a shield. She had seen the news; she knew her career in public relations was dead across the entire tri-state area unless she could somehow spin herself as a victim.

"Phoebe!" Paisley cried, pushing past a cameraman. "Phoebe, you have to tell them! Spencer forced me! He told me if I didn't accompany him to the gala, he would fire me! He bought that necklace with company funds—I didn't want it! He harassed me!"

Spencer turned on Paisley like a rabid dog. "You lying snake! You begged me for that necklace! You texted her that photograph from the back of my car to rub it in her face!"

"Because you told me you hated her!" Paisley screamed back, the two of them unraveling in front of the entire financial media of New York City. "You said she was pathetic! You said she was an ugly, boring little girl who didn't know how to dress!"

"Shut up! Shut up!" Spencer lunged toward Paisley, but two Harrell security guards instantly pinned him against the cold marble counter, twisting his arm behind his back and forcing him down.

The cameras flashed blindingly. The image of Spencer Conway pinned to the granite desk of Harrell Tower, while his mistress screamed profanities in the background, was being broadcast live to four international business networks.

Phoebe stood above the chaos, utterly serene.

"Julian," she said softly, not even looking down at the squirming man on the floor.

"Yes, Lady Phoebe?"

"Call the police. Have them both removed for disturbing the peace and violating the protective order."

"Immediately, ma'am."

Phoebe turned her back on them, the hem of her ivory trousers brushing the floor with immaculate grace. She walked toward the bank of private executive elevators that led to the 60th floor—to the office where her father waited, where forty billion dollars in global capital awaited her command.

As the gold-plated doors began to slide shut, Spencer managed to lift his head, his face pressed against the marble counter, tears of rage and humiliation streaming down his cheeks.

"Phoebe!" he screamed, his voice cracking into a pathetic sob. "What am I supposed to do?! I have nothing left!"

Phoebe looked out through the narrowing gap between the doors.

"You told me last night that you earned everything on your own, Spencer," she said, her voice delivering the final, fatal verdict. "So earn it back."