Chapter 2

From our very first meeting at the Hamptons estate, Beatrice brought up Olivia constantly.

"Olivia is so talented. Her speech at the Whitney gala left everyone speechless."

"Olivia never bothers Harrison with the family foundation's affairs."

"Olivia truly understands our world."

And then Harrison started grading me with his notebook.

"This is to help you survive in this world, Ella," he said. "You don't know the rules."

I truly believed I wasn't good enough.

I believed that a girl from an ordinary professor's family at Ohio State could, with enough effort, eventually master all the rules and earn a perfect score.

But some voids can't be filled. And I don't want his scores anymore.

When I walked into the breakfast room with the original John Singer Sargent hanging on the wall, Harrison was already seated. His notebook and a cup of Darjeeling tea sat before him.

"You're just getting up now?" He frowned. "It's nearly eight-thirty."

"Mm." I sat down and poured myself a cup of black coffee.

"Drinking black coffee on an empty stomach is terrible for your digestion." He wrote something in his notebook. "Zero regard for your health. Deduct 10 points."

I didn't look up. I kept drinking.

The old me would have set the cup down immediately, flustered, and asked the chef to make a fresh green juice.

But now, I just wanted a cup of coffee.

"Ella, are you listening to me?" Harrison's voice was starting to lose its patience.

"I'm listening."

"Then why aren't you correcting it?"

"I don't want to."

He froze. His fountain pen hovered over the paper. A drop of ink bled outward.

The doorbell rang.

Beatrice's voice came through the intercom. "Harrison, I've brought Olivia. She can discuss the arrangements for next month's Met Gala with you both. And Ella can learn how to handle those occasions."

I looked up.

Olivia stood in the foyer. Chanel tweed suit. Blonde hair pinned into an immaculate French twist. Smile calibrated to perfection—warm enough, but not overly so.

"Ella, it's been too long." She walked over and air-kissed my cheek with practiced ease.

Beatrice beamed. "Olivia, your timing is perfect. Ella's having breakfast. Show her how one conducts oneself at a formal breakfast."

Olivia glanced at me. She picked up her knife and fork with grace and sliced into her Eggs Benedict. The movement looked like something out of a food documentary.

"Ella, do you see? That is proper table etiquette." Beatrice couldn't contain her admiration.

Harrison nodded. His eyes held that look I knew so well. "That's a perfect score."

Olivia smiled at me. Her gaze carried a signal. "Ella, you really should learn. Harrison appreciates a cultivated woman above all else."

There was a smug certainty in her eyes. Like a player who already knew how the game ended.

I set down my coffee cup. Wiped my mouth with my napkin.

"Finished?" Harrison frowned. "I haven't given you your score yet."

"No need." I stood up. "I don't need your scores."

"Ella!" His voice rose.

I didn't look back. I walked straight to the guest room.

Behind me, Beatrice let out an exaggerated sigh.

"Harrison, what is the matter with her? Did we say something too harsh?"

"It's nothing. She's been like this since the wedding." Harrison's voice was tight with irritation.

I closed the door. Opened my laptop. Typed into Google: New York no-fault divorce process.

That night, Harrison knocked on my door.

"Ella. Open the door. We need to talk."

I didn't respond.

"Ella, are you unhappy?" His voice carried a probing tone. The same tone he used before negotiations, assessing his opponent. "Was I too harsh this morning? You know I only want you to stand on solid ground in this world."

"What do you want to talk about?" I asked calmly through the door.

"Are you… are you actually thinking about divorce?" His voice sounded strange. The word felt foreign in his mouth. Like a language he didn't speak.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I don't love you anymore."

I opened the door. He was leaning against the doorframe. His bespoke navy suit already had creases—an unthinkable failure in his world.

His expression shifted. "Ella, don't joke about this."

"I'm not joking." I looked at him. At those gray-blue eyes I once found so captivating. "Harrison, we're getting a divorce."

"No." His voice went cold. Like he was vetoing a proposal in a board meeting. "I don't agree."

"This is a no-fault divorce state. I don't need your agreement."

"Ella!" He reached for my wrist. I stepped back and evaded his hand.

"Don't touch me."

His hand hung in the air. His face was grim.

"Have you… has something happened?" He shifted tactics. His tone softened. "Was it something my mother said? Or Olivia… you know how she is. She doesn't mean anything by it."

"Neither." I cut him off. "I just don't want to stay in this marriage anymore."

"Why?"

"I'm tired."

I closed the door. Shut his shock outside.

A long while later, I heard his leather oxfords retreat down the carpeted hallway.

I picked up my phone and made an appointment at the Madison Avenue law firm known for handling high-net-worth divorce cases.

Tomorrow, I would discuss the specific terms of the settlement.