Today, she wasn’t a partner. She was an obstacle being removed. A line item being deleted from the ledger.

“Don’t make this hard, Elena,” Mark said, breaking the silence. He tossed the heavy pen across the table. It skid across the polished wood and came to a halt inches from her hand. “I’m being generous. Incredibly generous, actually. The alimony figures Henderson drafted are more than fair for someone who contributed absolutely nothing to the building of this empire.”

Elena didn’t blink. She didn’t flinch at the insult. She slowly reached out, her fingers hovering over the pen.

“Generous,” she repeated, tasting the word as if it were a grape that had gone sour. Her voice was low, a smooth alto that usually soothed him. Today, it unnerved him. “Is that what we’re calling it, Mark?”

“I’m giving you the beach house in the Hamptons,” Mark scoffed, checking his gold Rolex—a gift from her for his fortieth birthday, though he never acknowledged that anymore. “And enough cash to keep you in Chardonnay and cardigans for the rest of your life. Honestly, you should be thanking me. Most men in my position—men of power, men of vision—would have left you with nothing years ago. I’m showing mercy.”

“And why is that, Mark?” Elena asked softly. “Why the sudden mercy?”

Mark leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table. His voice dropped to a cruel, conspiratorial whisper, the kind used to twist a knife.

“Because a dynasty needs an heir, Elena. A king needs a prince. And you?” He gestured at her vaguely, a wave of dismissal. “You are a garden where nothing grows. You are barren soil. A dead end.”

The words hung in the air, ugly, sharp, and visceral. Mr. Henderson shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his leather portfolio crunching. He cleared his throat, a nervous, rattling sound.