My husband walked into my mother’s gallery with his mistress on his arm, and she was wearing my mother’s curtains as a gown. Three hundred guests stared while Adrian smiled and said, “Claire, try not to embarrass yourself.” I did not scream. I did not touch him. I only looked at the black pomegranate embroidery stitched across her waist—and watched my husband’s face change when I reached for one loose thread. Across the ballroom, my mother’s former attorney set down his champagne and said, very quietly, “Do not pull that here.”

I had spent my entire life around masterpieces. I knew that even the most fragile canvas could withstand the test of time if it was reinforced properly.

I moved to the back of the unit. The paintings were braced against the walls. I knew Adrian wouldn't destroy them—they were his insurance policy, his leverage. He wouldn't keep them here if he didn't intend to use them later to frame someone else.

I felt along the wall behind a portrait of my grandmother. There was a seam in the concrete. My mother had mentioned an emergency exit in one of her old letters. I tapped the wall until I heard a hollow sound.

I shoved the portrait aside and started prying at the loose brick. My nails cracked, bleeding onto the silk of my dress, but I didn't stop.

Ten minutes later, a thin, cold draft of air hit my face.

I squeezed through the gap, my body scraping against the rough edge of the bricks. I emerged into a narrow utility tunnel that smelled of damp earth and oil. I followed the pipe-lines until I saw a faint, rhythmic pulsing of light.

It was a sewer grate, leading up to the street level.

I climbed, my muscles screaming in protest. I pushed the heavy iron grate and emerged into a back alley, the rain still falling in a steady, relentless sheet.

I was blocks away from the main road. I needed to get to the airport. If I could get to London, I had a cousin who was a partner at a law firm that specialized in asset forfeiture.

But I saw a black car idling at the end of the alley.

The headlights flickered.

It was Adrian’s car.

I ducked behind a dumpster, my breath hitching. Adrian stepped out of the car, his suit jacket flapping in the wind. He didn't look like the man at the gala. He looked like a man who had lost his prey.

“I know you’re here, Claire!” he shouted into the rain. “You don't have the wits to hide from me! You’re just a ghost in a house that doesn't belong to you anymore!”

I stayed motionless.

He walked past the alley, his eyes scanning the darkness. He was so close I could hear his heartbeat—or maybe that was my own.

He walked back, his face twisted in frustration. He took out his phone. “She’s not here. Search the perimeter. If you find her, don't bring her to me. Just... dispose of the evidence.”

Evidence.

To him, I was just evidence.

I waited until the engine started and the car pulled away. Then, I didn't run. I walked. I walked toward the train station, keeping to the shadows, my head down, my mind racing.

He thought I was a ghost?

Fine.

I would be a ghost. A ghost that would haunt him until he destroyed himself.

I remembered what my mother had said in the tape. ‘Adrian is no longer the man you married.’