“I hate my life,” I said.

“You enjoy the penthouse,” he said. “You enjoy the gallery showings I pay for.”

I looked at the canvas behind him, a half-finished landscape of the lake in winter.

“I don’t want your money,” I said. “I never did.”

Daniel laughed, a dry, humorless sound that echoed off the high brick walls.

“We will see how much you love your independence when I cut off your cards tomorrow morning,” he said.

“Go ahead,” I said.

“I will freeze every account with the Hayes name on it,” he said. “You won’t have enough to pay the rent on this drafty loft.”

I felt a sudden, quiet wave of relief wash over me.

I thought of the legal documents sitting in my attorney’s office on LaSalle Street.

I thought of the signature I had penned three days ago, reverting my legal name to Emily Carter.

Most of all, I thought of my grandfather’s trust, the modest but secure fund that Daniel had tried to merge into our joint portfolio last year.

I had kept that trust separate, locked away under my maiden name, untouched by the Hayes empire.