The Divorced Psychic's Spectacular Comeback

Elena pressed her index finger against the cardboard.

The Tower.

The heavy oak table vibrated, a low hum that rattled the crystal ashtray.

Sloane stopped breathing.

The screen of Sloane's phone lit up on the table. The GPS tracking dot blinked red. It aligned perfectly with the invisible rune Elena had just traced on the wood.

Sloane's hands started to shake.

Elena picked up her martini glass. She took a slow sip. The cold liquid burned down her throat, masking the brief flash of golden light that flickered in her dark eyes.

"Go," Elena said.

Sloane snatched her Birkin bag from the chair. Her heels slammed against the hardwood floor, a rapid, violent rhythm that echoed her rage.

Elena set her glass down and followed.

The brass doors of The Obsidian club were heavy. The bass from the music inside hit Elena's chest the second they pulled them open.

The club manager stepped in front of them. He opened his mouth to ask for a reservation.

Sloane shoved a black American Express card directly into his chest.

The manager's annoyed expression vanished. He plastered on a fake smile and stepped aside.

They walked down the dark corridor. Neon laser lights sliced through the smoke, flashing across Elena's pale face. She hated this place. The air smelled like cheap sweat and expensive mistakes.

Sloane ran. She didn't care about the music or the crowd. She headed straight for the VIP section.

Elena walked behind her, her pace steady.

Sloane hit the door of room V03 with both hands. It crashed open. A woman screamed inside. Sloane lunged forward, her hands flying toward her cheating fiancé.

Elena stopped in the hallway.

She didn't go in. A different scent cut through the smell of alcohol and smoke.

Cedar and bergamot.

Andrew's cologne.

Elena's stomach tightened. The muscles in her abdomen contracted so hard it hurt.

She turned her head. At the end of the corridor was a semi-open terrace. The night wind blew in, catching the bottom of her cheap beige trench coat.

She walked toward the wind.

Heavy velvet curtains separated the terrace from the hallway. They were drawn almost completely shut, leaving only a narrow gap.

Elena looked through the gap.

A tall man stood by the railing. Andrew. Her husband.

His arm was wrapped around a woman's waist. The woman was small. Fragile. She leaned her entire body weight against his chest.

A sharp pain flared in Elena's chest, stealing the air from her lungs.

The woman turned her head.

Kaitlynn.

Elena's fingers gripped her small clutch. She squeezed the leather until her knuckles turned completely white. The joints ached.

Kaitlynn looked up at Andrew. Tears spilled over her eyelashes and rolled down her cheeks. She cried about how lonely she was during her art therapy trip in Europe.

Andrew reached into his pocket. He pulled out a silk handkerchief and wiped her tears. His touch was gentle.

Elena moved her foot. She wanted to speak.

"I'll fix it," Andrew