The Unwanted Wife Walks Away Free

The ring came off easier than it should have.

Faith Mckenzie stood at the floor-to-ceiling window of the master bedroom, watching bare winter branches claw at the gray Manhattan sky. The Central Park view that had once made her gasp now looked like a painting she'd stared at too long-beautiful, expensive, and utterly lifeless.

She turned the five-carat emerald-cut diamond over in her fingers. The Jarvis family stone. Fourteen years of being polished and displayed like another asset in their portfolio.

It hit the marble vanity with a sound like ice cracking.

"Mrs. Jarvis?"

Holly's voice came through the heavy oak door, tentative and too loud. Faith didn't answer. She watched the ring spin on the cold stone, catching winter light, until it settled against a crystal perfume bottle.

The door pushed open. Holly stepped inside, her sensible flats silent on the carpet, and stopped dead.

Her eyes found the ring. Then Faith's bare left hand. Then the ring again.

"Oh God," Holly whispered. She actually pressed one hand to her chest like women did in movies Faith had stopped watching years ago. "Oh my God, Mrs. Jarvis."

Faith picked up two thick manila envelopes from the bed. The law firm's wax seal caught the light-crimson, official, final. She held them out.

Holly didn't move. "Is this-are you-" Her voice cracked. "The prenup alone took eighteen months to negotiate. The trust structures, the real estate holdings, if you walk away without-"

"Take them."

Holly's fingers closed around the envelopes. Her hands were shaking. Faith could see sweat darkening the paper where her thumb pressed.

"You're really doing this," Holly said. Not a question anymore. "You're really leaving him."

Faith walked past her into the walk-in closet. Row after row of Paris couture hung in perfect color coordination-silks that cost more than most apartments, furs she'd never wanted, gowns for galas where she'd smiled until her face ached.

She reached to the very back. Her fingers found cotton, canvas, something that breathed.

The beige trench coat was six years old, purchased at a Macy's sale before she'd learned that Jarvis women didn't shop at department stores. She'd kept it hidden behind a wall of Chanel like a secret self.

The silk lining whispered as she slid her arms through. The belt cinched at her waist-too loose now, she'd lost weight these past months. She pulled the collar up and zipped it to her throat.

When she turned, Holly's eyes were wet.

"You look-" Holly stopped. Swallowed. "You look like someone else, Mrs. Jarvis."

"Good."

A knock at the bedroom door. Rosa's voice, muffled and proper: "The car is waiting, Mrs. Jarvis. Mr. Gus has the engine running."

Faith didn't check her reflection. She didn't adjust her hair or add the pearl earrings that Branson's mother had insisted completed every outfit. She walked to the door and pulled it open.

Rosa stood in the hallway, gray uniform pressed to military precision. Her eyes swept over Faith's coat, her bare throat, her unpainted