Too Late,Mr.Billionaire:You're Nothing Now

The mirror in the master bedroom of the Payne penthouse on Fifth Avenue didn't lie, but it didn't tell the whole truth, either. It reflected a woman in a slate-grey Carolina Herrera gown, the silk perfectly draped over a body that had been disciplined by yoga and stress. Jessye Haley adjusted the neckline, her fingers lingering on the fabric. She looked expensive. She looked appropriate. She looked like a ghost.

The door burst open. Adam Payne didn't knock; he never knocked. He strode into the room, a whirlwind of Tom Ford cologne and aggressive energy, already fastening a platinum cufflink. He didn't look at her. His eyes went straight to the watch cabinet, scanning the rows of Patek Philippes and Audemars Piguets as if he were selecting a weapon for battle.

"We're late," Adam said, his voice flat. "The car has been downstairs for ten minutes."

Jessye turned. "I was waiting for you to finish your call with the board."

"Don't blame my work schedule for your slow pace, Jessye." He finally selected a watch, snapping it onto his wrist. He walked past her toward the full-length mirror, adjusting his bow tie.

Jessye stepped forward, an instinctive habit kicking in. She reached out to fix the slightly crooked knot. "Here, let me-"

Adam flinched. He pulled back sharply, his eyes narrowing in the glass reflection. "Don't touch it. You'll wrinkle the collar."

Her hand froze in mid-air. It was a small rejection, one of a thousand paper cuts she had accumulated over three years, but tonight it stung differently. Perhaps it was the silence of the room, or the way the city lights flickered indifferently outside the window. She lowered her hand.

"Sorry," she whispered.

"Just grab my iPad," he said, turning for the door. "And try to smile tonight. Last time you looked like you were attending a funeral. It affects the share price when my wife looks miserable."

The ride to the Metropolitan Museum of Art was a study in isolation. The interior of the Rolls-Royce Phantom was cavernous. Adam sat on the far right, the center armrest down like a border wall. The blue light of his phone illuminated his face, casting harsh shadows under his cheekbones. He was typing furiously. Jessye looked out the window at the blurred streak of New York City. She felt a phantom pressure in her chest, a tightness that had nothing to do with her corset.

When the car pulled up to the red carpet, the flashbulbs exploded like a lightning storm. The noise was a physical wall-shouting photographers, the roar of fans, the chaotic energy of the Manhattan elite.

Adam stepped out first. He buttoned his jacket, and the transformation was instantaneous. The scowl vanished. The distraction evaporated. In its place was the dazzling, charismatic smile of Adam Payne, CEO of Payne Corp, the golden boy of biotech.

Jessye stepped out behind him. She smoothed her dress, waiting for him to offer his arm.

He didn't.

Instead, another car door