The digital clock on the corner of my monitor blinked 8:14 PM, a glowing green recrimination in the darkening office. Below me, the financial district of Manhattan was waking up for its second shift—the janitors, the security guards, and the insomniacs. I, Brianna Adams, remained alone on the thirty-second floor of the glass tower that housed Apex Capital, seated behind a mahogany desk buried under an avalanche of merger contracts and balance sheets.

I had spent the last twelve grueling months orchestrating the acquisition of a mid-sized tech firm, the largest deal my firm had ever handled. My eyes burned with a dry, sandy grit, and a dull throb had taken up permanent residence behind my left temple. Every late night, every skipped anniversary dinner, every weekend sacrificed at the altar of the market had one singular purpose: to maintain the extravagant, hemophiliac lifestyle that my husband, Trevor Miles, and his aristocratic family bled me for.They were the “old money” of Connecticut—or at least, they had the last names and the country club memberships. What they didn’t have, and hadn’t had for a decade, was actual liquidity. That was where I came in. I was the engine that kept the Miles legacy from rusting into obscurity.

I leaned back in my ergonomic chair, the leather creaking in the silence. The office was quiet, save for the sterile hum of the central air conditioning and the distant, muffled siren of a police car thirty stories down. It felt less like a workspace and more like a beautifully appointed cage.

I unlocked my phone, the screen brightness stinging my tired eyes. I typed a message to Trevor, who was supposedly attending a high-stakes fintech summit in Singapore.

I was no longer someone’s wife. I was no longer someone’s banker.