The Price of Porcelain

The penthouse was a mausoleum of glass and brushed steel, a space designed to make a person feel like an exhibit rather than an inhabitant. Elena Vance sat at the breakfast table, the surface so polished it reflected the hollow exhaustion in her eyes. In front of her lay the final divorce decree, a thin stack of paper that had cost her three years of her life and the entirety of her autonomy.

Her phone vibrated against the stone—a notification from her bank. Access denied. She didn’t reach for it. She didn’t have to. Marcus had moved with the clinical precision of a surgeon, severing her access to the joint accounts before the ink on the settlement

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