The penthouse at Prestige Heights offered a breathtaking 360-degree view of the city lights through its floor-to-ceiling windows. Isabella Summers stood barefoot on the cold marble floor, the chill creeping up from her soles. The first thing she did upon waking was reach for the other side of the bed. The sheets were smooth and cold, without a single wrinkle. Lucas Sinclair hadn't come home for seven straight days. As she washed up, Isabella stared blankly at her pale reflection in the mirror. Only when a noise came from the living room did she snap out of her daze. The moment she pushed the door open, thick cigarette smoke assaulted her senses. Lucas sat on the sofa, the cigarette between his fingers burned down to the filter. When he looked up, his bloodshot eyes met hers. "Come here." He stubbed out the cigarette, his voice hoarse. Isabella glanced at her watch. "I have a meeting at nine." Lucas gave a humorless smile that didn't reach his eyes. "We need to talk." She remained rooted to the spot. The memory of Victoria Dawson's sweet voice from last night's phone call echoed in her ears: "Lucas is asleep. Did you need something?" "Is this about the divorce?" Isabella heard herself say calmly. Lucas visibly stiffened. After a pause, he gave a slight nod. "Yes." "Because Victoria is back?" His silence stretched so long she thought he wouldn't answer. Then: "Yes." It felt like a blade had pierced her heart. Isabella dug her nails into her palms until they left crescent-shaped marks. "When do we file the paperwork?" "The sooner the better." Lucas lit another cigarette. "You can keep this penthouse. The Southridge Villa too—" "I only want what's mine." She cut him off, turning toward the panoramic window. Her hands trembled so badly she could barely hold her phone. Footsteps approached from behind. Lucas's voice was close now. "The lawyer will contact you tomorrow." Without looking back, she grabbed her purse and strode to the door. Just as she closed it, she heard Lucas call her childhood nickname: "Bella—" The door slammed shut. Isabella leaned against the wall, tilting her head back to keep the tears at bay. She submitted her resignation that same day. When she returned to the penthouse, the housekeeper mentioned Lucas had just left. Isabella smiled bitterly. They always missed each other like this. That evening was the Sinclair family's regular dinner gathering. Isabella arrived alone by taxi. Unsurprisingly, Lucas wasn't there. Strangely, her usually critical mother-in-law was unusually quiet tonight, not even bringing up her favorite topic—grandchildren. Only Grandma Sinclair treated her as always, piling food onto her plate. "Eat more, Bella. You're too thin." Midway through the meal, Lucas suddenly appeared. The unfamiliar perfume clinging to him killed Isabella's appetite. "Eat the fish." He placed a piece in her bowl, his tone brooking no argument. Isabella frowned. After three years of marriage, he still didn't know she hated fish. Under Grandma's expectant gaze, she forced it down before excusing herself. The night breeze carried a chill in the garden. Isabella sat on a bench, listening to the laughter from inside. "You don't have to come to these anymore." Lucas's voice came from the shadows. The glow of his cigarette illuminated his sharp profile. Isabella scoffed. "I wasn't trying to please anyone." She'd once tried so hard to belong in this family, only to be met with cold indifference. Now she finally understood—some people could never be warmed. Lucas crushed his cigarette and stepped into the moonlight. His handsome features were as striking as ever, but his eyes were terrifyingly cold. "Go," he said. As Isabella stood, she heard him add: "I won't be back tonight." Those words were the final knife, severing her last shred of hope.