The Lone Daughter of Martyrs: Her Glory Blooms After Divorce

Before Eleanor could recover her voice, the front door's electronic lock chimed.

The heavy mahogany door swung open, and Domenic walked in.

He looked exhausted. He was pulling at his collar, and as he stepped into the foyer, the faint, sour smell of expensive scotch wafted off him, mixing sickeningly with the sweet pastries on the tea table.

He stopped, taking in the scene: the maid on the floor, his mother looking horrified, and Frankie standing perfectly still with a black box in her arms.

"Domenic!" Eleanor shrieked, instantly adopting the role of the terrified victim. She rushed to her son and grabbed his arm. "Thank god you're here! Your wife has lost her mind. She brought dead ashes into the house and then physically threatened the staff!"

Domenic didn't look at the maids. He didn't ask for an explanation.

He just looked at Frankie. His eyes were heavy with a profound, bone-deep disappointment.

He raised a hand and rubbed his temples, his signature gesture of total exasperation.

"Frankie, enough," Domenic groaned, his voice thick with fatigue. "Can you not just be normal for one day? Do you have to antagonize my mother over everything?"

Frankie looked at the man she had once taken a bullet for.

She felt a strange sensation in her chest. It wasn't pain. It was the feeling of a fire finally burning out, leaving nothing but cold, gray ash.

"Do you even know what is in this box, Domenic?" Frankie asked. Her voice was terrifyingly calm.

Domenic waved his hand dismissively. "I don't care what it is. You don't bring things like that into the living room when we have guests. You have zero respect for my family."

He let out a harsh breath, the smell of scotch hitting Frankie again.

"Take that box and get out," Domenic ordered, pointing toward the door. "Go check into a hotel and cool off. Do not come back until you are ready to apologize to my mother."

Behind him, Kenzie and the other socialites exchanged smug, whispering laughs.

Frankie looked down at the smooth ebony wood resting against her chest.

Slowly, the corner of her mouth twitched upward. It formed a smile so cold and mocking it made Domenic's stomach inexplicably drop.

"As you wish," Frankie said.

She didn't yell. She didn't cry. She didn't throw things.

She simply turned around. Her posture was flawless, her steps even and unhurried as she walked toward the foyer.

Domenic watched her back. A sudden, sharp spike of panic pierced through his alcohol-hazed brain. This wasn't her usual reaction. She wasn't fighting for him.

"Frankie," he called out, his voice losing some of its arrogant edge.

Frankie didn't break her stride. She didn't even turn her head.

She reached the heavy mahogany door, stepped through the frame, and pulled it shut behind her.

Bang.

The heavy thud of the door closing echoed through the silent penthouse, severing her from his world completely.

Domenic stood frozen. His chest tightened. He suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to break something. He reached out and violently swept a delicate, gold-rimmed teacup off the console table. It shattered into a dozen pieces.

Outside, Frankie stepped into the private elevator.

As the numbers above the door began to descend, she shifted the heavy box to one arm. With her free hand, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a second phone-a thick, encrypted device.

She dialed a number. It was answered on the first ring.

"Activate the S-class private hall," Frankie commanded, her voice crisp and authoritative. "I am bringing them in."