The Priceless Wife He Threw Away

The air inside the private Manhattan cigar club was thick with the scent of aged tobacco and expensive leather.

Allison followed the waiter down a dimly lit hallway and pushed open the door to a soundproof VIP room.

Griffin sat on a Chesterfield sofa, a glass of amber bourbon in his hand. Files were scattered across the low glass table.

Allison sat opposite him. Griffin pushed a perfectly mixed martini toward her.

He picked up the failed divorce document from his pocket, struck a match, and set the corner on fire. He dropped it into the crystal ashtray, watching it burn to ash.

"If you want thirty percent," Griffin said, his voice strictly business, "we need to prove gross marital misconduct. New York is a no-fault state, but egregious dissipation of marital assets changes the game."

"Kason bought Haylee a condo in Tribeca last month," Allison said smoothly. "Paid in cash from a subsidiary account."

Griffin's eyes gleamed. "Get me the wire traces. I need hard proof."

"Give me three days," Allison replied.

They clinked their glasses together. The sharp chime of crystal marked the official beginning of the war.

Suddenly, Allison's burner phone buzzed on the table.

The screen read: Kason.

Allison frowned and reached to decline it, but Griffin caught her wrist. His fingers were warm and firm. He shook his head, gesturing for her to answer.

Allison hit speakerphone.

"Listen to me carefully," Kason's arrogant voice filled the quiet room. "My grandfather's eightieth birthday banquet is this Saturday at The Plaza."

Allison remained silent.

"You will be there," Kason ordered. "The board is getting nervous about the rumors. We need to present a united front. If you embarrass me, or if you don't show up, I will make sure you leave this marriage with absolutely nothing."

Allison looked at Griffin. Griffin rolled his eyes in silent mockery.

Allison thought of Arthur Lindsay. The old man was the only person in that toxic family who had ever treated her with an ounce of respect.

"I'll be there," Allison said flatly, and hung up.

"Why go?" Griffin asked, taking a sip of bourbon. "It's a trap."

"Because," Allison said, staring at the dark liquid in her glass, "I have a gift to deliver."

Later that night, back in her penthouse, Allison opened a heavy steel floor safe.

She reached past stacks of cash and passports, pulling out a faded, worn velvet jewelry box.

She popped the latch.

Inside sat a dull, heavily oxidized copper St. Christopher amulet. The edges were battered, the metal scarred.

Allison gently traced the engraving with her thumb.

Her father had carried this in the Middle East. It wasn't just a trinket; it was a legendary artifact, recovered from a warlord's vault. It was the only physical thing she had left of them.

She closed the box. Her eyes hardened. She was ready for Saturday.