The Lone Daughter of Martyrs: Her Glory Blooms After Divorce

Frankie pulled open the heavy velvet-lined drawer of her vanity.

Her fingers, usually so steady, trembled slightly as they brushed past empty ring boxes and discarded silk ties.

She was looking for the small, worn mahogany box that held her mother's ruby necklace. It was the only piece of jewelry she planned to wear tomorrow to the military base.

Her hand hit the back of the drawer. Empty.

Her heart skipped a harsh, unnatural beat. The air in the massive Manhattan penthouse suddenly felt too thin to breathe.

She pulled the drawer out further, the metal tracks groaning under her sudden, frantic force. She tossed aside a velvet pouch. Nothing.

The heavy bedroom door clicked open.

Domenic walked in. He was shrugging off his suit jacket, his movements carrying that effortless, arrogant grace that had once made Frankie's chest ache with love.

Now, all it did was bring a cold draft into the room.

Along with the draft came a scent. It wasn't his usual crisp cologne. It was a heavy, expensive cedarwood perfume.

Carley's perfume.

The scent hit the back of Frankie's throat, making her stomach churn with a sudden, violent nausea.

"Where is it?" Frankie asked. Her voice was low, forced through a throat that felt tight and dry.

Domenic didn't even look at her. He walked to his closet, his fingers moving to the knot of his silk tie. He loosened it with a sharp tug, a habit he always fell into when he was annoyed by her presence.

"Where is what, Frankie?" he sighed, sounding utterly exhausted by the mere fact that she was speaking to him.

"My mother's ruby necklace. It was in this drawer."

Domenic paused. He pulled the tie free and tossed it over a leather chair. He finally turned to look at her, his dark eyes flat and unapologetic.

"Oh, that old thing," he said, his tone entirely too casual. "I gave it to Carley."

The words landed in the room like physical blows.

Frankie's pupils contracted. The blood drained from her face, leaving her skin icy cold. "You what?"

"She saw it on the dresser yesterday," Domenic said, rolling up his shirt sleeves. "She said the vintage cut was interesting. You never wear it anyway. It doesn't even match your clothes."

He spoke as if he had given away a spare umbrella.

Frankie stood up. Her spine snapped perfectly straight, a rigid line of military discipline cutting through her shock. She took a step toward him.

"That was my mother's," Frankie said, her voice shaking with a rage she was fighting desperately to suppress. "It is the only thing I have left of her. I need it back. Now."

Domenic frowned. He took a half-step back, his upper lip curling in distaste at her intensity.

"Stop being so dramatic," he snapped. "It's just a piece of cloudy glass. I'll buy you a new one. Go to Cartier tomorrow and pick out whatever you want."

Frankie didn't argue. Her jaw locked. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone, her thumb swiping the screen to find Carley's contact.

"What are you doing?" Domenic demanded, his voice dropping into a dangerous register.

"I am calling her to get my property back."

Domenic crossed the room in two long strides. His hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. His grip was bruising, his fingers digging into her skin.

With his other hand, he snatched the phone from her grasp.

Before Frankie could react, Domenic hurled the device at the marble floor.

The sickening crunch of shattering glass echoed off the high ceiling. The screen spider-webbed into a hundred jagged pieces, the light flickering once before dying completely.

Frankie stared at the broken glass. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid breaths.

"Do not bother Carley," Domenic warned, his voice a low, cold hiss. "Her test flight ceremony is next week. She is under a lot of stress. I will not have you ruining her mood over some cheap trinket."

Frankie slowly raised her eyes to meet his.

Her eyes were red-rimmed, burning with a heat that felt like acid. But she didn't cry. She just looked at him, really looked at him, as if seeing a stranger wearing her husband's skin.

Domenic reached into his inner pocket. He pulled out a sleek, heavy American Express Black Card and tossed it onto the floor.

It landed right on top of the shattered glass of her phone.

"Buy yourself something nice," he said, his tone returning to that bored, dismissive drawl. "Consider it an apology."

Frankie looked down at the card. The ultimate symbol of his wealth, sitting on the wreckage of her communication. It was almost funny.

She didn't reach for it.

"Tomorrow is the day," Frankie said, her voice completely devoid of emotion now. It was a dead, flat sound. "The military is bringing my parents' ashes back. You promised you would go with me to the base."

Domenic rubbed his temples, letting out a long, put-upon sigh.

"Yes, fine. I remember," he muttered, not looking at her. "I'll be there. Just... clean this mess up."

He turned his back on her and walked out of the master bedroom, heading straight for the guest suite down the hall.

The heavy door slammed shut. The sound echoed like a gunshot, severing the last invisible thread of their five-year marriage.

Frankie stood alone in the silence.

She slowly crouched down. She reached for the broken pieces of her phone. A jagged edge of glass sliced into her index finger.

A drop of bright red blood welled up and fell, landing directly on the Amex Black Card.

Frankie didn't flinch. She didn't feel the pain in her hand. The pain in her chest had already consumed everything else.

She stood up, leaving the card and the blood behind. She walked to the massive floor-to-ceiling window and looked out over the glittering skyline of New York.

The sorrow in her eyes slowly hardened, freezing over into a landscape of absolute, desolate silence.

She turned away from the window and walked to the walk-in closet. She pushed aside a row of expensive designer coats she never wore, revealing a hidden wall safe.

She punched in a twelve-digit code. The heavy metal door clicked open.

Inside sat a thick, sealed manila folder. Her true identity file. Untouched for five years.

Beside it lay a pair of dull metal dog tags on a ball chain.

Frankie picked up the dog tags. She squeezed them in her fist until the metal edges bit sharply into her palm.

The physical sting grounded her. It reminded her of who she really was.